Sinner's Grace

Mr. Sterling

"Stop checking me out and drive, Little Saint," he says, his tone dripping with arrogance.

"I can't drive a total stranger," I snap, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "I don't even know who you are. Why can't you just call an Uber and get out of my car?"

"Snow White, please drive."

Little Saint? Snow White? Who does this guy think he is? What, did he escape from Disneyland?

It's clear he's trouble—his tattoos, that cocky attitude, and the way he oozes confidence without even trying. Sure, he's attractive, but that doesn't change the fact that he could be dangerous. What if he has a weapon? I'm in control of the wheel, but he's still a man. He could overpower me easily.

Why don't I just call the cops? But then again, what am I supposed to say? Help, officer. There's a ridiculously hot stranger in my car, and he's being an arrogant jerk. Yeah, that'll go well.

I glance at him briefly, only to find him smirking at me like he knows exactly how uncomfortable he's making me.

What an ass. I hate his smirk.

I gulp, too loudly, and fix my eyes back on the road. I can't let him see how nervous I am.

Get it together, Ivy. Stop overthinking and just drive.

I take a deep breath and start the engine. "Where am I supposed to take you?"

He doesn't reply. He just keeps watching me, his intense gray eyes studying me like I'm some kind of puzzle.

I look away and start driving.

"What are you doing?" he asks after a long stretch of silence.

"What am I doing?"

"I'm asking," he says, his tone casual, like this is a normal conversation between friends.

"I'm driving, Mr. Stranger," I sigh, my voice edged with frustration.

Why am I being so compliant? Why can't I just pull over and kick him out? Why am I letting this arrogant, overly attractive man control the situation?

"Pull over," he says suddenly, his voice calm but commanding.

"What?"

"Little Saint, can you please pull over?"

"Why would I do that? I thought—" Before I can finish, he leans over and steps on the brake pedal, bringing the car to a jarring stop.

My breath catches in my throat. My heart races as I grip the wheel tightly.

"Why did you do that?!" I yell, glaring at him.

"Let's swap seats," he says nonchalantly, his gray eyes locked on mine. "I'm driving this time."

"I can't let you drive my car."

He unfastens his seatbelt and leans back, waiting. "I'm not asking, Little Saint." He glances around the interior, smirking. "This isn't even a car. It's a box."

"Don't insult my car," I snap, narrowing my eyes at him. "It's not like you have one, or you wouldn't be stuck in mine!"

His smirk widens, and he raises an eyebrow as if daring me to argue further.

Before I can react, he reaches across and lifts me out of my seat like I weigh nothing.

"What are you doing?!" I exclaim, squirming in his grip.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he slides into the driver's seat, maneuvering beneath me with infuriating ease. My hip brushes against his thigh, and I freeze, my face instantly heating.

Oh, Jesus.

I let my hair fall over my face, hoping he doesn't notice how flustered I am.

Calm down, Ivy. Get a grip before you embarrass yourself even more.

Once I regain some composure, I turn to him, my voice sharp. "What's the meaning of this?"

He doesn't reply. Instead, he starts the car and speeds off before I can even fasten my seatbelt. The sudden motion slams my head against the window.

I glare at him, my anger boiling. "We're going too fast!"

"That's how you drive a f*****g car," he scoffs, his hands gripping the wheel with effortless confidence.

I bristle at the sound of the word, feeling instantly unholy. How am I supposed to make heaven with him in my car?

"Don't curse in my car," I snap. "I don't like it."

He chuckles, sparing me a glance. "You're seriously f*****g with me, Little Saint."

"You just did it again!" I shoot back. "Stop cursing in my car. And stop calling me Little Saint—I'm not Little Saint!"

"Alright, Snow White," he says with a sly grin, his attention back on the road.

I open my mouth to retort, but I shut it again. There's no winning with him. He's too smug, too sure of himself.

"You're weird," I mutter, crossing my arms. "It's obvious you just got out of rehab."

He doesn't reply, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitching as if he's holding back a smile.

I watch him handle the wheel, his movements smooth and deliberate, like he's been driving my car for years. There's a strange mix of annoyance and fascination building in my chest.

Who is this man? And why does he feel so dangerously familiar?

"So, what's a naive Christian doing on this side of town?" he asks, his gaze sharp as he stares at me, still wearing that arrogant smirk.

"I'm not a naive Christian, and what I'm doing on this side of town is none of your business," I snap, gripping the edge of my seat.

"You're naive. This kind of gives it away." He points to the rosary hanging on the rearview mirror.

"Don't mock my faith," I warn, narrowing my eyes.

"Why would I do that?" he says, his voice laced with humor.

Is he mocking me?

"You called me naive," I fire back.

"It's the truth," he says casually. "This isn't 2003. Now I think I'm living backward." He scoffs, then mutters, "I feel like traveling to Mars," his accent suddenly slipping into a perfect British tone. For a moment, I wonder if he's from the UK.

"What's with the accent?" I ask, trying to mask my curiosity.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replies in a flawless American accent, smirking.

"You know, I feel like I'm going to burn in hell for giving you a ride," I mutter.

"You sure will," he says, stopping the car at a red light.

I groan, staring out the window. "God, why did I decide to give him a ride again?" I murmur under my breath.

I feel his eyes on me, and it's hard to ignore the weight of his gaze. My skin prickles, but I refuse to look at him. After a moment, he turns his attention back to the road.

"You're too pretty to be this naive," he says, his voice softer now.

I should feel insulted, but all I can focus on is the fact that he called me pretty. My cheeks flush, and my heart beats a little too fast. I bite back a small smile, looking out the window. For a moment, I feel a tiny flicker of relief. For the first time in forever, I'm not thinking about the mess my life has become.

