Alexander Kingwood IV.

He is so easy to spot. When every other guy on campus is dressed in slouchy jeans that hang too low or tattered cargo shorts, university T-shirts, and Abercrombie & Fitch, Alexander strides onto campus in fit-to-a-T jeans that highlight his great ass, and a shirt too expensive to be called a simple T-shirt, pullover, or button-down. It’s like he walked off a runway. I stopped shopping with him years ago because he spends money without a care in the world. I don’t have such freedom. He’s more than generous, and would pay for everything, but I like to feel I own something from earning it or working for it.

I’m no martyr. I have no problem accepting gifts. I just don’t believe in spending hundreds of dollars on a cotton shirt that looks the same as a five-dollar tee right out of the pack.

When I see him through the library windows, I’m quickly reminded of the difference. The white shirt accentuates his biceps, fits his shoulders—that might be broader now than when I left this morning—and the hem hits at just the right length, exposing a brown leather belt. If he reaches up, I bet I’d get a glimpse of his amazing abs too. I might have to test this out. He takes my breath away like the first time I saw him. It’s funny that, at that moment in time one week before my eighteenth birthday, I had no clue how much my life would change forever. Deep down, it’s like he did. Alexander was sent to steal my heart and corrupt my mind. But I love him. I love him so much that it aches to be without him.

What’s not to love? The man looks at me like I’m an angel on earth and his savior. I wish I could save him. Whatever he’s gotten into, he’s dug himself in pretty deep. Maybe too deep for me to save him any longer. To reach him. It used to be exhilarating—an exciting adventure—when I was with him. The thrill is still there, but I worry about the future now—mine with his specifically.

He once called me naïve.

I didn’t believe him. Now I do. Now I know I was.

Never would I have predicted I’d be with him years later. My love for him has kept me by his side. His looks—lady-killer looks—but that’s not enough. I wouldn’t be here three years later because he has a face I love to look at. I stay because our souls have melded together over time. I ache from his absence when he’s away too long. The hours are weights that drag me down. The heavy chains are broken the moment I see him. Time flies when we’re together. He’s an addiction I can’t break, and one I don’t want to. But for my innocence he stole, he’s given me life and love that far exceeds the loss. My heart soars with him.

There have been times over the years I’ve questioned whether I should stay. There was no question to my love because the answer was unyielding. It almost didn’t matter what Alexander Kingwood IV did or hid from me, because my soul was sold to him the day we met. It was in that moment that I knew I was meant to love him and harbor his sins in my safe haven.

It was a job I took seriously. So yes, maybe I was naïve when we met, but now I know what I’ve gotten myself into and I refuse to get myself out because my life wouldn’t exist without him being a part of it.

Hidden behind exorbitantly expensive designer clothes, his secrets have multiplied, layering the burdens he carries in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. I believe there are lies that will destroy him, and most likely me.

Yet, here I am.

Loyal to his misguided labors, protecting myself is a skill I’ve honed. Alexander would never hurt me, but I feel pain is the only byproduct of a future with him.

Yet, here I am.

Feeling like the little girl once again, I’ve fallen for blue-sky eyes and a smile so bright I swear the stars’ shine was stolen in the night. To the outside world, he’s King. To me, he’s Alexander. Everything.

I had plans. Big plans, like finishing my junior year, then my senior year as unscathed as possible. Freedom would be found in attending a university far from here. I’d start fresh. I’d become who I wanted, who I was meant to be before my heart took over my head. I knew what was next, but I never saw him coming, and then it was too late . . .

The rain is so thick I can’t see beyond it. I grab my umbrella from my locker, swing my backpack onto my shoulder, and head out to go home.

I pop the button that sends my umbrella up but one step outside the building and my socks and shoes are instantly soaked. It’s not a long walk home, but in the rain it feels like miles more. Needing a quick reprieve, I stop inside the grocery store, grab a Payday candy bar, then head to checkout. I’ve seen the cashier a million times. Gray hair tangled into a low bun in the back. She smiles, and says, “Awful day to be outside.”

“I like the rain.” Have I ever been convinced by my own words?

She’s definitely not. Her glasses slide down her nose as she studies me. My white cotton shirt is sticking to me, my plaid skirt drenched and dripping on the store floor. “You need to borrow a raincoat?”

