Chapter 2 Black

I briefly close my eyes as my vision starts to blur from the lack of oxygen.

My perpetrator roughly grabs my ass cheek, but I try to quiet my mind and not let panic overwhelm me. As unnoticeably as possible, I open my handbag to get the pepper spray I don't go anywhere without. My aunt's voice echoes through my mind as my fingers close over my chosen weapon. I'm a Simpson woman, and a Simpson woman never goes anywhere unprepared.

The idiot is moaning so loud in my ear while gyrating his hips against me that he doesn't even notice what I'm doing. Before I can lift my arm and spray the motherfucker, he is being yanked away from me, and I inhale a lungful of air when his sweaty body is no longer up against mine.

A choked scream echoes through the quiet side street when a man dressed in all black, wearing a black helmet, has my offender in a headlock.

I've never been so grateful.

"That's my girlfriend! We were making out!" The druggie tries to wriggle out of the hold of the man dressed in black, but it seems as if he has him in an iron grip.

"He's lying!" I breathe out. "He was hurting me, thank you so much! I'm calling the cops!"

My breathing seems to stutter now that I'm safe, my heart hammering against my ribcage as I think of what could have happened if the good Samaritan hadn't come to help me. I could've been raped. He could've killed me!

I frantically get my phone out of my bag and unlock it with trembling fingers. This asshole clearly doesn't know who I am or what my family is capable of. He chose to fuck with the wrong girl tonight.

I'm still trying to calm the trembling in my fingers to type in the emergency number when the sound of choking fills the quiet night.

The druggie is clutching his throat where blood frantically spills out, his bloodshot eyes wide with terror as he looks at me as if I can help him.

My heart literally skips a beat as I look from him to the man dressed in black, a blade I didn't see before in his hand, dripping in blood.

He doesn't say a word, and even though I can't see his face or eyes, I know that he's looking at me. I can feel the warmth on my face from the faceless stranger.

As if restarted by a defibrillator, my heart starts galloping again, blood whooshing to my ears, and I fear I might pass out as the druggie drops to the ground on his knees, the blood spraying on my very expensive designer boots.

Then, as if straight from the scene of a movie, my offender keels over with his hands still on his throat, and like a sacrificial lamb, he dies at my feet.

What in the flying fuck just happened?

"Who are you?" My voice comes out small and scared.

Who is this man?

He's tall, and even though he's wearing a leather jacket concealing his torso, there's no mistaking the muscled exterior, the black fabric of his jeans encasing sculpted legs.

He doesn't answer. He just stands there still as a statue with the knife still in his hand, dripping blood.

As if I woke up from a dream, I do what I should've done when I thought I heard footsteps behind me. I run as fast as my heels can carry me the rest of the way to my car.

I get the hell away from there before I end up on the asphalt with a gaping throat.

What the hell happened? What the fuck happened back there!

Is the man in black sent to harm me? Abduct me for ransom? I come from a very wealthy family, and I have a target on my back, yet I stupidly ask for independence from my family. I should've taken my uncle up on the offer when he repeatedly told me I needed a bodyguard.

Yet the man in black didn't follow me to my car.

If he was going to take me, he would've followed me, right? I'm athletic and fit, but that guy looks as lithe as a panther, he's probably ten times faster than me.

So why the hell am I not speeding away? Why am I just sitting here gripping the steering wheel and looking at him where he's still standing in front of the dead guy, his head turned my way.

I've gone certifiably mad. I should be locked away in an asylum, because I make no move when his dark form slowly walks up to my car.

By the time he reaches the driver's side, I've stopped breathing again.

My car automatically locks, but he doesn't try to open the door. He just stands there like the Dark Knight, seemingly looking at me.

Then he lays his hand on the window.

My eyes land on his large hand in a black leather glove. It's big, and I wonder what it looks like without the leather.

Will the palms have calluses like a man who works hard? Or will it be smooth? Like Benedict's, who hasn't done any hard labor a single day of his life?

This is the hand that just killed somebody.

When he doesn't move any further, I do the most absurd thing I've ever done in my entire life.

I mimic his hand with mine, as if I can feel his flesh through the glass.

Then he nods his head and s

teps away, standing at a distance watching me.

I start the car and pull away, leaving the man in black standing in the middle of the road.