His eyes burn into my core. The air around him pulsates with his presence. And he is a total beast, his presence overwhelming. It is something that hits you physically. Painfully. Unexpected. I let out a breath it seems I’ve been holding. I expect him to speak. Because a man like him who looks that way, a man who commands he air, the world and all the freaking oxygen I breath, who turns up at my door at 9 o’clock at night must have something to say, right?
But he doesn't speak. Not one word. Neither do I. I just stand there. Like an idiot. Staring at him. To be fair, he’s doing the same. Hence the reason I’m having trouble staying upright, let alone forming words. Because his stare is like everything else about him: destructive, unforgiving, suffocating. In these two days, I’d convinced myself that I’d imagined it. Imagined him in my bed, under my sheets, talking to me like I was a normal human not a scarred, broken girl. The only thing I had to hold on to that told me it did indeed happen was his scent in my bed, wrapped inside the fibers of my sheets. Because here inside my ordered apartment, in my ordered lifestyle, the memories could only have been a fabrication of a crazy woman. Right? Cause I was a safe person. I thought about all things. I had a plan, and I did not let anything inside in case they stole the safe from me.
81 is a dangerous environment that I will not, well will not was pretty permanent, I cannot possibly not let in. Cause let’s face it; this man commands so much more than my will power has control over. He is savage. Strong. All alpha badass biker and crazy. He is the type of crazy that would proclaim to die for you, take a bullet for you, while promising sunsets and bike rides.
But as I stand here all I can really think is at least this time he is using the door and not the window.
Yet here I stand like an idiot trying to find reason where logic ruled, it is impossible for a man to have that effect over me. I have built up such high walls, bullet proof walls even, over the two years since I escaped the devils' lair.
And here I stand questioning all the progress I have made and my thinking. I’m now questioning that it might not be impossible for a man, well maybe just this particular man, to have an effect over me or anything living, breathing or hot blooded for that matter. I have seen the way women fall at his feet. He is a goddamn male god inside biker leathers. The way he is standing there looking at me with pure, unadulterated desire.
Me!
No man looked at me like that.
Especially not a man like 81.
I’m ugly.
Scarred.
Broken.
I’m barefoot, dressed in an oversized tee. My hair falling around me in a wave of mess and curls. I comb through it as insecurities settle in the pit of my stomach. I’m bordering on boring. I'm not the girl next door. I'm the girl who lives way down the road from her. Like blocks and blocks away on the geeky side of town where introverts live, I’m happy eating from a dietician supplied food list, wearing beige clothing, oversized glasses and snort when I laugh.
There may be one man that might pause their glance on that type of person. Another boring geek lover that lived on that side of town, not this type of man, who at this moment in time was feasting his gaze on me. 81 is still doing it. It feels like hours have passed and not mere minutes since I escaped inside my head.
My knees tremble at the way his eyes move up, down, up again. He focuses on my hair for the longest time, his hands shaking at his sides as if he’s holding himself back from touching the strands. I wrap my shaking hands through my hair, to braid it down the side of my face, making it slightly less messy, praying it looks ok. I fan the bangs down the side of my face, to hide the scar and conceal it from his vision. It’s angry and ugly still. Red with tints of purple where the bruising was trapped under the skin as it tried to heal from a night where I thought I would surely die.
I know he’s seen it. He knows it’s there, but it doesn’t change the fact that I hate it. It’s a reminder that he tried hard to take me from this world —to kill me, disfigure me in a way that no man would ever want me. But, this god-like man, standing on my front steps, is here looking like he wants me. His gaze moves down again. Stopping on my chest area, as if there was something there, he could see. I stole a glance down to see if my nipples were showing and hate that I have chosen to wear just a tee tonight instead of like, clothes. Or at least a damn bra, like fuck, Jade. Well, in my defense, I didn’t know he was coming over. Who just rocks up at nine at night? Then his eyes move farther down. All the way to my fluffy, bunny covered feet.
81 is staring at my feet with a concentrated intensity, making me feel even more self-conscious than I already am about this whole impromptu meet and greet, if you could even call it that, he had just rocked up. He still hasn’t spoken, he just stares Just then, the delivery guy arrives, his headlights lighting up the dark. I can see 81’s bike parked at the bottom of the stairs. How I hadn’t heard him pull up is beyond me.
“Visitors, little bird?” I snap my eyes to his stone-cold features.
“Um-mm-n-ooo… no, just dinner.” I cough trying to get rid of the stutter my body has magically formed.
“Hmmm, right.” Is all he say’s back as he turns and watches the delivery guy walk up the steps, the delivery guys face goes white, as his eyes bulge from his head, at the sight of 81 on my steps. Like how does he even do that. He instills fear in men and erotic sensual need in women with just his fucking presence.
His hands fold over his chest as he now stared at the shaking delivery guy. “U-u-um, Turkish kebabs for a Miss Bloom?” He looks from me to 81.
“Yes, thank you. That is me.” I go to step forward to take the food as 81 snatches it.
“I’ll take that.” His voice was clipped. “O-o-o-okay,” the poor delivery guy stuttered out as he stood there shaking looking at us both. I cross my arms over my chest as the cool air from the open door hits me, causing my nipples to pebble. I can feel the hard buds push against the soft cotton of my tee.
I know it’s 81 and all his finery, but I’m so blaming the night air right now because I don’t even want this man to see any ounce of satisfaction from his demanding presence.
“Seen as you snatched that takeout from this poor boy, are you paying?” I clip out, giving him an eye roll as his eyes snap to mine and his jaw clenches Passing me the food with a fire inside his deadly dark irises, I raise my eyebrow at him tilting my head to the side and watching the vein in his neck pulse thick and angry. I couldn’t help a smirk tickle over my lips. He is beautiful but annoyed and that to someone like me is dangerous. Yet, I can’t help get under his skin and tick him off. I will regret it when his fist meets my soft flesh. I know that will happen, then the sun will rise and bring with it tears and bruises.
My eyes broke from his and the power he holds. I watch as he pushes his hand into his jean pocket, pulls out his wallet and stuffing a fifty dollar note down the poor guys shirt.
“Now fuck off,” he barks as he pushes the kid backward. His hands reach out for the rail saving him from falling as his feet slip down a step. I gasp at his actions, fearing for the kid and annoyed that he just did that. My own safety is in question, but this kid didn’t deserve that.
“That’s unnecessary he was bringing me what I had ordered. Say sorry.”
81’s eyes snap to mine. “What?”
“You heard me. Say sorry to the kid. You’ve put the fear of god in him and he’s just doing his job.”
