Page 2 of Vicious Sentiments

He’s close enough now that I can hear his footfalls and I involuntarily start to shake. It has to be a ruse. He’s going to grab me from behind. I can feel the pain before it even starts.

“Do you have a phone?” He’s breathy and falls in step next to me.

I jerk my head to get a quick glance, surprised he hasn’t pounced yet, but I don’t linger long enough to pick up any features.

“No.” I want to laugh, as if I could afford a phone and even if I could, who would I call?

“What? How do you not have a phone? Am I in the twilight zone?” he has a playful lilt that is most likely coating deception.

I shrug and step away from him, but he scoots closer. So close that with my head down, I can see his shoes. Shiny leather with buttery laces made of suede. The hems of his pants are pleated and crisp. I risk another look at his face.

Despite myself, I relax. I really shouldn’t. I know that bad men come in all forms, but there is something different in his face. He’s older, maybe late twenties and he has some stubble, but it’s lined to perfection. He’s clearly not from here. And his eyes, despite the darkness, aren’t beady or sinister. They are bright, sincere, and colored like a warm chestnut. They have a softness at the edges I haven’t seen before on a man.

He’s not happy though, actually the opposite. His lips are turned down, but it looks foreign on him, almost as if frowning is not something he does often. The subtle lines on his face indicate he normally sports a smile.

I must be looking at him oddly because he furrows his brows and looks down at his dress shirt, fidgeting with the shiny buttons. It’s not the type of shirt teachers wear or even the kinds of insurance men. No, this is fitted tightly over lean muscle, the sleeves rolled up, the material something softer than plain old cotton.

“Do I—” he starts, but then shakes his head and looks back up. “My car broke down.”

I give him another odd look because that seems unlikely. He doesn’t seem like the type to drive the kind of car that breaks down. Even his cologne, which is gently wafting towards me, gives off a pleasant and masculine scent. It smells expensive, mixed with the scent of a new car.

“McLaren,” he clarifies at my expression. “That’s what I get for buying foreign. Almost a million yet a Honda would have served mebetter.”

He gives a small smile, which makes me feel like I am supposed to laugh, but I don’t. He doesn’t look like a threat and foreign cars breaking down seems plausible, but I’m not going to show him my guard is down. I’ve been tricked before.

“Right,” he straightens his mouth and nods, running a hand through his hair, as if realizing his joke has fallen flat. He starts taking me in, probably wondering what kind of person I am that I didn’t laugh at his joke.

I cross my arms over my chest and take another step away from him. I don’t like being examined. I don’t know what it is about me, but when a guy starts looking, that’s when the pain comes. I have long hair because that’s what girls are supposed to have. I’ve thought about chopping it all off to thwart the men who make me uncomfortable, but have never done it. I like my hair and it’s easy to hide behind. I’m also wearing shorts, which I shouldn’t because my legs are always the first thing men touch when they get too close, but it was abnormally hot today and my dad hasn’t fixed the AC that broke three years ago. I’m wearing a loose t-shirt to hide my cleavage, but that doesn’t stop someone from realizing that the bulge from my chest is large on my frame. I’m grading myself on how tempting I might be to this stranger when I suddenly feel his hand on my arm.

I jerk quickly, though I know it’s futile. How stupid of me to think any man could resist their urges.

“Relax,” his voice takes on a hardened edge and it makes me freeze like a dumb human because even an animal would run. “Did someone do this to you?”

I hazard a glance at my arm, the one that he’s surprisingly not manhandling, but holding up lightly with his fingertips. I cringe at the sight. It’s a lot worse than it was this morning when my so-called boyfriend grabbed me, slammed me against the side of my house, andshook me till his anger petered out. You wouldn’t think a hand could do that much damage, but he was on something, gripping with all his strength and twisting until the skin burned and slightly tore.

Still, it was better than what my dad had done under my shirt.

I can’t get away from my dad and I’ve tried to shake away from my boyfriend, but at this point, I’m his girlfriend whether I like it or not. He’s made that very clear.

“How old are you?” The stranger asks, letting go of my arm. “What’s your name? Do you live nearby? Who did that?” His questions are a jumble because I’m still waiting for him to take his piece. But his eyes haven’t turned ravenous and he’s taken a step away from me, running a hand down his face and clenching his jaw.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, confused. Why is he getting angry?

“Who did that? How old are you?” He repeats.

I stutter trying to answer, but some sort of sob begins forming at the back of my throat. Angry men lash out, they cause more pain, and I don’t even know what this man is capable of.

“Seventeen,” I somehow manage, but I don’t tell him who did it, mostly because I don’t understand why he cares.

He takes a step closer and I flinch, coil in on myself, and brace for the pain. When it doesn’t come, I peek out from under my hair.

He’s shaking his head, breathing through flared nostrils. When he catches my eyes, it roots me into place and I freeze as he steps closer.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He takes a deep breath like he’s trying to calm down. But I’ve seen those fail before.

“I promise.” He leans down to level our eyes, and I realize how tall he is. He could easily overpower me. My boyfriend does it and he’s twice as small as this guy. Mr. Canes does it and he doesn’t have the muscles this stranger has.

I should step back, maybe run. I know this. I know this game like the back of my hand. No man is safe. They all cause pain and they alllie. The words don’t mean anything. He just wants to gain my trust and then rip it to shreds. He wants to leave me coated in his cologne that’s so expensive I can’t scrub it from my skin.

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