Don’t Get Mad, Get Even

The door I was resting my feet against was suddenly pulled open. I shivered when his cold hands touched my ankles. Thinking he was about to drag me out of the car, I kicked out. My spiked heel struck his chest. He let out a muffled groan. But he didn’t haul me out. Instead, he shifted my legs aside and climbed into the backseat with me. He closed the door. I scooted to the other edge of the seat, keeping as much distance between us as possible. The interior of the car was too dark for me to see his face. There were no streetlamps outside, either. His eyes were hidden under the cap. I reached for the dome light. He shot out a hand and grasped my wrist, then he yanked me into his arms. I caught a strong whiff of nicotine mixed with his cologne, something bitter, slightly metallic and oddly medicinal. Maison Francis Kurkdjian’s OUD, probably. ‘Get off me!’ My arms were pinned between my body and his. I shouted, then called him names. His grip on me relaxed. But as soon as I pulled away, h