“I can get it,” I lie. “I just need one more day. Just a day, please!”

I’m bawling my eyes out, scared to death, and he looks like he’s enjoying the show. His beady eyes run the length of my body.

“We don’t give extensions,” he deadpans. “Unless you want to work it off some other way?”

His tongue runs across his thin bottom lip, and he moves forward, curling his fist around the cotton of my loose pink t-shirt, pulling me toward him.

Dread descends on me like a bucket of ice water. “Don’t fucking touch me!” I roar, pulling back hard and swatting his hands away.

I don’t have time to move as his fist flies into my gut with the force of a freight train. “You don’t learn, do you?”

I drop to the floor like a stone in a pond, heavy and fast. I’ve barely landed as he curls my hair around his fist, and I’m pulled back up. The burning in my scalp is unbearable and offsets the searing agony taking residence in my abdomen.

“Stupid little bi—”

I’m dropped back to the ground, hard. The sound of his voice has been replaced by the sound of dull, weighty thwacks. There are grunts and growls before the sound morphs into wet, sickening thumps.

I scurry across my living room floor, using the arm of the sofa to pull myself up. I turn toward the sounds emanating from the corner of the room.

Callum’s on top of Carter, raining down punches in a furious deluge and I watch in horror as he transforms into a foreboding force, delivering blow after devastating blow to the bloody mush that lies beneath him. I can hear the nauseating squelch as each strike connects and sends splatters of blood everywhere.

“STOP!”

My body heaves forward as I run toward Callum, grabbing his arm. “You’ll kill him! Stop, please stop!”

Crazed eyes crash into mine as he takes a ragged breath and straightens his stance, stepping over the bloody pile of flesh and bone spread out on my rug.

“Get your stuff together,” he barks. “You’re not staying here.”

I don’t answer; I don’t even move. I’m planted to the spot in fear.

“Now, Tweet!”

I twist and run for the bedroom on autopilot. I grab a duffle bag and begin throwing piles of clothes into it. I rush to the bathroom and sweep the contents of my shelf into the bag along with my clothes, and then tear back into the living room, zipping the bag as I go. I crash into Callum as he grabs my shoulders and slows my erratic tirade through my tiny apartment. Tears are streaming down my face, and my lungs are heaving, panic wrapped around my chest like ice, squeezing uncomfortably. I’m terrified and shaken and freaking the hell out.

“Tweet, breathe. Damn it, Robyn—look at me! Breathe.”

I focus on his words, dragging a long breath in and completely falling apart. Cal’s eyes are onyx globes; his pupils are so dilated they’ve swallowed all the color around them. He’s panting, breathing hard through his nose and flaring his nostrils. His whole face is covered in speckles of blood.

It’s frightening.

As if reading my mind his expression softens and his posture relaxes, opening up and un-tensing. The hard, grim line of his mouth smoothes into a sad smile.

“You okay, Tweet?”

I want to answer, tell him no, but I can’t make anything come out as I open my mouth. I’m shaking my head wildly, and he sighs, cussing under his breath as he pulls me into the safety of his embrace. Warm, strong arms envelope me, stifling the trembling that’s taken over my body.

“You’re okay, I’ve got you.” He speaks into the top of my head where his chin rests, and I cry harder into his chest. I can feel the gentle pressure of his hand as it slides through my hair, resting at my nape while his other rubs large circles across my back.

Groans begin to arise from the corner; the calm of the moment dissolves as the reality of the events of two minutes ago flood the room in nauseating deluges of whines and moans.

“Let’s go,” Callum says, pulling me quickly across the room and out of the apartment. I don’t argue. I cling to his arm like a life preserver and let him lead me through the hall and down the dark stairwell. We burst through the doors and out onto the sidewalk in a rushed, disorientated flurry. No words are exchanged as he takes my bag and fixes it to the back of the bike. He fastens the helmet under my chin and mounts the motorcycle. I climb behind him, circling his waist and plastering my chest to his back as I grip his thighs with my own. I squeeze my eyes tight as the bike propels forward at breakneck speed, the breeze freezing the watery remnants of this evening’s misadventure on my cheeks. I look back quickly at my building getting smaller and smaller until it disappears completely. We weave through traffic, overtaking everything in our path and leaving the asshole and my problems behind.

Even if it’s only for tonight.

I’VE BEEN GIVEN the brush-off before; this isn’t the first time. No, that particular honor goes to Ewelina Rutyna. She was a foreign exchange student I met in high school. I remember her walking into class on the first day of the school year, all long tan limbs, dark wavy hair and a European accent. She was Polish, if I remember correctly. Her voice was so sultry she made everything that poured from her lips sound insanely sexual to my sixteen-year-old ears. There was something mysterious and exotic about her, and damn did she know it.

By lunchtime, I’d decided I was in love. Her new girl status, and the fact that she had the body of a Playboy model only increased my lust. There were plenty of beautiful girls in my year group, but that was just it—they all looked like girls. They dressed in tight preppy sweaters and little plaid skirts. Ewelina looked like a woman. She rocked ripped jeans, spiked heels and a tank top so tight it looked like it was painted on. Even my teachers had a hard time looking at her face and not her chest. I’d always been popular so I didn’t have a problem finding a girl when I wanted one, and hell did I want her. By the end of the day, I’d fed her enough lines and stroked her ego sufficiently for her to agree to go out with me.

We spent a week of intense groping in the halls and racking up an inordinate amount of PDA’s to declare us the hottest couple in school. But it was short-lived. While my desire for her was building, I’d inadvertently lost some of my cockiness and appeal. She didn’t want a meek and bashful, bumbling idiot who was blinded by her sensuality. She wanted the arrogant, confident, self-assured guy that I’d presented to her the first day we’d spoken. I’d grabbed my lunch and saved her a seat at my table the fateful day she’d blown me out. Luke Atkins, the varsity quarterback, had been standing with her in line, way too close for my comfort. She walked over to my table and announced that we were done. I got the whole It’s not you it’s me speech in broken English, with half of the school there to bear witness. It turned out Luke Atkins was her next conquest. I felt sorry for him; he had no clue what he was getting himself in to.

Ewelina didn’t break my heart; we were only sixteen, and I’d fall in and out of lust at the drop of a hat. But she put a bolder-sized dent in my pride. One that hurt enough for me to make sure I was the one handing out the brush-offs in the future. I’ve issued so many that I can see the signs from a mile away when one is about to be delivered. I’ve always gotten in first to save face. My ability to read people is what makes me a good lawyer. I thought I was pretty hot at it, but complacency is a bitch. Just when you think you have something nailed, things become unstuck. I thought I’d read Robyn’s signals correctly. I thought our date ran as smoothly as it possibly could have. And I thought she liked me more than you would expect to like a friend. I’d assumed it was only her insecurities over her very recent ex-boyfriend holding her back.