He pushes off the door. “I hate your shitty attitude sometimes, Zain. You’re a prick,” he says. Flipping me the bird, he reaches for the duct tape I left beside the bag. He picks it up and inspects it.
“Hmm, interesting choice for a weekend pre-Christmas dinner,” he taunts, twirling it around two fingers. “What the hell are you about to do, Zain?” he asks, treading lightly. He knows I plan and cover my tracks well. Always. Doesn’t stop him from asking questions. He definitely doesn’t wanna know the answers. I glower. “Worry about your own shit,” I parrot his same line from the other day. I zip a box of matches into the side pocket and rip the tape from his grasp.
He grinds his teeth as he zeros in on the matches. He stiffens before regaining composure.
“Your choices with this chick can directly affect a lot of shit, man. I can’t dust everything under the rug. Some shit I can’t fucking fix, Zain,” he emphasizes, inching towards me.
His voice grows louder by the minute.
I grind my teeth violently and throw the bag over my shoulder. Truth is, he covers for meifI lose my cool. I calculate and plan accordingly, but my temper reigns over certain situations. Usually, small shit if Mortensen comes sniffing around, nothing of this magnitude. This is unavoidable though. Gotta do this.
I slam the duffel bag down on the floor with a hard thump. “I make my fuckin’ bed, I’ll lie in it!” I shout. My body tremors with unspent rage. My veins bulge. Gotta let him know he won’t be implicated if shit goes south. It won’t though; I have it all figured out.
His face remains stoic, but no less pissed at my reaction and choices. I’m the one who doesn’t fuck up. He is the reckless one. Constantly refusing to think more than one step ahead. That’s his flaw. Too damn impulsive.
“Have it your way, man. I tried.” He shakes his head, then slams the door closed behind him.
Ipull around the front of her dorm in my 1960 black Lincoln Continental. The sharp, frosty air ices up my side mirrors. Don’t use it hardly ever, but the interior smells of cigarettes and leather from minimal use. It mostly just sits in the garage and collects dust.
As instructed, she waits with her little rolling suitcase outside her dorm on the stone bench in the bleak shadows. The soft glow of the streetlamp illuminates her heart-shaped face. She’s dressed to kill in a deep red plunge dress with simple matching lipstick. She clutches her black sweater like it’s her lifeline.She sure as fuck followed directions. My cock is already craving her.
I take a measured breath before I exit the vehicle. Gonna take every ounce of self-control to not fuck her in that dress. Could fuck her against the hood. Can’t be a coincidence she wore a blood red gown. I smirk.
Mine.
I slam the door shut and stalk towards her with a mask of indifference. Inside, I’m dying to paint the rest of her in crimson—the crimson from my veins and hers.
I chuckle internally.You’re so fucked, Zain.
“Let’s go,” I say coldly.
She blinks a few times before getting to her feet. Her black heels click against the stony walkway. “You look stunning,” she breathes, raking over my inky black button-down and slacks, all the way down to my oxfords. Gotta play the part. I even slicked back my dark tendrils. Doesn’t help much. They still fall loosely over my face, untamed.
“Likewise, songbird.”Her eyes then flick over to the Lincoln parked on the obsidian cobblestone drive. The moonlight illuminates the sleek black paint. “Whoa. It’s gorgeous. I didn’t know you had a car,” she gasps.
I raise a brow and slip my hands in the pockets of my suit. “Because I live in a shithole?” I say in an unreadable tone.
She blanches and stumbles over her words. “No, I didn’t— I just—” Her heels scrape along the walkway as she backpedals.
I fight back a smirk. “Get in the car, Vesper.”
I load her luggage into the back seat and hold the door open for good measure. Gotta play the gentleman card.
I slam the door once she’s seated, sealing her fate. I waltz around and jump in the driver’s seat. Wish I could figure out what goes on in the furthest reaches of her mind. Is she nervous?
Her hands fold neatly in her lap. Her scent fills my fuckin’ car. My fingers have a death grip on the leather steering wheel.
“Are you nervous?” she mutters, sensing my discomfort.
I smirk. Nervous? No.
Driven to madness?Yes.
She has no clue I’m on the verge of cutting that perfect skin, dying to live out my depraved ideations.
I inhale and keep my composure. “No,” I say flatly.Emotionless. Void. Impassive.I struggle to hide my volatile interior.
She pouts her cherry lips, and I feel my hands shake. Between the urge to fuck her and knowing she’ll be a crying crumpled mess later has me hesitating. Don’t know why. My demons are simmering on the surface. This next step is gonna test my resolve, the deepest depths of my core.
