by Soto, S. M.
This is exactly what happens when you refuse to date anyone for months. Hell, even Janet said it. Before she suddenly went missing, she always brought up the fact that I was hiding from men because of my past. And she was right. I always settled for the safe guys. The relationships with no spark. Maybe that’s why I find myself so attracted to this dangerously rugged man. Because he’s the first one to ignite this…feeling brewing inside of me. He’s the first man who’s shown such a dark, intense interest in me. Albeit, the worst kind of interest, but still, it’s…riveting. The way he looks at me, I’ve never been looked at like it before. I’ve never felt that tug in my gut, the zaps of electricity firing through my veins like a livewire.
There have been plenty of guys who have asked me out on dates over the years, but I’ve never felt a connection. I’ve never felt this magnitude of interest in someone. I was never willing to put my heart on the line, not after Ryan. And that was easy before, because my heart was truly never involved. It was like my past boyfriends were stepping stones, ways for me to put my past behind me. When I look back and try to remember them, it’s almost like another woman was living out those relationships, those shared conversations. That’s how disconnected I felt. But with this stranger? I’ve never felt more aware of him and the sensations he’s capable of eliciting. I can’t wrap my head around any of it.
Why am I so drawn to the rugged man with the leather jacket, covered in tattoos?
* * *
Leather Jacket and I find a corner booth, somewhere with a little bit of privacy. After I’m seated, he slides into the booth across from me and tosses a laminated menu toward me. I decide what I want to eat in record time—in woman standards, at least.
As we wait for the server, I watch him from across the rickety table, taking everything about him in. His eyes are trained on the window, focused on some random point outside, beyond the double-paned glass. I know he can feel me staring at him; there’s no way he can’t. So I soak him in before he tells me to look somewhere else. I take in his disheveled hair, the clothes that look exactly the same as they did last night—not a damn wrinkle that shows he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep. I eye the gold chain around his neck, peeking out from the collar of his shirt, and I’m half-tempted to ask if it’s a cross. I have a hard time believing he’d wear a Jesus piece, but you never know.
So instead, I opt for a different line of questioning.
“Why did you come into my bakery that first night?”
I’ve been dying to know. Even after he left that night, I wondered what someone like him was doing on that side of town, in a bakery shop no less. His hands fist on the table at my question. If I wasn’t paying such close attention, I would’ve missed the way his left eye twitches with anger, and the way the muscle along his jaw ticks. But I catch it, and now I’m even more curious.
For the longest time he doesn’t answer, and I’m just about to call him out on it when our waitress gets to our table. She’s a plump, graying woman probably in her mid-fifties, and she has the sweetest smile on her face as she approaches.
“Well, what do you know,” she says cheekily, placing her hands on her hips. “It’s not very often we see young couples up and about this early. Can I get somethin’ started for y’all?” There’s a twang to her voice that tells me she’s somewhere from the South, and I can’t help but smile. She seems nice, and after everything that happened last night, I could really use someone nice in my corner.
After we both prattle off our orders, we sit in an uncomfortable, tense silence as we wait for our food. Leather Jacket won’t even bother to look at me, his gaze still fixed out the window in avoidance. It suddenly strikes me, the realization that I don’t even know his name.
“If you’re not going to answer my questions, talk to me, or even bother to look at me, will you at least tell me your name? I don’t even know what to call you,” I mumble in irritation, stirring the silver spoon in my coffee.
“No.”
The sound of metal clangs against my mug as I let the spoon go. My eyes narrow into thin little slits, and I grind my teeth together, trying to remain calm. As if sensing my anger, he shifts in his seat, those dark blue eyes slamming into me, making me all the more furious. Even though his face is devoid of any emotion, a cold mask, his eyes seem to dance with humor at my show of anger.
“Why not let me go? I won’t say anything, I promise. I don’t even know who you are.”
The humorous sparkle is gone, and in its place is a glare that has my throat tightening with fear. He doesn’t move one muscle, so when his hand curls around my knee under the table and squeezes painfully, I startle. My mouth drops open to let out a pained cry, but the look on his face causes the scream to catch in my throat.
The intensity in his eyes holds me captive, demanding I listen to his every word. “We both know that’s not true, sweetheart.” His voice is like shards of ice, so cold and frigid, piercing my skin. His fingers continue bruising my flesh.
“I fucking hate you,” I grit out as my nails dig into the material of my jeans. Finally, his unrelenting grip is gone, and I can breathe again.
He leans forward, eyes flashing with rage and something…else. He leans into my personal bubble, his cool breath ghosting across my face as he stares me down. His face is so close to mine, all I’d have to do is lean forward just a few inches and our lips would touch. I tell myself I don’t want them to, but deep down, I can’t deny that there’s a small part of me that wonders what it would feel like. To be kissed by a man like him. His plump lips twitch, almost like he can read my innermost thoughts.
“Good.” His voice is firm and cold, completely wiping those thoughts away. It makes my blood boil. I have the strangest urge to reach across the table, grip him by his stupidly perfect tousled hair, and slam his head down on the table, then kiss him. The wave of self-loathing that flows through me at that thought is all consuming.
