Page 4 of Dick

Slightly shocked and filled with a considerable amount of curiosity, my imagination began to run wild. After a moment of gawking at the driver of the Mercedes, I closed my eyes and imagined him auctioning off the other man’s wife to the highest bidder in the dirty streets of Mexico while children sold hand-made trinkets in the background.

The horn blared as my chest pressed against the steering wheel.

Fuck.

“Sorry,” I shouted out the window.

Peering at me through the windshield of my car, his eyes narrowed to slits. “What the fuck did I tell you?”

The tone of his voice wasn’t very inviting. With a mesmerizing swagger, he began walking toward me.

Oh shit.

As the first vehicle sped away, the muscular man stepped alongside my car.

My throat tightened.

He leaned down and peered through the open window. “What the fuck with you and the fucking horn?”

I shrugged and fought to swallow the lump that worked its way up my throat.

His eyes surveyed the interior of the car and eventually met mine. “God damn, you’re a cute little bitch.”

Most who knew me described me as feisty or mouthy. No one had ever referred to me as a bitch and walked away without me giving them a piece of my mind. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, parted my dry lips, and prepared to speak.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

Intimidated, a little scared, and completely oblivious to what time it was, I broke his gaze and glanced at the clock.

3:07.

Fuck.

I inhaled a slow shallow breath. A faint hint of his cologne caused my mouth to salivate.

He stepped away from the car and tossed his head to the side. “Get out.”

“I uhhm. I’m late for…”

“Get out.”

The tone of his voice was confident, but not cocky. He wasn’t asking me; he was telling me, but for some reason I felt like it was my choice. My eyes fell to his waist. A very noticeable bulge in his jeans caused me to do two things:

Swallow heavily.

And open my car door.

Dressed in my normal work attire of Chuck’s, jean shorts, and a tee shirt, I nervously stood no more than five feet in front of him. He folded his arms in front of his chest and studied me carefully from head-to-toe. Prying my eyes from his prominently chiseled facial features was almost impossible.

Almost.

I gazed beyond him and focused on the back of his car.

His hand lightly grazed against my cheek. He pressed against my chin with his thumb, turning my head until our eyes met. “What’s your name?”

I nervously gazed back at him, trying not to seem scared. For some reason, I wasn’t, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. His finger traced along the outline of my jaw.

My legs went weak.