His eyes bore into mine. The more fear that appears on my face, the more his eyes seem to sparkle with excitement. He’s been waiting for this, wanting and hoping, and for the first time since I was a confused and scared eighteen-year-old, he has me backed into a corner.
Nic takes a step into my apartment, never taking his heated gaze off mine. “Going somewhere?” he asks, his voice rumbling through my apartment, demanding attention. He takes another step and gives the door a shove, letting it slam closed with a BANG that vibrates right through my chest.
I try to swallow over the lump in my throat, taking another step back. “Get out,” I snap, my hand uncurling from my suitcase before grabbing the knife in my back pocket.
He takes another daunting step toward me, and my hands begin to shake. “Now, now,” he says with a tsk, amusement shining brightly in his eyes as though this is the best game he’s ever played. He stalks toward me, and I back up until I slam against the wall with nowhere to run. “That’s no way to greet an old friend,” he taunts. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a very long time.”
My hand tightens around the knife, and as he pushes into me, I snap into survival mode. My hand whips out, and just as the blade springs free from the hilt, I slam it up against his throat. “Don’t fucking touch me,” I screech, watching as he freezes. “Leave now, and I’ll forget this ever happened.”
The corner of his lips pulls into a twisted smirk, the game getting that much more interesting for his sick little mind. “Or what? Whatcha’ gonna’ do, Roni?” he purrs, my name sitting on his lips like it was always supposed to be there. “Slit my throat? You don’t have the fucking guts.”
My jaw clenches, and as his body presses in closer, I smell that intoxicating scent from my teen years that got me into this trouble in the first place. The smell wraps around me, making it impossible to think clearly. “You don’t know me, Nic,” I tell him through my clenched jaw, spitting the words with hatred. “Not anymore. You have no idea what lengths I’d go to save myself and this life I’ve created.”
He leans in closer, the blade pressing deeper against his skin and sending a drop of blood trailing down the thick column of his neck. “Then what are you waiting for? Do it, baby. Kill me and save yourself. This is your only shot. You’re the only one I’d allow to get close enough.”
My hands begin to shake as I start contemplating exactly what I have the strength to do. Sure, I could easily whip my hand out and end this right now, but could I live with myself afterward? I don’t know. That’s a question I’m not sure I’m capable of answering.
The seconds begin to tick by, and with each passing one, Nic’s amusement only grows stronger. “Yeah,” he says with a pathetic scoff, almost as though he’s disappointed that I didn’t take the bait. “That’s what I thought. But don’t worry, Roni. There’s still time. I’ll make you like me, I promise.”
Then in the blink of an eye, Nic whips back from my blade and grabs my wrist, squeezing it so hard that I have no choice but to loosen my grip on the knife. His other hand shoots up and smacks the bottom of my hand, and the knife goes flying up into the sky.
He catches it with ease as my eyes bug out of my head.
I don’t wait another second, especially now that he’s armed.
I throw my handbag hard into his face, giving him a devastating shove into my shitty little kitchen before bolting for the door, this time not giving a shit about my suitcase.
My feet slam down against the flooring, pushing me faster and faster, and as my hand latches onto the door handle, I give it a hard yank, only it doesn’t fucking budge.
I try again and again but get nowhere.
I glance back over my shoulder. The fucker must have locked it and taken the keys, but I don’t have time to focus on it as he races toward me like a bull heading for his target, only this time, the amusement is gone.
The time for games is over.
I turn back to the door, desperately yanking on it before slamming my fists against the hardwood and hoping someone in this shitty little apartment complex might hear me. “HELP,” I scream. “HELP ME.”
A strong, thick, tattooed arm curls around my waist, and I’m yanked back from the door, his hand curling around my face and pressing against my mouth, muffling my screams. “I really hoped we could do this the easy way,” he tells me, walking back toward my living room, only to smirk at the image of his mugshot still on my television screen.