I had a few creeps on my Instagram over the years. Most of the time their messages were harmless. I typically avoided my DMs because it was a mess of weirdos or influencers wanting to collaborate. If this guy had been sending me messages, I didn’t see them. And it was obvious that something was wrong with this dude. I needed to get away from him. Now.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“You don’t know my name?” he asked, his tone angry.
“I’m so sorry. I’m just not feeling well,” I lied. I didn’t think such a question would make him so furious.
“It’s Bradley, Lydia. My name is Bradley, and I am your future husband. I brought you a wedding ring. I want you to wear it.”
I wondered if I screamed if anyone would come out and save me. In big cities like Chicago, everyone liked to mind their business. “Bradley. You’re scaring me.”
“I’m not scaring you!” he roared. “Just come here and let me love you.”
A limousine drove past, and I quickly waved them down, praying they would see me. What was I going to do? How was I going to survive this? Bradly grabbed my upper arm and I tried jerking out of his grip, but he was surprisingly strong for being so scrawny. “I love you, Lydia. I’ve always loved you. I just want you to love me back.”
I lifted my leg and kicked him in the shin, making him double over in pain. “Go away, you freak!” I screamed, not caring if it hurt his feelings. Bradley was delusional and I needed to get away from here. I quickly kicked off my heels and made a break to run for it, but Bradly grabbed me by the neck and pulled me close. His breath was rancid. His eyes wide and wild.
“You’re lucky I love you so much. I don’t normally let people talk to me that way.”
I whimpered. What was I going to do?
“Back off.” A low growl echoed around me. It was a demanding, protective sound. Bradley let go of me to see who was intruding and I, too, looked at my savior. Thank fuck. The limousine had stopped, and a man wearing a suit and black leather gloves stood in front of me. The shadow of night hid some of his features from me, but I saw the strong line of his jaw and the harsh angle of his sharp nose. “Are you all right?” he asked me with a slight nod, his tone gravely and clipped with an accent I couldn’t place. He nodded at me, and for a moment, terror and confusion had my response stunted in my throat.
“Please get him away from me,” I finally croaked out.
From the limo, two large men who looked well over six feet tall approached. They grabbed Bradley by the arms and dragged him toward their car.
“I’ll be with you one day, Lydia. I’ll have you!” he screamed while trying to jerk out of their hold. It felt surreal, watching him being carried away like a rag doll. One of the men got annoyed with his screeching and hit him on his temple with a closed fist. Bradley slumped over, knocked out from the hit.
It was almost humorous how easily they grabbed him—how easily they picked him up and placed him in the trunk of their car. “Thank you so much. I thought he was going to get me. I’ll call the police—”
“That won’t be necessary.”
I balked at the man just as his goons slammed the trunk shut. “What?” I asked. “What are you going to do to him?”
My mystery savior walked up, and a soft glow from an apartment above us hit his face just right. He was beautiful. His face perfectly symmetrical yet rugged all the same. A light scar was on his cheek, and his eyes were fanned with thick, dark lashes. He had eyes black as night and plush lips I wanted to run my fingers over. Something about him screamed danger.
He was like Glenfiddich Grand Cru, twenty-three-year-old luxury scotch. Elegant. Only the finest international flavors. Smooth with a sandalwood finish and slight afternote of pear sorbet. Heavy. Burned when it went down. A celebratory drink, something decadent you think about with fondness. It was the sort of drink men with money running through their veins indulged in.
“What do you want me to do with him? He was attacking you when I pulled up.”
“I want you to call the cops. It’s their job,” I scoffed. “He’s been stalking me. He said all sorts of crazy things. Said we’re going to get married and even had a motherfucking ring. I just met him, and he was following me home. I just think he needs to talk to a doctor. The guy needs mental help.”
The nameless man observed me, cocking his head to the side as he looked me up and down. Smooth. He was smooth. Calculative. “The police won’t do a damn thing. You want to help a man who might have hurt you? Raped you? Murdered you? If I take him to jail, he’ll just get right back out. Can’t punish a man for what he plans to do, only for what he’s already done. You’ll live the rest of your life wondering when he’ll come for you again. That’s how the system works. I can make the problem go away if you’d like.”
What was he suggesting? “What are you, the mafia?” I joked. “Don’t hurt him. He’s just…confused. Maybe we should take him to the hospital?”
He didn’t respond. I watched him as the horror I felt grew tenfold. I itched to reach for my phone. “Don’t worry about him. Do not call the police, or you will regret it. I’ll make sure to take him somewhere he won’t hurt anyone else. Remove it from your mind.”
“That’s easier said than done. Am I an accomplice to a crime?” My fingers twitched, aching to grab my phone and dial 911. It was like I left one monster and found another.
“You were about to be a victim of a crime. What’s your name, beautiful?”
I swallowed. “Lydia. Lydia Love.” My tone was rough.
“You live nearby, Lydia Love?” he asked.
I should have said no. I shouldn’t have told this strange man where I lived. Maybe I had a bit of a hero complex because he saved me from Bradley. “Just around the corner.”
“I’ll walk you,” he replied dangerously. “Make sure you get there safely, hmm?”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“Walk with me.”
I bent down to pick up my shoes and put them back on my feet. The strange man walked up to me and grabbed my arm, steading me as I slipped the heels back on. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“You don’t need my name,” he whispered.
Okay. This man was definitely dangerous. “And you don’t need to walk me home.”
His hand remained wrapped around my arm and he nodded at the driver of his limo. “Come. Let’s go.”
Chapter Two
“Why are you out this late?” he asked me as we turned the corner. He still hadn’t let go of my arm, and the pressure of his grip was sending a thrill throughout me I couldn’t explain. Up close, he smelled like green woods and citrus. I breathed him.
“I was working. I’m a cocktail blogger,” I explained.
“A cocktail blogger? Do you work for a publication?”
I glanced up at him, noting the intense way he studied me as we walked. “I sometimes freelance for a few journals, but mostly I review on my own site and socials. My blog is called Arsenic Lace.”
The corner of his lip twitched. “I’ll have to look you up. What made you want to do that?”