Thankfully I don’t have to do any of that because our food is served, and we spend the rest of our meal eating in silence. I finish just about everything on my plate since I skipped dinner last night. I got so caught up in trying a new chocolate raspberry truffle cake recipe that I forgot to stop and get something to eat. Then, after everything else happened, food was the last thing on my mind.
I pause with a forkful of pancake halfway to my mouth when he speaks. My eyes widen, and I sit across from him, gaping in shock.
“Percivale.”
It’s all he says. But it’s enough. I have a name to go with the face, and that’s all I really wanted.
I cock my head to the side, regarding him while he continues to eat, completely ignoring me. He’s pretending like he didn’t just drop a bomb on me.
“Your name is Percivale?”
He flicks his bored gaze to mine. “That’s what I said.”
Oddly enough, I believe him. The name is too unique to be a lie.
“Okay,” I say, dropping my fork down onto my plate. I fold my hands in front of me and lean forward a few inches. “Now will you tell me why you came into my bakery the other night, Percivale?”
His eyes narrow. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he grinds out, narrowing those blues on me in a warning. “I don’t know.”
I raise my brows in challenge. “You don’t know? You just happened to walk into a closed bakery on your own, buy one of my pastries for two hundred dollars, then throw it on the freaking ground right when you left? I find that very hard to believe, Percivale.” I narrow my eyes and ask in exasperation, “Did you even try it before you tossed it?”
I shouldn’t care if he thought my baked goods tasted like shit, but the worker, the baker in me does care. And I need to know.
He leans back against the booth and smirks at me. “I did.”
My eyes narrow even further. “You’re lying,” I grit.
I’ve spent years perfecting that recipe. It’s my customers’ favorite. He has to be full of it.
/> He chuckles, and the sound is dark and raspy. It hits me places it shouldn’t.
“Am I?” he challenges, stumping me. My face falls and I deflate against the booth.
“Well…” I start to say, feigning the bravado I don’t feel, but it tapers off. “Well, that’s really rude. And mean. And you could’ve at least waited until I wasn’t looking to throw it away,” I mumble, looking down at my hands.
Percivale blows out an exasperated sigh that sounds a whole lot like, “For fuck’s sake.”
“I didn’t try it. But I very much would like to taste your treats, Blossom Jaymes.”
Oh god.
My stomach muscles clench, and I clamp my thighs together, trying to alleviate the sudden throbbing between my legs. I swallow thickly and slowly lift my gaze to his. He’s no longer leaning back against the booth; now he’s leaning forward, his forearms resting on the table, watching my every move. My chest rises and falls in sharp, quick movements as I try to remain calm, but it’s like my body has a mind of its own and it’s reacting to this man. To his words. To his dirty innuendo. I should be appalled that he knows my full name, but I’m not. Instead, I’m more focused on the way he said it and how it sounds coming from his perfectly plump lips.
He wants to taste my treats? Oh, Christ. It’s getting hot in here.
“I-I…well, uh—” I clear my throat, feeling heat rise up my neck to my cheeks.
“Do you want me to eat your treats, Blossom?”
God, help me.
Why does he have to keep saying my name in that sexy voice of his? My skin feels clammy and hot. My nipples pebble against the material of my bra, no doubt peeking through my shirt. It’s just about the strangest reaction I’ve ever had to a man, let alone a stranger. The heat between my legs is unbearable, and my underwear is completely soaked just at the thought of this man doing anything sexual to me.
My lips part and my eyes get heavy as my mind automatically replays every one of the fantasies I’ve had about Percivale. I can feel his tongue on my skin, his fingers softly stroking between my legs. It makes me want him. His touch. His firm body flush against mine.
“Y-yes,” I squeak out.
His eyes flash with surprise and fill with heat. The blue surrounding his irises go from cobalt to such a dark denim that I can’t even tell the difference from his iris and his pupil. I know he wasn’t expecting that answer, and quite frankly, neither was I. But it’s out there, and I can’t take it back—I don’t even want to. If this man is going to kill me, might as well go out with a bang.
“I need to use the restroom,” I breathe out. It’s partly true. I really just need a moment to gather my wits without the intensity of his stare scorching my skin. Before he can respond, I’m already scooting across the seat, trying to get out. His eyes are narrowed on me, suspicion written all over his face, but I act like I don’t see it.
I find the bathrooms in record time, and once inside I let out a deep, rushed breath. My hands are trembling, and my stomach is stirring with a mixture of arousal and regret. After using the restroom, I rest my hands on the edge of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?
I shake my head, hating my body for betraying me. For wanting this man. God, the urge to stick my hand down my pants and touch myself is all consuming, but I can’t. I won’t. Of their own accord, my eyes drift toward the windows on the side of the wall. They’re small, like really small, but so am I. If I can just get them open, I can probably squeeze through and make it out of here without being seen.
I can make a run for it. Find somewhere safe to hide.
