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She's an injured dancer trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered career. He's a broken man with an addictive personality. Like oil and water, they don't mix well.
When watching isn't enough, he gets...
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I don't know how to feel. I'm scared, confused, and have nothing left.
I'm also ninety-three percent positive that I'm coming down with a nasty case of Stockholm syndrome. For some reason, I resonate with a part of him that isn't as scary as the part that broke into my apartment. I know that he's a bad guy but my fight-or-flight response hasn't figured that out yet.
His closet is underwhelming, to say the least. He likes the color black, with an occasional white or gray button-down mixed in. His shoes are lined neatly on the floor, against the wall. At this point, I'd do almost anything to keep the awkward silence floating in the air but I'm running out of things to destroy in his bedroom, so I need to keep control over this situation in another way. "You're a felon?"
I don't turn around but I can almost feel the smirk cross his face from the other side of the room. "No, my charge was a misdemeanor. I think my parole officer would prefer the term 'reformed convict'." I turn to face him for the first time since he spoke about his mom. He's annoyingly relaxed for someone who has a hostage, it makes me wonder, "Have you done this before?"
He shamelessly looks me up and down, his tongue leading his bottom lip between his teeth. When his eyes come back to mine he quirks an eyebrow, urging me to continue, "Stalked a girl, kidnapped someone, take your pick." I say frustratedly. He avoided the question earlier, distracting me by comparing our lives and making me relate to him. It worked, for a little while.
He's been far too willing to answer my questions for someone who's done this before. His friends also seemed surprised at his actions. His gruff voice seems to flow through my bones, "Stalked a girl, yes. Kidnapped someone, no." I stare blankly at his sheepish face, I'm frozen at his brash admission. He takes a slow step toward me, testing the waters. He wants to know how skittish I am and I have no intention of showing any sign of discomfort. At my stillness, he moves a few more strides in my direction, towering over me as the gap between us closes. "But I've never stalked someone the way that I stalk you." His dark eyes pin me in place but, unfortunately for him, they don't cloud my judgment any.
"You say that like it's a compliment and it's not." I do my best to be clear, but this man doesn't hang his hat on rationality. His smug expression morphs into a lopsided smirk, "You're fuckin' cute. Now, that's a proper compliment." I don't understand how he can be so comfortable, my heart is hammering out of my chest, I'm sweating bullets, and I can feel the crazy eye I'm flashing him right now. He doesn't seem put off by any of it.
"How's your head?" His eyebrows draw together and he squints to inspect me closer. I almost forgot that he knocked my ass out cold last night. I surprisingly woke up without a headache, although the orgasm may have helped. "It's okay, you punch like a girl," I say dryly. "You'll need to work on that before your next kidnapping." His head falls back in a full-body chuckle. "Doll, after the way you worked me over with that pipe last night, I should be takin' lessons from you."
My cheeks heat at his words, the compliment not lost on me. I told him he hit like a girl and he responded by asking me for lessons, but I know he's just saving face. I can't forget the reality of this situation no matter how endearing my captor is turning out to be. I also can't deny the way his words affect my body.
"Maybe you should sit down for a minute, then you can keep ransacking my place." His hand reaches out slowly, giving me plenty of time to move away if I want to. But I don't.
His hand grazes down my forearm until it meets my palm and he gently tugs me toward the foot of the bed to sit. I leave my crutches leaning against the wall, making fleeing a bit difficult. Our knees are touching from the moment he sits down next to me and I can feel the tension in his body at the contact. He's observing me, waiting for me to move away from him. I don't, I stare back at the monster with just as much interest. His dark eyes swirl with something sinister, almost like he's looking straight through me. It's unsettling enough to send my stomach into my chest like I'm on a rollercoaster that's about to drop. I don't dare let my eyes drop from his, although my pupils must give me away because he sees through my poker face.
"Let me be addicted to you," My mouth falls open at his words, but that doesn't stop him. "I know I'm crazy- she told me not to say that, my therapist-" He shakes his head like it's helping to clear his thoughts. He's like a human Etch-A-Sketch, but that doesn't seem to slow him down either. The thoughts are falling out of his mouth and as overwhelming as they are, I can't stop myself from taking everything he's offering on the edge of my seat. "Shit, Dot. I can't think straight when you're lookin' at me like that. I'm still not used to you watching me back, which is shitty, I know."
I'm very flattered that this rambling mess of a man is unraveling in front of me. It's pretty funny but also incredibly wordy, so I put my hand on his veined forearm and watch as the words stop in his throat. I like the effect I have on him. It's unbelievable that he's even interested in me but addiction seems far-fetched.
His brown eyes sear through me as he continues to speak, "I won't lie to you," he took a deep breath to steady himself before professing, "I'm not a good man and I have no intentions to change that, but I also can't ignore the way you move through life like the sexiest little devil I've ever seen." His hand moves back to mine. "You're an addiction that can only be cured by a bullet in the skull and I thank fuck I haven't caught one-a-those yet, not for lack of trying on the pigs' part."
I like watching him spin off-topic, I don't know if he's finished a single thought without coming across a rabbit trail to venture down. There's something raw about his demeanor, he's like a nerve exposed to fresh air. "You asked before if I do this often and I ducked the question, call me a coward, just don't tell the guys," a weak chuckle escapes my lungs at that. "You're the only person I've ever felt this way for. I went to the pen for tracking and then subsequently robbing rich assholes, so not legally considered stalking, but I know the semantics don't make much of a difference."
"Well, they make a little bit of a difference," I said quietly before the distinct sounds of footsteps approaching from down the hall had us both scooting away from each other like two middle schoolers being caught by a parent. Rome's blue hair and big, tattooed body fill the doorway. He crosses his arms over his broad chest at the sight of us, "You two lovebirds 'bout ready for lunch?" He cocks an eyebrow and looks between us, waiting to see who will speak up first. It's about time I take a little control of my life back, so I break the silence, "Not really, Lee made me a big breakfast. I did accidentally kick something across the floor earlier, though, and my ankle is throbbing. If you go grab some food could you bring some pain meds back with you?" I say as casually as possible without sounding like a soap actress delivering a painfully fake line.
Rome straightens up at my words, nodding his head once and turning on his heel without a word. He heads back down the hallway, leaving the bedroom door wide open and slamming the front door behind him as he left. He must not care much whether Billy eats or not, because he didn't even afford him a side-eye before flying out the door.
My skin is prickly, so I'm not surprised to find a dark set of eyes on me when I turn my head back toward the brooding monster beside me. His head cocks to the side and he squints his eyes, reminding me vaguely of a snake sizing up its prey. I can't stop the shockwaves that flow straight to my core, turning into molten heat pooling between my legs.
My breath is catching in my throat and I feel like my heart may burst through my chest like Sigourney Weaver's babymorph in that one Alien movie. God, she's so hot. This is not helping distract my body from its reaction in the slightest. His eyes burn through me and the feeling sizzles my skin down to my nerves. I never want it to stop, so I say the only coherent thing that can think of.
