Page 6 of Diamond In The Rough

What? I was fifteen and rebellious, and the local biker club was running a special in a back room…

Adulthood, and the intelligence that comes with age, has taught me to do better. But back then, I could have sworn nothing would hurt me.

My lips burn dry. Annoyingly dry, so I’m tempted to reach into my purse and take out my chapstick. But slowing on the street or taking my eyes off my target would be a foolish mistake that only sixteen-year-old-me would have made.

That’s not me anymore. With all my twenty-nine years, I’ve scraped together a modicum of wisdom.

Allegedly.

“Hey, laaady!” The high-pitched catcall of a man already too drunk despite the hour has my shoulders coming up in defense. “Hey! Stay out here with me, beautiful.”

I hasten my steps, but I break eye contact with CeCe’s—an upscale club with rich, upscale clients—and instead meet the ugly, lewd ogle of a man who could be twenty… or fifty. I have no way of knowing, without asking where in that bracket his age falls. He’s unshowered. Unshaved. A day of summer has lent his skin a sheen I have no desire to get near. And when our eyes meet, his lips curl up and reveal a wonky smile that somehow makes him look even more devious.

He lifts his chin in that come-hither way some men try. “Spend time with me, beautiful lady. You don’t wanna go in there, anyway. It’s not safe.”

It’s safer than out here, I’m pretty friggin’ sure!

I move faster and drag my gaze around, desperately seeking solace in the club made of money and bright lights, but I slam into a brick wall. Or a body, maybe. In any case, I crash into a solid barrier and scream, an involuntary sound exploding from the depths of my lungs and out to bounce along the road.

Hands grab my arms, fingers encircling my biceps until I squeal a second time. My heart thunders painfully, pounding against my diaphragm until I’m certain it might simply break free. But even if I wanted to escape the hands gripping me, I can’t. They’re too tight. Too firm.

“Let me go.” I press my hands to a solid chest and attempt to push back, while all around me, people walk into the street.

Alleyway dwellers come out to watch the show. Even those who were dealing drugs or getting lucky find interest in witnessing the way my soul leaves my body.

Or at least, that’s how it feels when I bring my eyes up and stop on a dark green stare that beats all the way into the back of my skull.

I still. Completely and robotically stop, the way a wild animal who has met a larger, more dangerous predator might freeze.

“Um…” I swallow, so the ball of nerves lodged in my throat slides painfully, tangibly, along my esophagus.

My captor’s eyes are brutal. His glare, inhumane. His hair is dark, dark black, and long enough to hang forward and almost obscure his eyes. He wears thick stubble on his jaw, and possesses plump lips I think many women would swoon for.

In the daylight. When said woman wasn’t terrified of being murdered and her body disappearing, never to be found again.

His gaze flickers between mine. His lips, pressed tightly closed, and his hands, keeping a punishing grip on my arms so I’m sure that, tomorrow, his fingerprints will remain.

Unlike the other men on this infamous street, the one that holds me is neither wearing a suit, nor does he appear to be homeless. He’s in a loose tank that shows off large shoulders, one side covered in ink, and beefy… whatever the muscles above his shoulders are.

Traps?

Somehow, despite the very real chance I might die in a minute, I manage to pull my eyes from his torso and down to his hips. Surprisingly, he doesn’t wear jeans. Or sweatpants. Instead, he wears baggy basketball shorts, the fabric going down to his knees, and on his feet are a pair of sneakers.

“Have…” I gulp and drag my eyes up to find his again. They’re still mean. Still dark and dangerous. Wait… where did the catcaller go? “H-have you been exercising?”

The guy… the glaring, murderous, scary one who still holds me, frowns, tilting his head to the left.

“I mean… the sneakers. And the tank.” I try again to step back. To buy myself a little space. But his hands only tighten. His resolve, firming.

Nervous, I lick my dry lips. “Um… your hair looks a bit wet,” I explain. Foolishly. I may as well be fifteen again. “So that kinda says sweat, right? And the tank. And the shorts.” I cast a desperate glance to my right as a couple wanders by—the dude in a suit, and the woman, a dress. “You’re exercising. You’re sweaty, and mad I got in your way?”

His eyes narrow further. In anger? Impatience? “I’m not mad.”

He speaks!

My chest caves inward, the oxygen evacuating my lungs like it’s safer out than in.

“This is not a street you should walk alone, though.” He folds his neck a little, the movement a stark exclamation; he’s taller than me by a decent whack. Seven inches, eight; maybe even a whole footlong sandwich more. “Being here and not paying attention to your surroundings is probably the stupidest thing you’ve done this year.”

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