He steps out of the shadows into a pool of light from a nearby security lamp. My car’s less than fifteen feet away. But he’s less than ten.
Tall. Well-built. Arms bulging out of the sleeves of his black T-shirt. Like the cold doesn’t have any effect on him. Loose black sweatpants. Expensive-looking black and red sneakers. Bet he spends hours at the gym preening in front of the mirror and has a closet full of barely worn ‘kicks.’ I feel like I’ve seen him before.
Despite the muscles, he slouches in that wanna-be casual gangsta pose so many younger guys adapt to look ‘cool.’
My cervical spine aches just looking at him.
“Damn.” He whistles. His reptilian eyes slide over my body like ice cubes, leaving me frozen with fear. “I gotta say, you even more sparkly in person. Nicer than all those over-filtered Instas you always postin’.”
Amanda was right. Creepy dudes are stalking me online. The longer I stare at him, the more unease crawls over me. It’s the same guy from earlier. Did he follow me from the coffee shop and hang out all afternoon waiting for me?
A hysterical laugh threatens to burst out of me, but I force it down. Once I start, I might not be able to stop.
In another life, I might’ve been flattered by the unwanted attention. Ignored the danger pounding in my gut and fawned over his backhanded ‘compliments,’ while, deep down, praying he didn’t hurt me too much.
Not today. I answer him with nothing but a frosty glare.
He walks closer and mockingly slicks a finger over each eyebrow—which could use a trim—and licks his full bottom lip.
“Loved your little video about how to get the perfect arched eyebrow.” His voice rises to a girlish pitch.
Typical scrote, insulting my interests. As if his lifting weights and jacking-off-to-porn-all-day hobbies are somehow superior.
“Thanks, it’s my highest rated,” I say with a whole lot of fuck off in my tone.
He squints and circles his finger in the air. “Why ain’t you wearing all that face paint when you out and about?”
“Why do you care?” I don’t want to take my eyes off him, but someone has to be leaving the building soon, right? I’m scared if I try to run for my car, he’ll grab me. Attacker vibes roll off him like clouds of toxic dust.
“You look better without it anyways.”
My temper shoots through the fear holding me in place. “Like I give a fuck about your opinion,” I spit out.
Where is the security guard when I need him?
“Spicy. I like that.” He nods slowly to himself.
I back away toward my car. Slow and casual. Inch by inch. Nothing to see here.
“Why you lookin’ so scared, girl? I just wanna talk.” He circles closer with each word.
“Well, it’s pretty creepy to stalk someone from a coffee shop and sneak up on them hours later in a parking lot.”
Why are you trying to reason with him? He knows he’s a creep! He’s being creepy on purpose!
Done toying with me, he closes in, fully cutting me off from the building.
I dash for my car, jamming my thumb against the unlock button on my key fob, praying it doesn’t decide to stick, and thanking the heavens I disabled the passenger side from opening at the same time.
Would-be gangster boy laughs. He actually has the nerve to laugh. If I make it to my car, I swear, I’m going to run over his stupid, oversized clown feet.
“Why you runnin’ girl? What’s the hurry?”
My parking lights flash once.
Now he knows which one is mine.
But at least my door’s unlocked.
I hit the car and yank on the handle so hard, at least two of my nails snap. Pain sears through my fingertips.
My hair’s viciously yanked to the side and back, making my ruined manicure the least of my problems.
I shriek and struggle.
It’s so unfair. My car’s right there.
My back slams into the metal door of the car behind me. Air whooshes out of my lungs. I’m too stunned to draw another breath.
Blackness dots my vision.
“I just need to talk to you for a bit.” My attacker looms over me. “Why you trippin,’ girl?”
Great, he’s trying to gaslight me into thinking this is a normal conversation. Too bad for him, I’ve been manipulated by far worse men in my life and know all their tricks.
I cough and wheeze, trying to draw in oxygen. If I pass out, God only knows what he’ll do to me.
Up close, my gaze zeroes in on a tattoo near the corner of his eye. Some sort of red X. His arms sport a lot of ink. What looks like a roaring lion covers his right hand. The lion’s wearing a crown, because of course it is. All these delusional clowns think they’re kings.
Grayson would kick the absolute shit out of this guy. So would any one of his brothers.