I shrug. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“Seventy-five cents. Head straight home. I’m sure your parents won’t want you sick.”

My parents. I sigh louder than I intend. At seventeen, I still dream of a car one day, but my dad reminds me that being born is the only privilege I’ve deserved. I roll my eyes and set my dollar down. “Thanks.”

Waiting at the corner of a busy intersection to cross the street, I take a bite. The rain lets up and the pedestrian crossing sign beeps, but I don’t move. Not one step. Not to chew. Not even to breathe.

My heart balloons in my chest and despite the rain and humidity, my throat goes dry. Across the intersection rumbles a Harley-Davidson. I recognize the style of bike from watching TV, but it’s not the bike that holds my attention. It’s the man who rides it. His hair is darkened from the rain, but light enough for me to guess it’s probably medium brown when dry. A section has fallen over his forehead, resting on the tips of his eyelashes, probably to his dismay. Light, but angry eyes are directed at me, a hard stare that makes my heart race, fear coursing through my veins. The intensity invades my body in ways I’ve never felt before, confusing my thoughts and causing me to look away. I’m not scared of him, but I am frightened by the emotion welling inside me.

The signal to cross the street stops beeping, and I’m stuck on the corner under a thieving glare. Parts of my soul I didn’t know existed are exposed, and I drag my hand down the front pleats of my skirt. My breath comes short when our eyes meet again, and the candy falls from my hand. I summon every ounce of bravery and give as good as I’m getting, glaring right back. But I can’t hold it. He’s not a boy. He’s the guy my parents warned me about.

Turning away quickly, embarrassment comes as fast. I must look like a drowned rat and even worse, I’m stuck in my school uniform under the microscope of the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Even though I’m not looking at him, I just know that nothing breaks his stare. I feel his gaze penetrating my body, touching me deep down in ways I barely know how to reach. My face heats as my body blooms, the petals of my innocence unfolding for him. “Hold on. Don’t lose yourself.” Licking my lips, I know I could. For him I would.

A loud horn sounds, startling me. The toes of my shoes are off the edge, much like the thoughts of him possessing me in ways that would send me to confessional.

Thank God for small miracles. The light turns green, and his bike is revved before he takes off, leaving a trail of rain water behind him.

How is it possible that every last warning of what to heed embodies that man? I’ve never so desperately wanted to break every rule in the book until now. I could swear his middle name is Danger, and I’m intrigued enough to need to know his first.

I don’t look back over my shoulder. I don’t follow the sound of his bike as it drives into the distance. I don’t allow myself to fall any further than I have already. I cross the street, not noticing the clouds have cleared or that the sun is peeking out. I walk like the last few minutes haven’t changed my whole life, the makeup of my thoughts, and twisted my chemistry to match a man’s I’ll never meet.

At the next street, I turn the corner and stop. The motorcycle is there, but I barely notice it behind the man standing in front. His smile makes my knees weak and his eyes make my heart speed up again.

Fear.

Fear of what I already know I’m willing to do for him.

Fear of what lies ahead when I find out that first name.

Fear of the trouble that’s wrapped as tightly as the leather across his shoulders.

Fear of everything he possesses.

Fear of never getting this chance again.

Without fear, I walk right into his life, hands shaking and starting to sweat. When I get closer, the other guy rolls his eyes and jumps, starting his bike. As he drives away, I’m left alone. The air is sucked from around us and filled with his presence. He’s cocky and powerful, owning every muscle in his body as he stands tall before me. “Hey.” Husky, deep, and confident.

“Hey.” I stop, keeping five or so feet between us.

“I saw you back there.”

I nod, but don’t add to the conversation.

“What’s your name?”

“Sara Jane,” I confess before I have a chance to think otherwise.

His smirk turns into a genuine smile as he holds eye contact. That was the first time I saw the smile that would make me reject all others. “Hi, Sara Jane. Pretty name for a pretty girl.” He steps closer and I step back, making him chuckle. His feet stay planted when he says, “I’m Alexander.”

Alexander. The name becomes a melody as it plays over in my mind. I didn’t expect that name, but I love it all the same. Alexander. Alexander. Alexander.

He reaches out for me, his hand an open palm in front of me. Knowing I should go, that I should have never stopped in the first place, I shift.

