Bad Boy Rich

“It’s a big world out there.” His voice is soft, raspy yet full of edge. “And I can tell it scares you.”

Acting on defense, I’m quick to respond with my back towards him. “Nothing scares me.”

He turns me around, hands gripping my shoulders with force. The grin on his face disturbs me, it’s not your average boy-next-door smile. It’s sinister, the kind of smile that made the Joker tap his heels in delight.

“You’re awful at lying. Quit while you can.”

I take his hands off me, sensitive to the closeness of his body near mine. I have to turn away from his stare; my gaze drifting around the room we walked through in an effort to distract my erratic heartbeat. The doors remained wide open, and I hadn’t noticed earlier, but the glass coffee table inside this larger living room is covered in bottles. Beer, champagne, and others I wasn’t familiar with.

“There’s a saying. Don’t judge a book by its cover. So what if I’m from a small town? Doesn’t make me any less a human than you are.”

I fold my arms; pressing my breasts together to control this unknown tightness in my chest. This stare of his—persistent and killing me slowly—antagonizes me to the point that I push him away, scared of what might happen.

I turn back around, watching my step down to the patio and keeping my distance as I walk around the pool edge to clear my mind. Why am I here? My loneliness shouldn’t have dragged me here. I had a boyfriend back home and a best friend on call. Never mind that they weren’t actually present. A phone call could have cured that.

“You’re quiet.” Wesley lays on the outdoor chair, leaning against the soft cushion with his arm draped casually across the back. “This isn’t like you.”

I laugh quietly. “I don’t know why you think you know me. We’ve known each other for two minutes. I’ve had longer relationships with a box of cereal.”

“Lucky box of cereal,” he snickers behind another bottle.

“Sometimes,” I add, ignoring his comment, “it’s nice just to think.”

“I hate thinking.” He sits upright, not as relaxed as he was only moments ago. “That’s what gets me into trouble.”

“Into trouble?”

Now it’s his turn to laugh, throwing back the remains of his bottle and placing it on the floor. “Do you even know who I am?”

I didn’t. I was standing in a stranger’s house, open to a massacre of things that could happen because I followed my curiosity. I wanted to go home. All the way back to Alaska—my comfort zone. This was…it wasn’t me, now. This was Milana at fifteen. The girl that would skip school, hang out at boys’ homes and joy ride to other towns to steal booze.

“I should go home,” I stumble out, searching my purse for my phone, ready to call 911 in a state of panic. He could be a murderer. An axe-wielding murderer that will dump my body in the desert. The anxiety cripples me; my lungs short a breath. My hands shake while I attempt to unzip my purse; the zip caught on a piece of fabric which makes me panic even more.

“Relax, will you?” he says with ease, his eyes following with a relaxing gaze. “I’m not a murderer nor a rapist. Take a breath, I think you should have a drink and stop thinking so much.”

There’s a large grill area with a glass fridge underneath the outdoor counter top. He removes a bottle of wine and two glasses, popping the cork and pouring it in. Reaching out to me, I willingly accept, drinking the wine so carelessly until my thoughts silence and my skin tingles with delight.

“I don’t usually drink so much.” I hiccup on cue, embarrassingly.

He grins with amusement. “Tell me more.”

“I mean, I can drink. I just don’t much. I don’t know why, I’m just…boring.”

“Boring. Unusual way to describe yourself.”

“Well I am. Nothing excites me.” I continue rambling, helping myself to another glass. “You know when you read a book and there’s that thrill of the chase…like those tornado chasers. Living on the edge ready to get swept away.”

“You want to be swept away?”

“I don’t know what I want.” I sit down on the edge of the pool, removing my shoes and dipping my feet into the water, allowing the cold water to soothe my sore feet. “Life is complicated.”

He sits beside me, placing the bottle between us. Unlike me, he doesn’t place his feet in the water, crossing his legs and resting back on his hands. That scent—his cologne—is fresh and lingers my way. Okay, he smells good.

“A moment ago, you said you were boring. Which one is it?”

“I’m boring. Life is complicated.”

“You don’t know complicated till you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.”