His Ballerina

None of it had been exactly clear in my head, just vague images, ideas. I didn’t even have time for those ideas to solidify into something real, into goals I could work toward.

We’re about to cross another street when a rusty old car with muffler problems comes flying up out of nowhere. Archer spits out a curse, pulling me closer, out of the car’s path. I don’t know if I want to be this close to him, but at the same time, I can’t deny the scent of leather mixed with what smells like whiskey coming from his breath and a spicy, musky cologne.

Most definitely not what I need to be thinking about right now. I don’t need to think about his broad chest, either, or the muscles under his jacket. But here I am.

“Assholes shouldn’t be allowed to drive.” Archer shakes his head, muttering some more profanity under his breath before pulling me along with him. I practically have to jog to keep up with his long, purposeful strides.

I guess he doesn’t want to waste any more time before he blows my brains out.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper as we approach my building. Half the windows are boarded up thanks to vandals breaking into the apartments on the first floor. Mine’s on the third, with heavy bars outside the windows to prevent that sort of thing from happening.

“People never get tired of saying that, do they?” It sounds like he’s talking more to himself than he is to me, and I have to wonder how many people he’s killed. Something tells me I’d better not ask. I might not want to hear the answer.

“But it’s true.”

“I’m aware of that. I’m not a fan of repeating myself, so don’t make me do it again.” When we reached the front door—heavy, metal, rusted—he jerks his chin toward it. “Go ahead. Unlock it.”

“Are you coming up with me?”

His brows draw together over the bridge of his nose. “Why can’t you get it through your head? What’s the crime in wanting to make sure a girl doesn’t get herself killed walking home alone in a neighborhood like this?”

I blink, staring at him. For the first time since we left the alley, it feels like he’s telling the truth. Like maybe I should believe him. But I’m afraid to believe. I don’t want to get my hopes up.

He looks around while I unlock the door, and I hear him muttering in what sounds like anger. When I look up at him again, hoping against hope that this really is what he says it is, he looks disgusted. “They should tear all of this down.”

“Where would the rats live?” Dear Lord, am I making jokes right now?

He looks me up and down, and I’m pretty sure he’s smirking, though it’s very dark out here with only half the streetlights working, and I can’t quite make out his expression by the time he takes one backward step, then another. “Go inside. Now.”

Something tells me to do as he says, so I dart into the building and close the door behind me with a slam. I barely even notice the smell of urine and mouse droppings as I fly up two sets of stairs, practically stumbling when my feet don’t move as fast as I want them to.

He doesn’t follow me. When I double-lock my apartment door, I press an ear to it just in case there’s noise out in the hallway. But there isn’t. It’s silent, except for the rush of blood in my ears.

I don’t know how long it takes for me to slide down the door until my butt hits the floor. It could be minutes; it could be an hour for all I know. Now that I’m alone, really alone with nobody chasing me up the stairs or trying to break down the door, I can try to get my thoughts together.

He must’ve meant it. He won’t come after me so long as I keep my mouth shut. Well, that’s fine by me. If it means the difference between life and death, I won’t breathe a word to anybody. I’ll forget I ever saw him.

Though something tells me it’s not going to be as easy as that. By the time I change into a T-shirt and shorts and crawl into bed, I’ve stopped shaking, but that doesn’t mean my thoughts have calmed down any. I end up tossing and turning until the bedsprings scream in protest, every noise on the street below, making me jump. My nerves are shredded, my legs shaking when I finally give up and get out of bed.

I don’t know why, but something compels me to look out the window on my way to the kitchen for a cup of tea to hopefully soothe my nerves. It overlooks the street in front of the building, and as usual, there’s nobody out there at this time of night but the occasional drunk staggering home from the bar.