Chapter Six
Never go to bed mad.
Stay up and fight.
Phyllis Diller
A few nights later, I stumble down the last step outside of John’s home and grasp for the stair’s railing, righting myself just before my face hits the unforgiving pavement of the sidewalk.
When I’m upright and balanced again, I look forward and am startled to find a dark figure, looming in the shadows a few feet away from me. I take an immediate step back in the direction of John’s home, mentally gauging the distance between myself and the door.
Should I run or am I better off screaming at the top of my lungs?
I open my mouth to scream, because honestly, I’m not exactly in the best shape. I may be skinny, but my exercise solely consists of sex with a man I can hardly muster enough enthusiasm for, save for a few fake moans and some hip thrusts here and there, and walking around campus and New York City, but only when I absolutely have to. Which basically means I’m definitely not a runner, let alone a sprinter.
And since John entered my life, I’ve been letting him pay for my Ubers. Outside of campus, I haven’t walked a block for over a month. The last time I walked, it was to go from my dorm room to the dining hall… to grab a cupcake.
My eyes widen as the figure takes a step closer to me. I open my mouth to scream, but the man speaks first.
“Relax.”
I recognize his voice instantly, though I’ve only heard it twice. It washes over me like a tsunami—deep, dangerous, and all-consuming. John’s mysterious neighbor steps out of the shadows and eyes me critically.
Though I recognize him, I don’t relax my body. After my last interaction with him, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him lately—and I’ve tried to stop often. I have my suspicions about him. I saw Lucy letting herself into his brownstone about a month ago. At first, I thought she was cheating on Asher, but then I realized two things.
One, no one in their right mind would cheat on Asher Black. (To be fair, I’m not too sure Lucy is in her right mind. But… she also waved brightly at me from the front steps of John’s neighbor’s brownstone, which she wouldn’t have done if she had something to hide.)
And two, Lucy wasn’t accompanied by her bodyguard, the tall, muscled man that usually follows her around everywhere she goes. Since I doubt Asher would let her put herself in danger, I’m betting John’s neighbor is safe.
But safe in Asher and Lucy’s world is relative.
Because I’m also betting that, like Asher, John’s neighbor is somehow related to the mafia. After all, he has more than a working knowledge of the law; I’ve never seen Lucy hanging out with anyone other than Asher and Aimee; and judging by the intensity and intimidation always radiating off of this man in powerful, gushing waves, it’s Asher this guy is connected to.
And that suspicion has me on high alert.
I’m not worried for my safety. He’s never threatened me, nor has he ever made me feel worried for my physical safety. Plus, growing up in a gang infested neighborhood afforded me with a pretty good scumbag radar, and I don’t think he’s one of them. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let my guard down.
So, I wait patiently and observantly as he takes me in, and I wonder what he’s thinking. His eyes are unfriendly and aloof, but he’s the one who’s approaching me. Not the other way around. What that means, I’m not sure.
But I wait for him anyway, because I can’t not wait for him.
Again, I’m struck by the realization that everything about this man is magnetic.
His face, his body, his voice, his aura—all of it entices me and draws me in, until I’m no longer listening to the voice in my head that’s begging me to think of my little sister and her future.
The way I react to this man is pathetic and disgusting, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop it all the same. Even with the words Mina, Mina, Mina, Mina, Mina on repeat in my head, I can’t seem to remind myself of how bad it is to lust after him. At the very least, I force myself not to draw my body closer to him, to allow myself to be pulled in by his unreasonable magnetism.
And I just stand here, lacking the willpower to do anything other than watch him watch me, and I hate myself for it.
I hate him for it, too.
“What do you want?” I finally ask, breaking the heavy silence.
Like last time we talked, I don’t expect an answer to my question.
“John Clinton?” He arches a condescending brow and nods his head in the direction of the brownstone behind me.
“He’s a friend.” I cross my arms defensively, the movement drawing his attention to my chest. I narrow my eyes in an attempt to convince him—and myself—that I don’t like the way he stares at me. And just because I hate the way he has me reacting, I add some extra attitude in my voice when I ask, “What’s it to you?”
He smirks, the lift of his lips so beautiful and foreign and wasted on such an irritating person. “He’s a friend of mine.”
I snort, hardly believing it. “John doesn’t have friends.”
And it’s true. As far as I know, John goes to work and stays at home. That’s it. And other than that, John’s a mystery. Kind of like his neighbor, except I’m actually tempted to unravel the mystery of John’s neighbor. Not for the first time, I acknowledge that he’d make a wonderful predator. After all, he was able to make me, a frigid ice queen when it comes to wanting men, flirt. And I realized yesterday that that was what I had been doing. I was flirting with him, showing off my knowledge of the law for no other reason than the fact that I’m attracted to him and wanted to impress him.
God, I’m so stupid.
John’s neighbor stalks forward with a predatory grace, each step calculated, methodical, and leisurely, while having the same effect as a swift and ruthless attack would. Though his eyes are on me, he looks vigilant of everything in our surroundings.
Alert.
Aware of everything around us, though somehow most aware of me.
“Maybe I’m his only friend.” He takes a step closer. “Maybe I’m his best friend.” Another step. “Maybe I’m looking out for him.”
