Page 2 of Conner's Luna

"Um... I'm Bailey." Your statistical probability of surviving an encounter with a dangerous killer increases if you manage to humanize yourself to the murderer.

A chilling smile spreads across his face. "Hello, Bailey." He takes a step closer, and I flinch backward. "Nervous?" he murmurs. He's standing so close to me that my neck is sore from the severe angle.

I straighten my spine. I am not adding another bully to the roster, thanks so much. "You know, you all have serious problems around here." I push him.

He doesn't budge an inch, but I get to feel how his muscles have the quality of military-grade steel. His snicker makes my frustration climb. "Leave me alone and get off my car!" I snap.

I push my glasses up. Crap.

Conner Grim, scary-man extraordinaire, inhales deeply, closing his eyes as if he's praying for calm. I take the opportunity to take a step backward and without any hesitation, I swing my trusty Molecular Biology Today textbook at his head.

It's like felling a tree. Conner stumbles backward in shock. The reverberation rattling my arms makes my teeth clatter. At least my car door is clear. Rushing, I step around Conner and dive into my car, slamming the door behind me and locking it.

"Hey!" Conner is next to the door handle a second later, but Mom and I watched Nascar twice, so I'm an expert at driving maneuvers. Calmly, I turn over the ignition and put the car into reverse.

Conner rubs the bridge of his nose and I swear I hear a low growl. Fabulous, he is going to break my window like a grizzly.

"Don't you do it!" I shout through the window.

His hand drops from his face as he stares at me, incredulous. "You hit me," he says in clear disbelief.

"You should get some ice," I tell him primly. "To reduce swelling."

"You. Hit. Me." He repeats himself, slowly, as if talking to a moron.

I humph. I'm not the stupid one. Not that I've heard Conner Grim is stupid. He seems mentally capable, just violently insane. I narrow my eyes at him, so he knows I mean business. He brings his hand to the window and raps the glass with two knuckles. "Come talk to me, Bailey," he demands.

I pull out of the spot, ignoring him when he taps on the glass again. I hear him swear, then he's gone. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, I drive towards the exit of the parking lot. Stopping before turning left, I glance in my rearview mirror and feel my heart plummet to my stomach. Conner Grim is behind me in his pickup truck.

He's not chasing me. "That's ridiculous, Bailey. Just because you beaned him in the face with your five-pound three-point-one-ounce textbook doesn't mean he's coming after you."

I pull into the main road to leave campus with the pickup on my bumper. My hands clench the steering wheel too tightly. I try to relax with no luck. Heischasing me.

"No. Nope, he's not. You're being paranoid because of the difficult time with Trey and his minions."

My foot depresses the gas pedal. I glance into the rearview mirror again and catch Conner's eyes glaring into mine. I take the next corner a little too quickly and hit the curb. Gasping, I yank the steering wheel too hard to the left. My little Nissan spins and the rear right wheels hit the curb, instead. I feel a thud and the airbag explodes toward my face.

I scream, then choke on the white powder in the air. Coughing, I bat at the airbag ineffectively. My window smashes a second later.

"Bailey! For fuck's sake, what the hell is wrong with you?!" Conner yells at me as he unlocks the door.

I can't speak, I'm coughing too hard. I try to unbuckle, but my fingers are shaking too hard to even locate the button.

"Let me," Conner rasps. I feel a tug and the buckle releases. "Bailey, can you move? How does your neck feel?" He touches my head and briskly pats the back of my neck and shoulders. "Any pain here?"

I hear the sound of sirens in the distance. Oh, good. He can't kidnap and murder me if the police are here.

I must have spoken aloud, because he replies, "you think I'm gonna do what, now? Did you hit your head?"

"I hope not," I say faintly. "I have a double major, you know. The statistical probability of brain damage from a fender-bender is very low. Unless I have a concussion. Did I hit my head?"

I hear a chuckle, but it's from a distance. "Alright, little genius. I think you're just in shock. Let's get you away from this white shit."

"No kidnapping," I slur.

"No kidnapping," he promises.

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