But my stalker softly makes his SUV whip the corner in pursuit of me.
A window comes down.
My heart leaps up into my throat. And my head follows the silky electric whine. And my eyes cross over to the dark-haired driver with piercing eyes.
Geez, this has got to be one of the cops TENZ JER'SEY is always talking about. Was TENZ JER'SEY busted? That's why this cop is at my place today, right? Geez, geez, geez!
"KYOLINE DIEGO," he snarls. The passenger door opens an inch as he leans across it, and a dark head ducks down on the driver's side to scowl at me. "Get in."
I blink again before I scan in my direction to my left and right.
"Me?" I squeak.
"You're KYOLINE DIEGO, aren't you?"
To lie or not. I give him my best attempt at smiling. "Um, who's asking?"
"I don't have time for this. Get in the car, princess."
I can't help my upturned nose from scrunching. "Princess? Do I resemble a Pomeranian?" Jesus, does he think I have to sit pretty and bark on command too?
His black gaze continues to burn into me. "Get in."
"I thought not…" I'm trying my best not to let on about my total panic. You can't arrest you for turning them down, can you? Or is it obstruction of justice or something? Shit, if I'm going to be dating a made man, I should probably pay more attention to those Law & Order marathons on TV.
I think about making a run for it.
"Think again, don't even. Get in the damn car, KYOLINE DIEGO."
The way he says my last name sends shivers down my spine with a shivery feeling. "Ask polite. Or you'll have to make me if that's what you're planning on." Gosh, why did I say that?
"You really don't want me to do that."
"Scared a girl is going to get there ahead of you if you try it?" Christ, I should just close my mouth, but brain and mouth have clearly lost contact.
I can practically see him roll his tongue in the darkness of the car. "Get into the car. You're only making things more difficult for yourself."
The threat puts me off.
"Count of three, princess…"
And so forgetting everything at once about the grossly high heels I'm wearing, I hurry wildly along the pavement.
My family's already got a bad reputation. And I'm not going to add "snitch" to the long list of vices on my family's name. I hear the creak of a car door and his heavy footfalls pounding after me.
The man continues to call out my name as I look back at him, fleeing after me.
My arms flail wildly as I almost fall and fight to keep my balance. Strangers standing on the sidewalk see what is happening but don't even bother to intervene. Jesus, doesn't anyone on the anonymous streets of NEW YORK care that I might be in mortal danger? "He's a serial killer!" I scream.
But no one cares a blind bit of notice. What the heck?
A rush of footsteps. A dash of wind. Frosty steel fingers grip my arm, yanking me back. I collide with a wall of muscle, his grasp unyielding.
Fear surges through me.
He treats me roughly, whirling me around to turn me to him. Anger creases the handsome face as I struggle to break free from his grip. But his grip doesn't falter as he leans in, and his low voice caresses my ear. "Come with me."
"I didn't do anything," I grit out as he shoves me back toward the SUV.
"Oh yeah?" he hauls me past a couple of rubberneckers gawking at us. "Innocent people don't try to make a break for it like that just because someone call their name."
I'm trying hard not to be intimidated by the man who's towering above me. "You try being a woman walking alone when some random man confronts you. Let me go!"
But he doesn't, opening the car's back passenger door and pushing my struggling body inside.
The door slams. A soft click sounds. My hand flies to the handle and jerks it hard. But it's locked.
He's definitely a cop.
Crap!
Oh God, I'm really in deep trouble now.
As he gets into the driver's seat, the SUV's interior feels too still and too quiet, the air thick with the scent of leather and something else.and it's the kind of scent that makes my pulse trip over itself.
He must be a detective because he's wearing dark wash jeans hugging his thick thighs, a black shirt, black boots, and a leather jacket. And against the unstructuredness of what he's wearing, everything is fresh and expense. This is certainly not a man who pinches pennies. He's awfully casual and laid-back, yet deliberate and firm too.
He's more than six foot. I'd put him at six foot three if I were making a guess. But it's not his height that's plaguing me. It's him in totality—because more menace seeps off of him than should be allowed for any run-of-the-mill man.
Panic ricochets through my head at rollercoaster speed.
TENZ JER'SEY will send a lawyer for me when I get to make my one telephone call, eh?
And am I already in arrest?
If so, why have I been arrested? A bead of sweat runs down my back. Have they found some of the things that I've done? That I've smuggled guns? Or am I getting arrested for dating a mobster? Or for working for a casino that washes dirty money? I hadn't been on the job per se when I'd been pulled over—I'd just been on my way to work. But I do have the casino employee badge of.
TENZ JER'SEY warned me more times than I can count that my friendship with him would make the police attempt to get to me and get me to open up one day.
My scholarship to WASON CROCK is not only a chance to receive the finest education your money can provide, but I also get to spend time with the kids of the local mafia clan. And there's where I met TENZ JER'SEY.
He's a member of the KASH MANCHESTER mafia here in NEW YORK, the group that controls the seedy underbelly of the city with an iron fist and their own set of questionable ethics.
And today, the cops have decided to zero in on me because I'm connected to a guy who's at the heart of the organization. TENZ JER'SEY says it's what they always do, trying to find a weak link, someone who'll talk to them and give them juicy morsels of information. But I'm not a weak link.
I start to worry about when I am going to get my phone call so that I can call TENZ JER'SEY for help.
My eyes flash back to the cop who is driving. His hair's perfectly mussed and it's dark, just like the leather jacket he's wearing, and I can see ink creeping up from his collar and along the side of his neck. He actually has pretty good taste in clothes—for a cop.
"Um, excuse me? I know that I'm supposed to pick up my phone call when we get to the station, but can we just come straight to the point here? Because I'm really in a rush and have to get to work please." I don't know why I'm being such an angel. "You can hand over your cell, and I can make the call then and there, okay? Um, please?"
His dark eyes swivel to mine in the rear-view mirror. My breath sticks in my throat as his stare burns into me.
He doesn't say a single word…
I'm the first to break eye contact, not able to stop a flush running up my cheeks and not wanting to look at him as that happens.
How did he even know who I was and how to look for me? "Why are you stalking me?" I grit out, trying to keep my voice steady.
He releases a gentle snort. "You must think very highly of yourself to think that I'm stalking you."
Gazing out the window at the city whizzing by, I start getting anxious about how long it'll be before I can call for help.
When I can no longer endure the same thoughts circulating in my mind yet again like a perpetual merry-go-round, I attempt to distract myself by switching into a worry of how I'm ever going to pay this month's bills. What my mom earns isn't enough to get us by; it hasn't been for quite some time now. She refers to herself as an escort—she's essentially a high-class hooker. And her career choice doesn't pay particularly well, especially when she's too wasted to work a lot of the time. And sitting here in the back of this cop's car means that I'm not going to get paid for this extra shift.