He steps into my personal bubble. The shift in the clouds has the moon illuminating his face. Shadows dance along his sharp cheekbones, emphasizing his rough edges and plump lips. His strong jaw covered in stubble ticks, and his dark eyes narrow at my face. They have a wild look to them, scanning me in the same way. Thick, dark hair brushes the tops of his shoulders, shifting from the gust of wind.
Damn, the stranger has a rugged look I need to stop and appreciate for a second. I itch to reach out and touch his short beard, but I refrain.
“Are you done gawking?” He scowls.
His snappiness shocks me, pulling me out of my inappropriate thoughts. Great. Lusting after an unhinged man who wants to call the police on you. We have stooped to new levels of low, Chloe.
“No. Yes. Kind of?” I squeak out.
His jaw clenches. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t press the button right now and have them dispose of you.”
Holy shit. Dispose of me? The unfairly beautiful man holds the phone to his ear as he steps closer. Everything about him screams intimidation, from his height to the snarl in his voice.
My brain kicks into fight-or-flight mode. Flight is what I’m comfortable with. Flight is all I’ve known. Flight is what’s going to save me from being sent back to Brooke in tiny, cut-up pieces.
“Because…” I dart to the left, but he catches me in his strong arms. Very strong based on the way they tense as I try to escape him. And oh do I try. I thrash. I kick. I knock my head back, only to be met with air as he evades the hit. I even pinch his arms with everything my small fingers can muster, hoping he lets go. He doesn’t even flinch. It’s as if he’s made of stone to match his personality.
Chloe. Think. You’re one move away from ending up on the evening news.
He turns me into his chest and locks my arms behind my back. “Oh no, you don’t. I’m sick of people like you trying to get a story.”
“A story?! What are you even talking about?!” My scream turns into a rasp as his arms tighten around me.
Is it stupid to hope that Matteo hears a woman yelling bloody murder and saves me from the clutches of a maniac? This man is absolutely paranoid. It’s the only explanation for his erratic behavior and his insistence on me being someone I’m most definitely not. I don’t know what kind of ghostbusters come creeping onto his property, but I’m not one of them.
His body stiffens as I attempt to wiggle out of his grasp. Something that shouldn’t be hard pokes into my stomach, and I go full-blown survival mode.
Hell. Fucking. No. I kick the stranger in the leg, hoping to incapacitate him. Another scream erupts from my mouth as my toes smashes against something that felt like the human equivalent of a cement wall. “What the hell! You’ve got to be kidding me. What are you even made of? A fucking rock?!” My big toe throbs to the crazy beat of my heart.
He grunts, but his grip remains tight. “More like who the fuck are you and what drugs are you on?”
“Me on drugs? You’re the one who is on the worst trip of your life, asshole.” Instead of allowing any tears to fall because of the pain in my foot, I let instinct take over. I knee the fucker in the balls with all the strength my body can manage.
He lets go with a string of curse words as he keels over.
No use checking out the damage. I run toward the direction of the main road, not bothering to look back at the psychopath who tried to call the cops on me and got a boner from the entire situation. I’ve watched a decent amount of horror movies. The girls who look back always get murdered first.
I don’t stop running until I’m at the entrance of my hotel. Sweat clings to my clothes as I take in large gulps of air. Leaning against the wall, I sift through my backpack for my phone. Brooke is probably freaking out after everything.
My search comes up empty. Like a cold shower, realization dawns on me.
Shit. Motherfucking shit. I forgot my phone by the tree after I fell.
I thought my experience with psychopaths ended once I left America. New country, same craziness. Except instead of running away from legal issues, I’m heading straight toward them.
But hey, breaking and entering is only considered a crime if I get caught.
5
Santiago
If it weren’t for the ringing cell phone on my nightstand, I would’ve considered last night the weirdest dream I’ve had in a long time. A dream starring a dark-haired trespasser who kneed me hard enough in the balls to leave a lasting impression a day later.
I’ve had a handful of people break in since I moved here a few years ago. Reporters and heartless paparazzi can’t resist sneaking in to get a peek at my reclusive life. They’re like sharks in bloody water, desperate for a taste.