"Do you have a destination? It's getting late, and I need to be home," I say.

He smirks, glancing at me. "Your mommy going to scold you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I snap. "You're just borrowing my car. Why don't you mind your business?"

He chuckles but doesn't respond. I roll my eyes, looking back out the window.

I don't even recognize this area. The streets look unfamiliar, and I don't know where we are.

"Where are we going?" I say, my voice laced with frustration.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before looking back at the road.

Thankfully, he pulls into a diner parking lot and stops the car. I breathe a sigh of relief, eager to reclaim control of my vehicle.

But instead of handing me the keys, he pulls them from the ignition and steps out.

"Stranger, what are you doing?" I call after him.

"I won't stay long," he says over his shoulder. "You can stay here if you want."

"I need my keys back, okay?" I yell, but he doesn't bother to respond.

Cursing under my breath, I follow him inside, furious with myself for letting this arrogant stranger control the situation.

The diner is mostly empty, with only a handful of customers scattered around. Behind the counter, a man who looks to be in his early thirties stiffens the moment he sees my passenger. The man starts to back away, his face pale with fear.

"Please..." the man stammers.

"Where the f**k is my s**t?" the stranger growls, his voice a sharp contrast to the cocky tone he's used with me.

"I—" The man stutters, trembling visibly.

"I what?" The stranger's voice rises. "Did you f*****g get the package or not? Where the f**k is my s**t?"

I flinch at the sound of his voice, the aggression slicing through the room.

The man tries to stammer out a reply, but before he can finish, my passenger slams his head against the counter.

The sound is sickening. I jump at the impact, my hands trembling.

This isn't the man who smirked at me in the car. This is someone else entirely—someone dangerous, someone violent.

The customers around us don't even react. They avert their eyes, pretending not to notice.

Are they scared of him?

The man behind the counter shakily pulls out a bundle of cash and hands it to him. "I'm sorry, man," he says, his voice trembling.

"Of course you are," the stranger sneers. "Next time, don't make me come here myself."

"Yes, Mr. Sterling." The man's voice barely rises above a whisper.

Sterling? Is that his name?

He turns to me then, his smirk back in place. "You ready to get out of here, Little Saint?"

My heart hammers in my chest as he grabs my arm, his grip firm but not painful. I obediently follow him out of the diner, my thoughts racing.

What have I gotten myself into?

I climb into the passenger seat, fastening my seatbelt without a word. The goal now is simple: stay alive. If letting him use my car keeps me safe, so be it.

As we drive, the silence becomes unbearable. I reach for the radio, hoping to ease the tension. A pastor's voice fills the car, preaching passionately.

Mr. Sterling scoffs and flips the station until loud hip-hop blares from the speakers. I want to protest, to remind him this is my car, but the memory of his violent outburst silences me.

"This is still my car," I mutter under my breath.

He rolls his eyes, nodding along to the music.

"Why did you do that?" I finally ask. "You hurt that man."

He doesn't respond.

I sigh and turn my gaze to the city lights outside the window. His focus is on the road, one hand casually steering the wheel while the other rests on the window sill as he constantly messes with his hair.

Why are bad men always dangerously hot? Men like Mr. Sterling are exactly the kind I vowed to stay far away from—arrogant, confident, and effortlessly attractive. And yet, here he is, sitting in my car, acting like he owns it.

"You just moved to New York, right?" he asks, breaking the silence.

I'm too dumbstruck by how attractive he is to answer right away. The sides of his head are shaved, with brown hair on top styled like he rolled out of bed looking perfect.

He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"What?" I snap, pulling myself together.

"It's rude to stare," he teases, his smirk growing wider. "And stop checking me out like you wanna eat me."

"What makes you think I was checking you out?" I challenge, raising my eyebrows and leaning against the window to look at him properly.

"I was checking you out too," he replies smoothly. "Nice sweater."

What an asshole.

I bite the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to throw something at him. My hands instinctively move to my cheeks, which are burning hot. I don't need a mirror to know they're probably a deep shade of red—this man has made me blush way too many times in one day.

The car finally comes to a stop, and the stranger gets out without a word. This time, he doesn't even bother pulling the key out of the ignition.

I watch as he strides toward a row of parked cars. Expensive ones. I've always loved cars, and it's easy to tell these aren't the kind of vehicles normal people drive. Bentleys, a BMW, and a Rolls-Royce. Yep, these scream money.

Men dressed in all black stand near the cars, their stances rigid and professional.

Mr. Stranger heads straight for a black Bentley, and one of the men opens the backseat door for him. Seriously? No "thank you" for the ride—or for almost killing me?

I get out of the car, slamming the door shut, and storm after him.

"Seriously?" I call out, annoyed.

He stops, turning to face me with that signature smirk plastered on his stupidly handsome face. "Are you okay?" he asks, his tone dripping with fake concern.

"Is that your 'thank you'?" I retort, glaring at him.

The men in black watch our banter, amusement flickering across their otherwise stoic faces. I feel a sudden urge to hide my car—or better yet, myself. My poor car looks like a tin can next to these luxury beasts.

The stranger chuckles, his smirk deepening. "See you around, Little Saint," he says smoothly.

I watch as he slips into the backseat of the Bentley, and the man holding the door shuts it behind him. A moment later, the sleek cars roar to life and speed off into the distance.

I stand there, staring after them, a mix of annoyance and confusion swirling in my chest.

What type of man is that?

I exhale sharply, shaking my head.

I hope I never see him again.