Page 25 of Was I Ever Here
“It wasn’t up for debate,” he drawls before he stalks out of the dining room and disappears into the back hallway. I’m left dazed and definitely confused, and I’m finding it hard to piece together what just happened.
But when I hear the back door open and shut, I finally blink back to life, scampering out of the booth then out into the back parking lot, quickly locking the bar behind me.
I’m glued against the passenger door, as if Byzantine has a contagious disease I’m trying not to catch.
I might just be trying to avoid how ridiculously good he smells. It’s distinct and bright, like the fresh ocean air, and somehow it tickles my senses with longing. It’s also impossible to ignore now that we’re locked in the same vehicle together. His car’s a manual, black in color and looks expensive.
That's as far as my knowledge of cars goes.
Ever so often his hand reaches down to shift gears and my body electrifies. Like a static current drumming morse code on my skin. I hate it. I love it. I can’t stand it. I need to get out of this car before I implode from whatever tension is currently building between us.
I shift my body in the seat, my thighs sticking to the leather underneath me. I’m sweating like I have something to hide. Maybe it’s just the leather. Truly, I can’t tell.
Suddenly, a realization dawns on me. “Wait, how do you know where I live?”
Byzantine gives me a side look that has his eyes sparkling with mischief but doesn’t answer.
Dread tingles my spine and I clear my throat nervously. “Have you been following me?” I ask tentatively.
“Didn’t I just tell you not to fear me?”
“Yeah well, stalking is unbecoming,” I volley back, trying to act less rattled than I currently feel.
Byzantine chuckles, the quiet sound feeling like a punch in the gut. I take a deep breath and try to ease my body language into something less terrified.
Furtively, I glance over and study him while he drives. I mean objectively,he’s breathtaking. Unfortunately, he’s also the kind of hot who kills people who deserve it—according to him.
His dark brown hair is shaved short, a scruff on his cheeks that seems intentionally there, the soft curves of his lips in strong contrast to the cut of his jaw. His skin, bronzed and golden, peeks through countless tattoos. The street lights intermittently illuminate his features and I notice a scar dipping low through his left eyebrow, traveling down to his eyelid. I swallow hard and look away. Scars shouldn’t be this attractive. Heshouldn’t be this attractive.
I rest my elbow on the car door and stare out the window. We sit in tense silence until he turns on my street and stops in front of my building. I’m about to scurry out of the car and mutter a thank you when his hand lands on my arm. I freeze, turning back to find him staring at me intently.
“Stay,” he orders, successfully paralyzing me to my seat.
He opens the car door, climbing out and heads towards the passenger side, looking like he’s aiming to open the door for me.
Jesus Christ, is this guy for real?
I have the uncontrollable urge to open my car door before he gets to it just to spite him, and also maybe in spite of my body’s reaction to himopeningsaid car door.
When he finally does, I realize he’s left me barely any room to climb out. I stretch out of the car, leaving me no choice but to stand much too close to Byzantine. The satisfied look on his face has me wanting to roll my eyes for the hundredth time, but I resist the urge.
I’m trying to act annoyed by his gesture, but the tremble in my shaky knees would beg to differ. I take a large step backwards as soon as I can, avoiding eye contact.
“Okay well, thanks for the ride. It really wasn’t necessary, though, I walk home all the time,” I grumble.
His posture shifts into something more rigid than a few seconds ago.
“You won’t be walking home any longer. Not if I have anything to do about it,” he declares.
I’m about to laugh it off but it dies in my throat when I notice the searing look he’s giving me. Okay, wow he’s serious. Anger spikes through me, now actually annoyed by his arrogance.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at Byzantine, but whatever it is, stop, ‘cause I’m not interested,” I say with a huff in my voice.
I close the car door in his stead, my heart in my throat as if I’m about to hurl right here on the sidewalk and stomp off towards my building. I can feel his eyes burning into my back but I refuse to look at him.
He can go fuck himself.
Chapter 16