“And I’m the threat?” I look down at my petite body pointedly, but I regret it immediately when his eyes trail the same path down my body.
My breathing hitches, and his eyes flare with lust.
And I recognize that look immediately.
I just never thought I’d see it in someone I’m attracted to.
“You look pretty threatening to me,” he says, surprising me.
This man, who has tree trunks for thighs, a chest that spans the distance of the Pacific and arms with crests like hills, thinks I look threatening?
What has this world come to?
“You’re one to talk,” I reply, nodding my head in his direction, at the overwhelming presence that is him.
Surely, he realizes the kind of man he is. The imposing threat his presence alone poses to the world. I would gesture at him, too, but my traitorous hands are shaking from our proximity, so I clench my fists tightly instead and hide the useless things in the deep pockets of my Wilton University Law Review sweater.
I’m distinctly aware of my last name embroidered on the right breast pocket of the sweater. Even though it’s unaccompanied by my first name, the idea that he has even the slightest glimpse into my identity is disconcerting.
Not because of his potential mafia connections, but because any knowledge that isn’t mutually shared between us affords him a sort of power over me that I’d rather I retained. It’s a stupid and childish notion, and I’m probably overthinking things, but can I really be simply imagining this seductive power struggle between us? The way our words are like hands, tugging back and forth on an invisible rope.
I’m telling myself that this is hatred. That hatred is a never ending game of tug-a-war between two people that are better off leaving things alone but lack the maturity to do so. But I don’t particularly see him being immature, and thanks the metaphorical revolving door my sperm and ovary donors had installed in my childhood apartment, I know what true hatred is, and it isn’t this.
This is something else entirely.
“Why are you here?” he asks the same question he asked last time I saw him, and for a split second, I wonder again if he knows that I’m gold digging.
I never said that I was sleeping with John, but it’s not a stretch to assume that a woman sneaking out of a man’s house around midnight is sleeping with said man. And that’s pretty much what just happened, except I left to go get my LSAT study guide and was planning on coming back.
Now? I’m not so sure.
I’m stuck in front of this man, and not because he’s not letting me leave. I’m sure if I tried to leave, he wouldn’t bother to stop me. He wouldn’t care enough to. But I’m stuck in front of him, because I don’t want to leave.
I want to be here.
I want to see where the intense magnetism between us takes us.
And I don’t know why this is happening.
I hate him. From the second I met him, I hated him. Given my body’s traitorous response to his presence, I knew he would be trouble for me; for my future; and most importantly, for Mina. Yet, I’m standing in front of him.
And worse—I want to be here.
I want the world to pause for just one darn second, so I can stay forever in this moment, where a man I’m attracted to is looking at me like he’s attracted to me, too.
Is that too much to ask?
“Why are you here?” he asks again, taking another step toward me. “What’s your angle?”
My eyes widen, but I don’t take a step back as he invades my personal space. And for a split second, I relish in the proximity, allowing myself to succumb to the bone deep ache I feel for him. But God help me, I won’t let this man see how much of an effect he has on me.
“What?” The word escapes my lips as a whisper, because I have no clue what he’s talking about.
My angle?
Surely, he’s not referring to my gold digging. Because what stranger, even him, would be so forward in such a line of questioning? He may as well have said, so are you a gold digger or what? But something tells me that’s not what he’s asking me, which leaves me with one word—what?
“Why are you here?” he repeats slowly, like he thinks little of my intellect despite his knowledge that I attend Wilton for law. “Why are you in this neighborhood?”
I tamper down my racing heart, which is pounding at our proximity. At the fact that, if I breathe too hard, my chest would brush against his body. It takes me a second to register that he repeated himself, and when I do, it takes me another second to realize what he may be talking about.
If he’s involved in the mafia, he’s likely paranoid. I’m a stranger, an unknown entity, and I’m in his terrain. But… I’ve been sleeping at John’s for about two months now, and he’s just now confronting me? That doesn’t make sense.
And how have I only just recently met him?
I met Dex my second day sleeping over at John’s, yet it took two months to finally meet him. That means he’s either never here or always in his home. Either way, he’s involved in criminal business, so I shouldn’t be indulging him and his invasive questions.
But I do, because I can’t stop myself with him, and I don’t know why.
I reply, “I’m here for John. I’m with John.”
I don’t know if I’m trying to convince myself or him.
Probably both, because I don’t want to be with John, but I can’t be with someone like him.
There’s a centimeter of space between our bodies, but when he leans forward, he extinguishes it. And that first contact between us has my senses soaring. Waiting. Anticipating. His face slants towards mine. Slowly. Teasingly.
Seconds pass before his lips brush against my jaw, and then he’s trailing a teasing path up the sensitive curve of my neck with the very tip of his nose, his touch so, so light but so, so there.
And when he finally reaches my ear, he opens his mouth, his lips brushing sensually against my delicate skin, and whispers, “I can feel you reacting to me. I can feel your nipples, stiff against my body. You want me. You’re not interested in John. I’ll figure out why you’re really here.”
He steps back from me immediately after and walks away.
Even though he’s gone, I can still feel him, pressed against me.
And his words?
I have no idea what they mean, but I do know that it doesn’t bode well for me.