Page 4 of The Wallflower

How the hell do I get out of here?I won't turn my back on that look in his eyes. Like I’m the prey, and he’s the hunter.

I move to step back, and he narrows those dark, intense eyes of his. Shaking his head, he says, "Not so fast, little flower. I released your nerd. Now I want to talk to you for a second."

"Umm...I don't have anything to say to you. As I said, I have to get back to..."

What, exactly? The stack of textbooks I contemplated selling to pay for my sick mother to finally go to the doctor? To the chattering girls in the next cubicle talking about some silly little frat hunt thing where they plan to find a hot jock to fuck them in the woods. Yeah, super-a-lot to get back to.

"You're studying, I remember," he finishes for me.

I stand there, feeling awkward as fuck, my stomach in my throat, and I really don't know why. He's not going to hurt me. He can't, not here. I can't help but remind myself that he was perfectly fine hurting the other guy here, out in the open. What’s to stop him from doing the same to me? With his size, I imagine not very many people pit themselves against him.

He tilts his head slightly and shoves his hands into his pockets. It’s an attempt to be disarming, but it only makes me more nervous.

"What's your name?"

My eyes go everywhere but his face, scanning the area for an exit. If I sprint backward, then I'd be in the main room. He wouldn't push me there,right?

As if suspecting my next move, his arm snaps out, and his hand wraps around my wrist like a vise. "Not so fast, wallflower. I want to talk to you. Give me your name."

It's not a question this time but a demand.

One I don't appreciate. "No, thank you. You don't need to know my name, and you don’t need to put your hands on me either. Now, let me go."

Shifting closer, I catch the smell of mint and something masculine, teakwood maybe. He’s only a few inches away now, and I swallow against his intoxicating scent, breathing through my mouth.Who does he think he is?Better yet, why didn’t I just mind my own business?

Cautiously, I flit my gaze to his and wait. He wants my name, but I won't tell him, so we are at an impasse. It feels like a standoff.

His lip curls again and then blooms into a full-on smile, and suddenly, I see why people stare at him.Shit. Something tells me he doesn't use that smile often, only when he thinks it will get him whatever he wants.

"Your name," he whispers, his voice soft and raspy.

"What’s the magic word?" I prompt.

He scoffs. “I’m not asking you for anything. You’d better give me what I want.”

“Ispleasenot a word in your vocabulary?”

Now his eyes narrow, and his grip on my wrist tightens. It's his turn to meet my eyes and stay silent. He wants my name, but he's not going to be civil about it.Figures.

I tug on his hold, trying to free myself, which only encourages him to tighten his grip until I stop struggling again. A heat unfurls in my chest, and it takes a minute to realize for the first time in a long time that I'm fucking pissed.

Fighting with my mom all the time about money, about the doctor, all of it has killed something inside me. Has made me squish and bury all my emotions so every twitch doesn’t make me say something else that hurts my mother, makes her look at me like I’ve disappointed her just because I can’t watch her die.

How dare he treat me this way? He doesn't even know me? Heat surges through me in a new way, awakening things that have long slept.

I tug at my wrist hard this time, breaking his hold, and clutch my hand to my chest. I resist the urge to rub at the tender flesh there. "Just leave me alone."

"Your name, little wallflower, and I'll leave you alone. It really isn’t hard."

"I'm not yours, I'm not a little flower, or wallflower, or whatever the hell it is you’re calling me.”

"Then tell me your name, and I'll use that instead."

His pensive eyes continue their perusal of my body before dragging those dark eyes back up to my face, trailing a blaze of ice-cold annoyance over my skin. "Tell me..."

I keep waiting for a damnplease, but he doesn't give it to me. Manners clearly aren't something he was taught. Either that, or he doesn’t have to use them often.

"I'm going to walk back to my cubicle, and you can go kick balls, eat dirt, or whatever the hell it is you do when you’re not terrorizing people."

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