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Lexi? he messages when I don’t reply.
I spin around on my computer chair, biting my lip again. I imagine Colt’s eyes burning into his phone, his hair slicked and glistening, that protective aura draping over his big, muscled body.
“Tell him the truth,” I whisper, thinking about Ralph.
But then what? Will Colt hurt Ralph? If he does, maybe Ralph will lash out by telling everybody what I did and all the times he made me do it. Maybe he secretly recorded videos. Maybe there’s a whole treasure trove of blackmailing filth out there, just waiting to be released. Perhaps he’s going to humiliate me completely.
Or maybe that’s an excuse to justify what I do instead. I lie.
I think somebody might be following me, I type, then click send before I can think about what I’m doing.
I’m not sure why it’s easier to make something up, an imagined monster somehow less complicated to manage than the real one who is now my coworker, in a sick twist of fate.
Why do you think that?
I’m not in too deep yet. I could take this back and admit to the lie, but instead, I keep typing. I tell myself it’s not that bad. I have to tell him something after what I’ve already said. It’s not like I can now say, Oops, I made a mistake. I’m not in danger after all.
I tell him I’ve noticed a car following me. A sleek red one, sort of fancy, like how I imagine a pimp’s car might look like. I’m sure it’s nothing, but you said to text you if there was an emergency. Maybe this shouldn’t really be considered an emergency.
You did the right thing by texting me, he replies, causing a silly shimmer to dance through me, lighting up my nerves like a small, deceitful party raging in my body. With your permission, I’ll follow you for a while, Lexi, at a distance. If this car reappears, I’ll find out who it is and what they’re doing. What do you think?
I believe this has gone far enough already. I should tell him the truth. I also think that the idea of Colt following me sends tingles dancing through my body. I imagine him watching my hips sway from side to side, his gaze fixated on me, hungry.
I think that sounds like a plan, I reply, knowing this can’t last.
Sooner or later, he’ll learn the truth. I made the whole thing up or not. Maybe when the car doesn’t show up—because obviously it won’t—I can just say I overreacted. Then perhaps he’ll ask me on a date, and I’ll forget about the past and my determination to be alone. Maybe I can have what Ruby and Luca have.
Then I’ll see you soon, he replies.
Wait, don’t you need my address?
I already have your address, he tells me.
I go to my bedroom window, looking out at the street. Part of me expects to see him waiting out there, his body burning with hunger, his soul aching to be with me, touch me, relive the time we spent together. What was it, thirty minutes or less? Yet it’s had more effect than thirty days would with any other man.
Should that freak me out? I reply.
I’m going to protect you. The only people who should be scared are the ones who’d try to hurt you.
Anyway, he goes on. I gave you a ride home that night, remember, Lexi? The night you went all Viking warrior princess and decided to take justice into your own hands.
I smile, realizing his point, my smile growing wider when I read the part about me being a warrior princess. It should make me laugh because it’s so silly, but instead, this fierce sort of pride touches me. It’s like imagining him thinking what a good partner I’ll make for him, which is stupid.
What is my basis for us having a connection? Less than an hour spent together? A few intense looks? Even that so-called intensity could be based on nothing since it’s not like I’ve got a lot of experience in that area.
Good point, I reply. That night’s a blur. It’s hard to remember all the details.
Another lie. If this will ever progress into anything, I’m starting it on the worst possible terms. It’s not like I can tell him the truth. I can’t tell him that I’ve replayed the events of that night over and over and over, sometimes letting my hand stray between my legs, my thoughts clashing with hot lust as I imagine him trailing his hand up my thigh, owning me, fixing me in place with his experienced eyes.
I know what you mean, he replies, causing something to drop in my chest, but what can I expect? He strikes me as the sort of person who always helps people. It’s not as if he’ll remember me specifically or with as much burning detail as I remember him.
