A Wolf in the City

9. A Potential Stalker.

I go into a total step as soon as my ears hear two thousand dollars as I immediately start to calculate what that money can do for me and the bills it can instantly sort out. I even wonder if I should keep up with the pretense of playing hard to get maybe he would keep on increasing the money but then, on second thought, I feel like I might be pushing my luck too far.

With someone like this psychopath, nothing is predictable. He can turn around and decide he wants nothing to do with me anymore. Even though I know that I should be running far, far away from him. I can not help but be a little bit drawn, although to be honest, this has more to do with the money.

Despite that it is almost midnight and colder than a witch’s tit, the streets of the city are teeming with people. As they walk past us, they curiously turn to watch without breaking stride. It takes a lot more than a mountain of a man, famous or not, and a woman to get their full attention. One lingers longer than necessary and I have to throw a glare.

His eyes keeps boring into mine, questioning if this was a tacit agreement to his offer–– which it basically was. After lying that this was because he is drunk and what not, which even I belive that only a toddler would believe, I pick up the car key and walk slowly to the driver side of his beautiful car. I hear a thump, thump, thump right behind me.

I am half horrified at the thought of touching him in any way, shape, or form. Surprisingly, he remains quiet, never taking his alert gaze off of me. Before I can reach for the handle, he opens the car door and slide into the backseat. I slide into the driver's seat and buckle up without looking or thanking him because part of me is bitter as all get out that I’ve lost once again.

Not my best moment, I know, but I’m tired and cold and feel like I’ve just relinquished the last bit of my self-respect. I can’t be nice right now… I just can’t. I start the car and even though I have the great urge to sneak a glance at him through the rear view mirror, I don’t dare look at him. God forbid I find him gloating, the next phone call I place will be from county jail.

The car is warm and quiet; a cozy, luxurious cocoon. And admittedly, a much better way to travel than the anything I've been in. Now that my nose has thawed, a subtle masculine scent hits me all at once and before I know it, I'm sending secretive looks at him in the mirror no matter how hard I tried not to.

He has his eyes closed as he wipes his brow with the a towel like he is sweating which he isn’t, not in this cold and when he opens his eyes, he’s staring directly at me. Even from mirror, they’re the iciest green eyes I’ve ever seen, cold and unforgiving. A strange feeling sweeps through me. As if I just stuck my finger in an electric socket. The experience is not a pleasant one.

I scowl. Then he scowls. Then he turns away. Ugh, this is not good. I’m feeling the movements in my stomach and slightly bummed at this inauspicious start.

He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t say a word. It’s like showdown at night, time suspended by silence and a palpable tension. His massive shoulders are hunched, his elbows rest on his wellworn pants, and his large hands are clasped in a single fist.

I decide not to give him more than a cursory thought. I have more pressing issues to consider. If the application gets rejected again and I don’t get another job soon or pick up more shifts, I’ll be broke once again after I pay all the bills. This feeling of hanging on the edge of a cliff by my fingernails, I realize, will become a constant unwanted companion for the foreseeable future and the urge to become an alcoholic grows stronger. Too bad I can’t handle my liquor. I usually get a migraine before even the slightest buzz takes hold. Once again, shortchanged by life.

His eyes shoot to mine, glinting with something… dangerous, while I manage to keep a totally impassive expression. “is anything the matter?" He asks, his icy glare remains trained on me. The voice is deep and smooth. It’s the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard and I don’t throw that word around casually. The kind of voice that spawned phone s*x because this guy could get someone off by simply reciting the alphabet.

"I don't think it's any of your business though, is it?" I say rudely.

"Rude much? I'm just thinking I could be of help?" He says and I can't can't but think that the psychopath read minds or something.

"It's nothing you can help with. So no, thanks." I say with a suspicious look.

"I can help with anything actually, anything at all." He pesters.

"And why will you even want to?"

"Well, just because?" He says with a shrug while I roll my eyes.

I kept shut, refusing to speak anymore words to him but he spoke again, "isn't it about that application for job at the palace?" And I am immediately dumbfounded that he even knows about it.

I mean, what the actual f**k is that?

I instantly pull up to somewhere safe as I realize that we are literally almost at wherever he lives already according to the Google map, I put the car in park and I’m ready to jump out and tug on the door handle. But it’s locked.

Tug, tug, tug. Still locked.

My eyes slide over to him. He’s tense. I would even venture to say a little nervous, though I could be mistaken. Was he planning on holding me hostage? Have I been kidnapped? Did my greed for two thousand dollars make me get kidnapped by a psychopath?

"Open the darn door!" I yell as I start to panic. How does he even control it from the backseat?

"Chill, we are yet to get to my house?" He says, calmly.

"Well, it's not exactly far anymore, I'm sure you can sort yourself... I'm not going to follow a potential stalker to his home, especially one at the outskirts of the city with little to no street lights." I say.

"Hm... okay." He simply agrees and then I hear a click as the door finally opens up while I let out the breath that I didn't even think I am holding.

As soon as my phone chimes, signifying that the money has been sent to my account, I start walking away without any other word to him.