I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and chew on it in contemplation. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m already crossing the tiled bathroom floor, climbing onto one of the sinks, and reaching for the ledge. I struggle to get the window to budge and hold myself up at the same time. I’m not the most coordinated person, and that’s never been clearer than it is right now. I take a hurried glance over my shoulder and swallow thickly, making sure the coast is still clear. My fingers find the latch to the window, and I unlock the mechanism. My heart rate spikes, and a thrill shoots down my spine. I glance down, making sure my foot is steady before tugging on the window. It slides open and tears of elation burn the backs of my eyes.
With a newfound urgency, I try to knock out the screen barrier, punching against the frame until one side pops off. I fumble with the other side, working faster now. My heart is thundering in my chest like the pounding hooves of a horse at the derby. Sweat trickles down my scalp and along my spine. I keep glancing over my shoulder, expecting him to barge in at any second.
It’s been too long already.
I’m taking too long. He’s going to know what I’m up to.
A whimper escapes my throat, and I keep punching at the other side of the screen until my knuckles feel raw. It finally pops off, smacking the pavement outside. With a burst of adrenaline, I settle my arms on the frame of the window and hoist myself up. The muscles in my arms tremble and my biceps burn as I lift myself. I try my upper half first, but I don’t fit. I underestimated my size. Then I maneuver myself, trying my legs first, and still have the same issue. I can’t get out!
Tears of frustration slip down my face, and my body slackens with defeat. I glance over my shoulder when I hear voices outside of the bathroom door.
“Shit!” I curse. My heart pounds violently, and my body is shaking. I hop down from the ledge and thrust my hands under the water faucet and try to clean up the raw skin along my knuckles. It’s red. And ugly. And fuck, he’s going to know. My bottom lip trembles at my stupidity as I stare at my reflection. I try to fix my hair and make myself look as presentable as possible as I exit the bathroom. I blow out a breath of relief when it’s clear and make my way back toward our table. I don’t get far.
A hand grasps me from behind, whirling me around; I open my mouth to scream, but it gets muffled by a heavy hand slapping over my lips.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Percivale growls as he slams me into the wall, his free hand going straight to my throat and squeezing. His eyes are wild with rage, and I buck against his hold, trying to get him off me.
“Try anything like that again and I will fucking kill you, understand me?” His teeth are bared in a snarl, and tears swim in my eyes, making my vision hazy.
“I d-didn’t do anything-g—” I choke out beneath the weight of his hand crushing my throat. His grip tightens, and he slams my head back against the wall, dazing me.
“You’re a lot of things, Blossom Jaymes,” he breathes, leaning into me, tightening his grip around my throat. Just a little tighter and he’ll snap my neck. He places his lips next to my ear and growls, “But I never pegged you for a fucking liar.”
My tears start to fall, and fear capsizes my body. He lets go of me with a look of disgust and grabs my hand. I wince, and more tears fall because he’s grabbing the bad hand, the one I just fucked up in my futile escape attempt. He squeezes and it’s like he knows this hand is causing me pain. He’s cruel and evil, and I hate him in this moment. I hate him with every fiber of my being.
“Wipe your fucking face,” he says and starts walking, leading the way out of the hall. I do as he says the entire time back to the parking lot and keep my lips sealed when he just about shoves me in the car and slams the door closed behind me. He hops into the driver’s seat and pulls the car toward the gas pumps. The closest one open is near the back end of the restaurant and a small window. My face pales when I see the screen frame on the floor right next to our car. I try to look away before he can see what I’m looking at, but I’m too late. In slow motion, I watch his gaze drift to the side, and I see the second he processes what the window and the bent screen on the floor means. He turns his cold glare on me, and I flinch. It’s withering.
His nostrils flare and without another look at me, he climbs out of the car, slams his door, and locks me in from the inside whil
e he pumps gas. Once I’m in the car alone, my chest cracks and a sob splits through the air. I slap a hand over my mouth and cry.
What was I thinking? Why didn’t I just leave things be? Now I’ve really pissed him off.
If I wasn’t sure before, I am now. He’s going to murder me. Possibly cut my body up and hide me where no one will ever find me. With my parents in California, it’ll be some time before anyone notices I’m gone.
When he gets back into the car, he turns toward me and the look on his face makes my stomach drop. He digs in his pocket and pulls out something, cradling it in his palm. He snatches a water bottle from his center console and thrusts it at me. I don’t even have time to catch it. It just smacks my chest and bounces in my lap.
“Take it.” He opens his palm and I see the little pill. I don’t know what it is, but my eyes dart to his and another round of tears spring to my eyes.
“Please. I promise I’ll be good. I won’t cause any trouble, just please—”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You had your chance. And you fucked it up.”
“Please, Percivale.”
His eyes narrow threateningly. “Take it, or I’ll make you take it. Understand me?”
“Why?” My bottom lip trembles.
“Because I can’t fucking trust you, Blossom Jaymes. And you want to know what happens to people I don’t trust?”
I shake my head, fighting back tears.
