I lean in to whisper in her ear, wanting to be very sure she’s paying attention to me. “You’re going to stay right here.” A stray lock of hair moves with my breath and I see it brush her neck slightly.

She shivers and I know she heard me, that she knows I’m serious, that she will do as I tell her.

Excellent. That will come in handy later.

I pull back, ready to look her in the eyes to make sure I’m right about her mindset. I need to know she won’t slip out that door before I have a chance to find out what she knows.

Suddenly, she’s hugging me. She’s holding onto me like she’s drowning and I’m the only thing keeping her head above water.

Everything in me locks up. Everything I am wants to push her down, to fuck her right here on this kitchen counter with her ex-boyfriend banging on the next door. Because fuck him. He’s an idiot for ever letting her slip through his fingers.

She pulls back and rests her forehead against mine. I sense she wants to kiss me, but I can see the guilt of cheating eating away at her even if she’s not admitting it. And I can see her apology, too. I sense there’s still more to the whole situation, though I don’t know what it is.

Which makes me more edgy.

I don’t like walking into the unknown. What if this guy is ex-military? What if he’s some badass biker son of a bitch who’s going to knife me if he finds out I’m with his woman?

She flinches as the knocking starts up again. There’s very real fear in her eyes and I want to kill the guy who put that fear there. I don’t care what he did, or how he scared her, I want to kill him.

When I pull back, she’s looking me in the eyes. Her gaze dances back and forth between mine, a light of realization glowing and flaring like a camera flash in slow motion.

I know that look. It’s dawning on her that she doesn’t know a damn thing about me. And the precious little she might know is likely more terrifying than whatever she’s currently running from. I’m more terrifying than her man. More terrifying than her worst enemy. More terrifying than her scariest demon.

And she’s looking at me as if she finally sees me for what I am; a monster.

Good.

With more than a splash of bitterness in my soul, I head toward the front door. When I look back, her head is lowered again, her pretty hair spilling into her lap as she takes on such a defeated posture I almost feel bad for her.

Poor girl clearly can’t get a break.

Her taste in men is desperately flawed.

I leave the room and close the door quietly behind me. No need to startle her. I turn to face Jane’s door. Maybe I can reason with the guy. Get him to walk away. That would be easier than rearranging his face for him.

Whatever I do, I need to quiet the racket the dude is making.

But as soon as I see the guy, I hate him even more. His bright yellow pants are so tight I bet the head of his penis – if he in fact has a penis – must look like it’s screaming. He’s so skinny I swear he would blow away if a strong enough wind kicked up.

And what the fuck is with those shoes? They’re an odd shade of maroon with what looks like handwritten verses, like lyrics or poetry.

I bet it’s poetry.

Bloody hell, I bet it’s his poetry.

He’s wearing two shirts. One is a button down blue and white plaid. And it clashes with his pants. So much so that I kind of want to hit him just for subjecting my eyes to it.

The shirt under that hugs his skinny frame and is hunter green with a faded logo – likely a factory faded to look old logo – with an ambiguous name that could be a coffee shop, or a hair place, or maybe a dive bar. Some place that I’m sure he discovered first. You know, he made it a cool hang out, so now it’s popular, but only because he shone his light on it and made everyone aware of how awesome it is.

To complete the I’m a total douchebag look, he’s got an oversized beanie in a dirty shade of grey on his head. It probably keeps his carefully styled and windswept blond locks in check. With his eyes mostly covered, I wonder how he sees. He reminds me of one of those shaggy white dogs.

I hate everything about him.

He catches sight of me and his attitude changes. Suddenly, the petulant little boy becomes a tough man. How cute. He thinks he’s all that.

Does he not know that beard looks like he shaved his pubic hair and glued it to his face in odd, uneven patches?

“I’m just looking for my girl. She’s here.” He flips his head even though his hair doesn’t move at all. Not even a millimeter. That shits got to be glued down. Holy fuck.

“The girl that was here left,” I say and he tries to look cool.

He nods at me. “Thanks, man. You sure she’s gone gone, though? Maybe she went out to lunch.”

Gone gone? You can’t just add the same word twice to make it mean something else. What the fuck planet is this asshole from? Isn’t that something teenaged girls say to each other? Oh, I like him, but I don’t like him like him.

“Pretty sure,” I say, unwilling to engage with this idiot. Talking to him is killing my brain cells, I’m sure. So I walk away.