The Bad Boy Calls Me Kitten

Chapter Six

I was standing in front of a bar.

And I mean like, bar bar. Like the kind where people go to get drunk because life is just too dang hard? Yeah, that kind.

I shivered in the cool night air. Behind me, a car door slammed. I stared up in fear at the run-down building. The door was open, revealing the chaos inside. I could hear gruff voices and boisterous laughter come out. It sounded full of rough biker dudes, the kind that most people wanted to avoid.

What was I doing out here, you ask? What was Genevieve, the Whovianest of all Whovians, the nerdiest of all nerds, and the reader of all books doing out here when it was past midnight in a bar that was quite literally in the middle of nowhere with a boy who may or may not have been determined to kill me tonight?

Let's start in the beginning.

* * * *

"-and did you know, the myth that all wolves will attack a human is not true. Wolves are cultured to be peaceful creatures. They almost never attack a human and probably never will unless they feel they are being threatened. That false information is why wolves are going extinct. People kill them because they immediately think a wolf will attack. It's really unfair, you know. If people could just be-"

"Kitten?''

"Yes?" I said instinctively before I could stop myself.

"If I were to drench you in rabbit blood and drop you into a wolf pack's territory, do you think that they'll attack then?" Scar asked innocently.

"Probably." I answered.

"Hmm. Interesting." Scar said, taking a sharp turn down the road. For some apparent reason, he had offered to drive me home after detention was over. Miss White seemed to have taken off, for all I knew.

I had put up a fight, of course. It wasn't like Scar to do something nice. I had initially thought he planned to butcher me and drop my body into the ocean, to be honest. In the end, he all but forced me into the car.

"But you're not going to do that, right?" I asked, truly worried about my life. Scar's hands were clenched tightly on the steering wheel. I tore my gaze off his perfectly sculptured face and faced front, watching the road get eaten up.

"I'm thinking about it."

"Scar, be serious."

"I am."

My mouth dropped open. "Let me out of the car!" I yelped. Scar merely chuckled at my panic and sped up the car even more. His driving, I so nicely found out, was the equivalent to that of a race car driver's. I was completely convinced that I wouldn't get home alive tonight.

"Too late." Scar muttered. He leaned back in the seat, looking completely at ease. When he drove, there was not a trace of emotion on his face. I had to force myself not to stare at him. He just looked so perfect. He drove with one hand on the steering wheel. My eyes sinfully swiped over the tattoo sleeve he had on his right arm.

"How's your stab wound?" I asked worriedly.

"Stab wound?" he questioned innocently. "You mean my body pocket?"

I couldn't come up with a reply for that.

We drove in silence for a while. His black Mercedes was dirty, to say the least. Trash littered the backseat floor, numerous candy wrappers scattered around carelessly. I could have also sworn I saw a dead bird back there too. The air smelled faintly of a delicate cologne and mint. It suited Scar perfectly. Tough on the outside, a complete mess on the inside.