HITTING THE WALL
739 Words
I stare at the plastic seal to verify his claim, and I realize he actually thought ahead to make sure I felt safe taking something from him.
I cautiously take one step forward and reach out to grab the bottle, keeping my eyes locked on his face the entire time just in case he moves.
As soon as my fingers touch the cold plastic, I scramble right back to the wall and hold the water against my chest like a shield.
He notices my frantic movement and sighs, running a large hand through his dark hair as he steps away from the desk to give me more space.
"You can sit down on the couch if you want to take a load off those heels," he offers, nodding toward a tufted leather sofa on the other side of the room.
"I prefer to stand right here," I tell him, trying to twist the cap off the bottle with hands that are shaking so badly I can barely grip the plastic.
"Suit yourself," he mutters, walking over to the far side of the office so there is a massive amount of empty floor between us.
He leans his broad shoulders against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest, giving me the room I need to breathe.
We just stand there in the dim light for a few minutes while I finally manage to open the water and take a long sip to soothe my dry, burning throat.
I look at the dark ink covering his arms and the fresh cuts forming on his knuckles, wondering why a man who looks so violent is treating me with so much careful patience.
"Are the police..." I start to ask, but I lose my words and have to clear my throat before trying again. "Are the cops going to arrest you for what you did out there?"
"They might ask some questions, but my security cameras caught that nomad grabbing you first," he explains calmly, not sounding worried about the police at all. "My men will show the footage to the uniforms, and they will see I was just handling a threat in my own establishment."
"You own this place?" I ask, taking another sip of water while I look around the expensive office with its heavy bookshelves and dark rugs.
"I do," he confirms, tilting his head a fraction to study my face. "Which means I am responsible for everyone who walks through those front doors, including you."
I let out a bitter, humorless laugh because the idea of a man actually taking responsibility for my safety feels like a cruel joke today.
"You do not owe me anything," I say, gripping the plastic bottle so hard the sides start to dent under my fingers. "Nobody asked you to jump off a balcony and start a brawl on my behalf."
"I did not need an invitation," he replies, his amber eyes narrowing slightly as he watches my defensive posture. "I saw a guy put his hands on a woman who did not want him there, so I dealt with it before he could hurt you."
"Well, you dealt with it, so now you can open that door and let me call a cab to get out of here," I tell him, tipping my chin up to show him I am not going to be held hostage in this office.
"You are free to leave whenever you want," he says, gesturing toward the heavy wooden door with an open palm. "I did not lock the deadbolt when we walked in."
I glance at the brass knob and realize he is telling the truth, which confuses me even more because I am so used to being trapped and controlled by the men in my life.
"Then why did you bring me back here?" I demand, my voice rising a little bit as the frustration and the exhaustion bubble up inside me. "If you do not want money and you are not trying to trap me, what do you actually want from me?"
He does not get angry at my raised voice or try to tell me to calm down like Mark always did when I got upset.
"I brought you back here because you are shaking so hard you can barely stand up, and the main floor is currently full of cops and angry bikers," he answers, keeping his tone perfectly level.
- Writer
