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“Oh shit, Zara,” he curses long and hard, his fist slams into the wheel, and the horn blares. “This is all my fucking fault,” he huffs dramatically, “wait, you said for starters, what else?” His eyes are wide, looking all over me and back to the road.
“Secondly, he's following us.” I scratch my nose, my eyes slipping to the wing mirror where the matte black tank purrs along behind us.
“What? Shit!” He swerves before dragging the car back under control. He checks the mirror, sweat forming on his brow. He is terrified of Callan.
I lay a hand over his knuckle-white one.
“Calm down, just drive to Firehouse, and if he comes in, I'll deal with it,” I tell him softly.
“Oh yeah, sure, let’s deal with the most psychotic fucker in London,” he scoffs. “I’m going to need a barrel of Mojitos after this,” he declares, checking his mirror far more than before. By the time we get inside, get seated and have ordered, Oscar is a nervous wreck. Unlike Oscar, I can't help but feel a flush of heat at knowing Callan is a windowpane away. He doesn't come in, but his car sits outside. Is he watching me again?
“What did he want?” Oscar grumbles, pushing his food around his plate. I eye him critically. Is he for real?
“He has women. Why can't he have them?” he mutters, rubbing his forehead. Oscar’s words penetrate my mind like knives. Of course he has women, I know that, but hearing it makes me feel things I don’t wish to acknowledge. I tilt my head and stare at the car, wondering what is going through Callan’s head.
“You’re not jealous, are you?” I laugh, popping a bite into my mouth. The flavours burst on my tongue, and I moan in appreciation. I look at Oscar, who is scowling at me. It has always just been the two of us. Is he worried I will replace him? I convey as much in my look.
“Very funny, and no, I’m worried for you. Why didn't you stay in the car?” He sighs. His frown is heavy, and his eyes sad. I’m not sure I can sit here much longer watching my friend squirm.
“I didn’t, okay.” I can’t go back and change that, and I’m not even sure that I would now. Guilt fills me. Oscar’s still pretty banged up. What the hell is wrong with me? “How long have you been swinging by there for? When did you get an invite?” I ask, my eyes skim to the window, but I refuse to keep them there.
“I didn't. Like I said, my cousin works for him. I dropped some stuff off,” he mutters, growing impatient with my constant need to pick for information. Oscar angles himself away from the window.
“What kind of stuff?”So he does know what was in the package.
“Stuff you don’t need to know about, stop digging, Zara.” His fingers grip around his cutlery, and I huff back in my seat. “I don't really want to be discussing it with Killer Callan over the road.”
I sit straight in my chair and gawp at my friend.
“Killer Callan?”
“It was a joke. The bloke is scary, and I don't fancy another Callan-induced concussion, okay, so can we discuss something else?” My gaze juts to the car a few feet away, and without hesitation, I stand and walk to the entrance and out onto the path. I ignore Oscar gaping at me through the window and walk to the car, knocking on the tinted glass. It slowly lowers but stops as soon as a pair of sunglasses comes into view. Stalin, I’m guessing. I never did meet him at the hospital, even though clothes and shoes appeared for me. He gives a subtle nod towards the back as I hear the door unlock.
I swing the back door open and get in, finding Callan sitting lounging in the back, a partition glass hiding us from the driver.
"You're following me?” I say, closing the door with a loud thud.
“You’re astute.” For a moment, I worry that the car will pull off, taking me with them, but it doesn’t.
“Why?" I ask. He laughs and motions for me to get closer. I’m as close as can be. The back seats are roomy, but other than climbing on his lap, we're pretty close. I sidle closer, but it isn’t good enough. Callan takes my wrist and encourages me over the central barrier. I’m panting already. My eyes flash to his satisfied ones. I’m tugged until I’m kneeling over his lap. He takes my hands and holds them in place behind my back with one of his own much larger hands. The position forces my breasts forward, and with a smirking tilt of his head, he lowers his mouth to my exposed collarbone. His lips don't touch, but I can feel his breath and the heat of his close proximity. Holy shit, I came here to give him a piece of my mind, how quick the tables have turned. I’m practically hyperventilating in his lap. I squirm.
“Tell me, Zara,” his mouth moves up, bringing his lips to my ear, “how many hours did you spend thinking about me fucking you last night?” My eyes slam shut.
I moan, my thighs stiffen, and it causes me to rub against him. He grunts, and butterflies swirl and burst in my stomach. I’ve never felt anything like this heat. My neck is tilted, and my eyes are closed.
“Kiss me,” I plead. His mouth looks incredible.
“I don't do personal.”Henudges my ear. “Can you handle that? I only look at a woman once. If I take you, and I will, I'll take you once. You won’t see or hear from me again,” he tells me bluntly.
Only looks at a woman once like he looked at me last night? He is prolonging the inevitable. Knowing he has shared that same intimate interaction with other women and not just me rattles my cage more than I care to admit. I was stupid to think I’d shaken the sensible out of this man—not that he even has a speck of sensibility in him. No, Callan Scott is a ticking bomb. I believe he can perfect the most calculated of actions, only to shock others by stunning them with his unpredictability. He’s an enigma.
“Can you handle that, Zara?” My eyes search his. It’s the perfect proposition. I smile slowly and drop my head back as his mouth trails a breath width from my skin. We orbit around each other until he is at my other ear. I feel electric.
“I wouldn't have it any other way,” I reply with as much conviction as him. He drops my hands and clasps my arse, lifting me from his stationary position to deposit me in the other back seat. I blink, shocked by his sudden change.
“Stalin will collect you when I want you,” he tells me. As soon as the words are delivered, my back stiffens, and my jaw sets. What a prick.
He just lost me. I don’t mess with men, period. I don’t date or fool around despite what the media writes about me, and they would be shocked to find I’m painfully inexperienced. I was willing to curb those rules for a little fun with this guy. Respectful fun. I was even going to play along and be all pliant and willing. His gaze is on his phone, and his abrupt dismissal makes me dislike him. Arrogant twat.