“I can see the fight in your eyes. The decision to stay or leave wages a war. I won’t hurt you, Sara Jane.” When I don’t take his hand, something in his eyes—a kindness, sincerity—fills the grayish blue coloring, making me believe he’ll keep that promise.

With the compliment given, I reach out and our hands touch. A silent deal is struck, my heart now his, our fates sealed. Is it his smile or confidence, the attention, or touch? In the moment it’s everything.

I wonder if I’ll regret this handshake later. If I’ll regret stopping and talking to him, giving him my real name. I could have lied, but I didn’t.

The noise of his friend’s bike rounding the corner is heard in the distance before I see him. He pulls up and parks next to Alexander. Losing patience, he whines, “C’mon, man. Let’s go.”

Alexander remains, our eyes locked in a silent standoff as our hands remained joined together. I may be young, inexperienced, but I know I don’t stand a chance against his wicked ways. I’m smart, but he’s clever. “How old are you, Sara Jane?”

I like the way my name rolls off his tongue, and savor it before answering, “Eighteen next week.”

A smile crosses his lips, one that causes me to bite my lower one. “Seventeen, huh?”

“She’s jailbait, King,” his friend calls from atop his bike, looking bored. “Let’s move on.”

With his gaze still firmly attached to me, he calls over his shoulder, “I can wait a week. She sure is pretty.” As if he’s speaking to himself, I hear him add, “And so very tempting.”

I’ve never been called tempting before and the word itself evokes illicit thoughts. His leather jacket is worn, scuffed at the cuffs, the T-shirt underneath is some brand I’ve never heard of, and his jeans are faded, nicely worn in. He needs to shave and his hair is close to violating school code, but I have a feeling it’s not the first time he’s broken a rule. He’s a bad boy in the flesh, a devil in disguise of a fractured soul that’s almost too handsome to look at.

“Guess I should go,” he says, nodding toward his dark-haired friend. “You want a ride home?”

I may only be seventeen but cable TV has taught me a few things about accepting rides from strangers, even good-looking ones. “I’m fine walking.”

“You sure are.” He glances up to the sky. “Dark clouds are rolling back in.”

“They won’t do me any harm, but I’m not so sure about you.”

The right side of his mouth rises, almost meeting the dimple in his cheek. “Smart girl. So you turn eighteen next week?”

“Yeah. Saturday.”

Swinging his leg over the bike, he settles on the leather and grips the handles. “What about a boyfriend?”

“I’ve got no priors,” I reply, making a really bad joke, so dumb that my face feels hot from embarrassment.

He laughs, but I’m sure it’s out of politeness, although he doesn’t seem the type to humor anyone. “Let’s hope not.” Shifting, he looks ready to go. “What’s a girl like you talking about priors anyway?”

With mustered courage, I reply like I’ve found some confidence lying on the ground. “I’m not so little, and you’re not so bad.”

“What do you know about being bad?”

“I’ve seen some.”

His smile disappears, replaced by the stormy clouds he spoke of earlier. Anger. Curiosity. Respect. A fury of emotion brews inside his captivating eyes. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you.”

My hands tighten around the strap of my backpack. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me. I don’t need anything at all.” Kicking his stand up, he jumps, his bike roaring to life. I miss the silence. I miss the clarity of his dulcet tone, but I hear him over the loud rumble, “You should get home, little girl.”

My eyes trail across his lips and then over his shoulder. I pass him without further conversation, but I don’t get far.

“Sara Jane?”

I do what I know I shouldn’t. I stop walking and turn back. “Yes, Alexander?”

A grin appears in response to hearing his name, or maybe something else I’m too inexperienced to know by the deviousness that’s revealed. “Don’t talk to strangers.”

I laugh and it feels good, like too much pent-up energy finally being released, the balloon of my heart being popped. “Then I wouldn’t have met you.” When I turn away this time, I’m left with the image of his smile and that dark hunger in his eyes. I don’t look back, loving this memory too much to ruin it.

My steps are slow enough to hear his friend ask him, “Why are you messing around with some girl?”

The question doesn’t bother me because Alexander’s answer comes quick.

. . . I can still hear him as if he said the words to me himself, as if that afternoon was just today.

“She’s not some girl. She’s my girl.”