Ahunter.
He’s been chasing me ever since the initiation, and I was insolent enough to run away once and stop him the second time.
And maybe that’s what led us to this predicament. Maybe that’s how I ended up being targeted by the most dangerous man I know.
The one whose name is whispered in university halls, fight clubs, and the streets. The one who comes with gruesome rumors attached to his name.
The most prominent of all is how he makes people disappear.
My body goes rigid at that reminder. Maybe it’s my turn now. Maybe he’s had fun tormenting me by following me around, and now, he’ll execute the next step that involves getting rid of me.
“Jeremy!” I call again, much louder this time.
He glances at me from the corner of his eye, looking no different than a monster in sophisticated clothes.
“So you do know my name, yet you chose to address me as a creep.”
I swallow. He’s not going to let that go, is he?
“I—”
“Don’t.”
“You didn’t even hear what I had to say.”
“I don’t need to. If you’re going to blurt it out without mulling it over in that head of yours beforehand, then it’ll only piss me off further.”
My mouth opens, but I force it closed.
So heismad.
It’s hard to tell when he appears angry all the time.
He tugs me forward and I stumble, nearly dropping my books as we come to a halt in front of a huge bike.
The same bike I’ve caught glimpses of him riding a few times.
This thing is monstrous, and I resemble a stray mouse next to it. Jeremy, however, fits the vibe.
He looked to be in complete harmony the last time I saw him on it. He had one leg on the ground, helmet on, and his hands hung nonchalantly on the handlebars.
Jeremy finally releases my elbow and I resist the urge to massage the spot where his fingers assaulted my skin.
He plucks a helmet out of the saddlebag and leans toward me. It’s really bad for my self-esteem whenever he’s in my vicinity, because the only thing I can think about in this current situation is how to escape.
One of my legs steps behind the other and I jolt when my back hits the bike.
I jerk one hand up. “Stop it!”
He swats it away effortlessly, as if it’s nothing more than a cardboard prop, then shoves the helmet on my head.
I try to resist and grab his wrist to push it away.
He pauses and glares at me silently, so silently that it’s creepy.
How does he not want me to call him a creep when he scores a hundred for the vibe alone?
The moment he stops strapping the helmet in place, my struggle stops, too. Mostly due to his glare.