Dirty Law

“I…” I still couldn’t think of an adequate excuse for why I was in a rich neighborhood, dressed in black, hiding behind a dumpster.

I went on the offense.

“Why are you here?” I countered.

I swore the man grinned, but it was gone so fast I couldn’t be sure. “I have business in the area.”

“Oh.” I liked that explanation, so I stole it. “So do I.”

He leaned forward a bit. “You do?”

I shrugged, leaning back. “I do.”

“What kind of business?” Coffee Shop Fucker asked.

I folded my arms. “I could ask you the same thing.”

CSF raised an eyebrow. “It’s confidential.”

I shrugged, averting my eyes. “As is mine.”

“How convenient.” I ripped my gaze back to his because I swore I heard him laugh. Still, when I looked, there was nothing. He eyed me with cool calculation, not a hint of humor in his hard features. I shook my head, sick of feeling insane for the night—for the rest of my life—and glared. I was done with the conversation.

“If you’ll excuse me.” I pushed past him, but he grabbed my elbow. My body tightened and my lungs filled with ice. When strangers on the street bumped into me, my entire body reacted with carnal instinct, fear, and aggression, and that was just a bump on the street. Imagine what happened when someone actually grabbed me.

I was torn between pulling my gun out and shooting his fucking face off or crawling into the fetal position. It was possible he suspected the war going on inside me, because his next words were: “What are you gonna do, punch me in the face again?”

“Possibly,” I snarled. “I haven’t decided.”

He let go of my arm. “Tell you what, I won’t call neighborhood security and tell them you’re lurking about if you go out with me right now.”

I scoffed. “Are you threatening me?” Literally the last place on Earth I wanted to go was with some strange man. Fool me once—no, wait, fool me once, you’re still a rapist and terrible person. Fool me twice and I just have really, really shitty luck.

“No, I’m trying to date you.” I nearly choked on my tongue. Dates were flowers and chocolates and Nora Ephron, not this.

“The answer is and will always be a resounding no.” My mother was always a great packer. She had packing down. Need to pack a fur coat, a regular coat, three weeks worth of clothing, and a freaking bookcase into one overnight bag? She had you covered. Why had that thought popped into my head? Because at that moment I wished my mom was alive, just so she could have helped me pack a little bit more hate into my words.

He shrugged. “All right, well why don’t I just go up to this guy’s house and ask him about your ‘business’?”

I gulped. “Fine. Do it.” I was sincerely hoping he was bluffing, but as CSF made his way toward his stairs, I screeched. “Fine, fine! I’ll go with you. Jesus!” If going with him meant avoiding one nuclear situation so I at least had a few minutes to disarm the next, then fine. Seriously, what were my other options?

Call the police? Alert the media?

HA!

I knew I had put myself in this situation, I knew it. I should have been at home, behaving like a good little rape victim and ignoring my rapist. I should have been moving on. I shouldn’t have been stalking him.

Well what the fuck ever.

The only solution I saw was to go with Coffee Shop Fucker, preferably to someplace well populated and well lit, and figure out how to get myself out of the new mess. I walked past CSF, intending to make my way to a more well lit street, when I heard his gravely, cocksure voice float to me from behind.

“My name isn’t Jesus. Close, but it’s actually Nick Law.”

I stopped mid-stride, barely able to control my indignation. Turning back to him, I scoffed.

“What?” CSF—or Law, apparently—leaned back against his concrete steps. The lights were off in his house now, but I knew better than to think he was asleep. He was now in his study, his wife was asleep, and CSF and I were standing out in broad fucking night waiting to be caught.

Still, I had to comment.