Even growing up in Georgia as I had, I'd still been hours from the ocean. It'd been a fucking crime, I realize. Or it should've been. To be so close and yet so far from such a beautiful sight. Patricia had never owned a car. Her job had been walking distance and what few nights she worked the pole at the Tiny Dancer combined with her welfare check had gotten us by. There'd never been a need for one. I find myself wishing, though, that there'd at least been one time we'd gone to the ocean. I hate that I've wasted so many years without seeing it. A yearning starts up in my chest; the desire to fling myself off the back of Dean's motorcycle and into the wicked waters below and sink as deep as possible, letting it swallow me whole.
The image is disrupted when Dean turns the handlebars of the bike and a copse of trees obscures my vision as we ride even higher. My hands sink into the fabric of his shirt as I try to quell the need to go back. To see it again. It's kind of amusing when I think about it; the fact that I'd only ever been a few hours away and yet it took moving up north to ever get the chance to see it.
Dean turns the bike even more inward until we're winding up a two lane path. Every few yards the line of trees opens up, revealing how steep the cliff along our side is getting. I don't mind, not when I can still catch glimpses of the sea and smell the cold salt on the air. The motorcycle decelerates as we come to a slow stop and Dean turns us both into a small alcove, driving about half a mile more before slowing to a complete stop and steering us to the side of the path.
When the bike is parked, I pull myself away from his back and remove the helmet—ignoring the shiver that finally courses through me when the cold air slaps me in the face. I drop the helmet to the ground and start to untangle the strands of my hair, yanking out my ponytail and braiding it back instead as I should’ve done before. The engine cuts off, and I stiffen as Dean gets off the bike. His stare is like needles against my skin as he removes his glasses and turns to lean against the seat. It’s heated. It’s piercing. It’s fucking annoying is what it is.
We're all alone. Just Dean Carter and me. Electricity hovers in the air, charged with my irritation and his … cryptic behavior. What the hell is he thinking? I wonder as I finish braiding my hair and straighten my spine to turn and meet his gaze.
"Well," I start, gesturing for him to get on with it, "did you bring me out here to kill me or what?"
He arches a brow and I scowl because I don't know if he's just doing it because of my words or because he's being obstinate. Probably both. "If I wanted you dead," he says, crossing his arms over his massive chest, "you would be. I wouldn't need to bring you out here to do it, either."
I mirror his stance, my arms moving over my own chest. His eyes drop down once as if he can't help it before lifting back to my face. "Then why did you bring me out here?" I demand.
Instead of answering, he merely smirks at me and says, "There are worse things I can do to you than murder."
My muscles tighten, pulling taut beneath my skin. I hate that expression on his face. It makes me want to punch him again. "You've already threatened to rape me once," I deadpan. "You haven't done it yet.”
His eyes pull away from mine and he turns his head, gazing past the trees to yet another opening where the trees are thinner—their roots anchored into the side of the cliff as it overlooks the ocean. "Does it scare you?" he asks quietly.
"Rape?" I clarify, but before he answers I shake my head. "No."
Both of his brows shoot up this time as he looks back at me. "No?" I shake my head, keeping my expression even. My leg begins to tap against the soft dirt ground and his lips spread into a smile. "Little liar," he accuses softly. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything. It doesn't work.
"You don't know anything about me that hasn't come from a fucking file," I snap. "So don't sit there and pretend. You threatening to rape me doesn’t scare me. You won’t do it.”
Dean’s in my face in a split second, his hand on my throat, and his eyes centimeters from mine as he leans down and presses against my windpipe. “Are you challenging me, Avalon?”
He loosens his hold long enough for me to speak. “No,” I say, “just stating facts.”
“Facts.” He spits the word. “Is that what you call it?”
I can feel the indentation of his fingertips alongside my neck. Warm and calloused. Not like a man who’s spent his entire life in luxury, even though that’s who he is … isn’t it? I take a step forward, despite the hand on my throat, and when he doesn’t move, I stomp on his foot. Dean doesn’t even blink, but his hand does loosen a smidgen more, though he keeps his fingers against my skin as if he’s trying to prove to me that he can.
“Just get on with whatever you're going to do and then take me back to the dorm. It's late, I'm tired, and I've got class tomorrow."
Silence stretches between us for a moment, and then he drops his hand away. "You're right," he finally admits. I narrow my eyes on him.
"What do you mean?"
Even as he invades my space and my lungs fill with the scent of him—something dark and sinister, like a forbidden spice—I can’t help but watch him as one might a predator. When he stands in front of me as he does, towering over me like a monster ready to eat his prey, I just want to challenge him. Because I’m not like normal prey. I don't just roll over and take it. I bite back.
Instead of threatening me again, as I expect, his hands skid down my sides until they oh so carefully find my hips. His eyes flicker to mine and lock right before he pulls me against his body. Hot tingles of awareness pass through me. I can’t move even if I want to. The press of him and the creeping awareness of danger has my blood pumping faster.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me? I think. I want to step away from him, but my body fights me. It loves his nearness, the heat he throws off like a goddamn furnace. And the sense of brutality that might be coming at me at any second.
"W-what am I right about?" I shove the words out, unwilling to let him think that I'm not letting him touch me of my own free will.
One corner of his lips stays up as his fingers hook into the waistband of my pants and pauses. "Everything I know about you came from a file," he answers. "And that's going to change."
I lean back, looking up into his face with suspicion. He looks like a fallen angel with those dark eyes and equally dark hair against a tanned face. The stubble growing across the lower half of his face throws shadows in the most dangerous of places, so that when he looks at me, all that's highlighted is the upper bridge of his nose and his cheekbones. There's no light other than that of the beam of the motorcycle's headlight—something I assume he left on—and the moon. It makes me realize just how far removed from civilization we are.
He claimed he didn't, but if he'd wanted to kill me, he could easily get away with it. Just toss my body over the edge of the cliff and be done with it. No muss. No fuss. I shake away those thoughts and glare up at him.
"What are you talking about?"
"I've made a decision," he says. "I know all about the bargain you and Abel struck, but it seems keeping an eye on you from a distance isn't enough. You and I are about to become very close, Avalon." When Dean emphasizes the word 'very,' he pulls me into him until I can feel the full rigid length of his cock in his pants.