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Chapter 9: Lilah
The roar of the lawnmower outside my window rips me out of another wonderfully filthy dream.
"NO! No-no-no-no-no! Why?!" I yell as I fling the covers off.
I'm going to kill him. I am going to kill Ben Clark with my bare hands. I can see it now: his stupidly handsome face realizing that he just fucked with the wrong girl. In my revenge fantasy, I elegantly spring from my bed, ready to take on my jackass neighbor. But reality sucks and my feet tangle in the top sheet and I fall out of bed with all the grace of a drunk panda, smacking my face on the end table as I go down.
"Ow! Ow-fucking-ow!"
That's just great. Add a head injury on top of the exhaustion. It's bad enough that my Jeep wouldn't start after work last night. Nothing is quite as fun as discovering a dead battery at 3 am. Now I get to deal with this jackass, a throbbing headache, and finding someone to jumpstart my car all before I even start my workday. Awesome.
I get to my feet, a little wobbly but mostly okay. I even manage to make it to my front door without hurting myself again. Propelled mostly by rage, I stomp across my own overgrown lawn, hugging myself. It's warmed up a bit now that the sun is out, but I still should have grabbed a robe or at least put on a bra.
"Why is he like this?" I mutter to myself before yelling, "You asshole! You said you wouldn't do this again!"
The big ape can't hear me. His mower is running at a million decibels, and his big, stupid, muscled back is turned. I studiously ignore the way those back muscles ripple as he pushes his evil machine through the grass. That sweat dripping down his thick arms? Not distracting at all. I won't even acknowledge how those low-slung athletic shorts cling to his glorious ass and thighs. Nope. None of it.
I make it to the edge of my property and huff, standing barefoot with my hands on my hips. Ben is just turning his mower back when he sees me. His eyes widen and he kills the engine just as I yell his name at the top of my lungs again.
His face brightens and his mouth pulls up at one corner in the beginnings of a smirk. He's sporting a short beard along his jaw, well, something between a 5 o'clock shadow and a beard. Whatever you call it, it's sexy as hell. He has a white t-shirt tossed over one shoulder and he straightens his black-framed glasses as he walks towards me. I die a little. Why does he have to look so good and be so damn annoying?
"Hey Lilah. What can I..." he trails off as he looks at my face and his dimples disappear. "Jesus, what happened there?" Ben reaches out to touch my forehead and I ignore the little thrill that runs up my spine.
"YOU happened!" I snap back. "You and that stupid lawn- Ow!" His fingers graze the bump where my head connected with my end table and they come away with blood. I've been running on anger and adrenaline since I was so rudely awoken, but the sight of the blood on his fingers—my blood—and the concern on Ben's face is enough to tamp down my rage. My hand flies up to my head and I touch the enormous lump with dawning horror.
"Lilah, are you ok? Do you have a first aid kit?" Ben asks me gently. His eyebrows are drawn together in worry, and his ever-present cocky smirk is replaced with concern.
"I think I have some Bandaids," I reply shakily. I honestly couldn't be sure if I even have those, but even if I do, there's no way in hell I'm letting Ben into my house right now. I know for a fact that I have at least six bras and a dozen panties hanging on a drying rack in my living room. Note to self: buy a house with a decent laundry room next time.
"How do you not have a first aid kit?" Ben asks me, his voice teasing.
"I just moved in, jackass," I reply sarcastically. He's still smiling at me like it's adorable that I swore at him.
"Well, come on," he says as he takes my elbow and starts leading me toward his house. The independent part of me, which is like 99%, wants to pull my arm free and scold him for leading me like a child. The other 1% is loving the way his hand feels on me. He's huge and so is his hand, a little calloused, and so warm on my skin. He's not being overly rough with me, but he's not treating me like a delicate little flower either. I can't say that I hate it. I bet he's amazing in bed. A delicious little shiver runs through me at the runaway thought, and Ben gives me a concerned look.
"Are you cold?" he asks.
"No. I'm fine."
Although I'm seriously questioning my sanity right now. If true crime podcasts have taught me anything, you never hitchhike, and you never go into some guy's house when you barely know him. I can see nosy old Mr. Miller watching us while he waters his flower beds, so at least there will be a witness if I disappear.
"Um, you're not a serial killer, right? Like, you're not going to tie me up in your basement or anything?"
Ben raises an eyebrow. "Not without your consent," he replies.
I bark out a decidedly unladylike laugh.
Joke or not, the thought of him tying me to his bed and fucking me senseless has a certain appeal. Not that I'd ever admit that out loud.
"Consent not given," I tell him as he opens the front door for me.
Ben quirks an eyebrow up at me. "Fair enough. Bondage not your thing?" he asks. I can feel my face flush. I'm suddenly very aware that he's still touching my arm.
"I wouldn't know. And who says things like that?" I give him a defiant look even though I know my face is beet red.
Ben grins down at me as he leads me to his couch. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you blush. Here, sit down." He holds up a hand. "Stay."
I roll my eyes and glare at him as he chuckles and walks down the hallway toward the master bedroom. His house is the mirror image of mine; a one-story bungalow with narrow hallways, small bedrooms, and not nearly enough natural light. Through the gap in the doorway I can see a large four poster bed with rumpled covers and pillows tossed all over the place. I have to forcefully push the mental image of him sprawled across that bed out of my head.
