Pink Polo drags his eyes down my body and back up. I feel naked and exposed and alone.
Big guy comes to stand next to me. And, oh god, why do I notice that he smells good? Like smoke and sweat and spice. "Take it somewhere else."
Maybe it's adrenaline. Maybe it's fear.
I don't know and I damn sure don't know how to deal with any of the crap that's happening tonight.
But for a moment, I am not alone. For once, standing in the darkness, someone is standing with me.
It is an utterly unfamiliar sensation.
Pink Polo spits on the pavement. "f*ck
you, man. She's not worth it." He slinks off, looking for his buddy.
My throat relaxes, just a little bit, and I can finally take a deep breath.
And then I get another good look at my hero.
For a moment, I’m fixated on the side of his face that he’s dabbing with a towel. The blood distracts me, but only for a moment.
His dark eyes are locked on me and suddenly, I no longer notice the blood or the bleeding.
"You okay?" His voice is thick and gritty, his words clear. Like he's not standing there, actively bleeding.
Wring your panties out, ladies.
I swallow and nod. There is something familiar about him that I can't shake, but now is neither the time nor the place to start digging into that, no matter how much I might want to. "Thanks for the rescue."
"I was in the area." He presses the towel to his eye again and I catch a glimpse of strong block letters on his forearm. I want to ask to see his tattoo but I can’t. It would send the wrong message. "You live far from here?"
I shake my head. I have miraculously developed a fixation with tattoos in the last thirty seconds. "Two blocks away."
He tips his chin, studying me. The scrutiny isn't the same as the guy he ran off. There I felt hunted. Vulnerable. Like prey.
Now? Now I feel something else. Something equally unsettling but a thousand times more interesting. Something that draws me closer instead of makes me cold.
"You good to get home?"
Finally, I find my voice. "Are you my white knight in shining armor?"
He looks away and presses the towel to his eye once more.
"I'm nobody's hero," he says softly. There is something dark beneath those words. Something that should have me running in the other direction.
But I don’t move. Graham would totally encourage me to go to bed with him. He claims I need someone to knock the dust off that's been gathering since the fiasco known as Robert.
I know better than to even entertain thoughts like this. I can’t afford a casual hook-up like some of the blue blood sorority girls on campus. I can’t afford the mistakes that can come out of them. And I damn sure can’t even consider hooking up with tattooed bleeding men who apparently like to get into bar fights.
But for a moment, a brief, shining moment, I stand there and let myself get lost in the fantasy of what if. What if he took a step toward me? What if he touched his fingers to my face and whispered what he’d like to do to me? What would it feel like to grip his forearms as he slid against me, skin to skin?
Aaand I need to go home.
I'm overtired. I worked non-stop over the holiday break. That's my excuse.
It's got nothing to do with being drawn toward the big man with the dark ink on his skin and the penetrating green eyes.
The man who says he’s not a hero.
"That’s an odd thing to say," I say softly. I’m not going to take a single step toward him. To close the distance between us or place my hand on his chest. I'm not going to wonder what his hands would feel like on my back, his fingers tracing my spine.
Down girl.
He frowns and winces. "Never mind."
Fresh blood oozes from the cut over his eye. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing," he says. "Happens once a week."
My throat tightens. I don't like blood. Not mine. Not anyone's.
"You should get it looked at."
His throat moves as he swallows. The ripple of skin over sinew is captivating. "I will if it doesn't stop bleeding soon."
And just like that we're at an impasse. The conversation has run its course.
"Well, thanks for…saying something." It's the most eloquent thing I can manage.
"I'm sure you could have handled it and all. I just…I don't like…I didn't…"
His skin flushes. Beneath the shadows from the overhead light, he flushes. It's ridiculously sweet in a thousand ways.
Because I can do nothing less, I touch his upper arm. He is warm and solid and real, and for a moment, I want to be brave, or maybe foolish, and ask him his name.
But I don't. Because that's a stupid, foolish fantasy that ends with us both getting naked and me getting hurt.
And girls like me don't get the fantasy.
If we're lucky, we get the bad dream that ends in hurtful words. If we're not, we get the nightmare that maybe doesn't end.
Chapter 2
Josh
My eye is less swollen than it was last week. It hurts a hell of a lot less than it did. I can no longer feel my pulse throbbing against my bones every time I squint in the North Carolina sun.