Page 18 of Callan

He almost breaks into a smile.

He baited me, and obviously, I bit.

I swat his bare chest.

“Fuck you,” I say and push up for the third time.

This time, he lets me go, but his hand cuffs my ankle tighter than a house arrest ankle bracelet.

“About your boyfriend,” he says, not impressed with my huffing and puffing or crossing my arms over my chest.

“There is no boyfriend.”

“That much I know,” he says, his focus shifting to my phone as he taps the screen with hopes of getting a look inside.

“Unlock this for me,” he says in a domineering voice.

His eyes flick up.

“Unlock it,” he says without smiling.

“Why would I do that?”

“To avoid my filing a suit against you and getting a judge's order to confiscate it and erase my pictures from your damn phone.”

He’s not joking.

Is that even possible?

He notices I’m teetering on the edge, so he tilts his chin down slightly.

He means business.

And who the fuck is he?

I take a better look at him.

Despite the shaggy Santa pants, black boots, and now crooked belt, he could easily fill a suit, a uniform, even a motorcycle club member vest.

Although, he doesn’t seem the type. He could be an athlete, but a gang member? Probably not. Despite the tattoos and naughty eyes.

As much as I move my gaze over him looking for clues, I have a hard time believing the man has a criminal streak in him. But never say never. I’ve seen plenty of documentaries about serial criminals who looked clean cut like an accountant. Or a financial advisor. Or a teacher.

They don’t have a type.

But this man…

Is he more than some random guy having fun with a woman? Is he a man of influence?

A good actor?

I have a hard time reading him now.

He’s in his thirties and very good at climbing balconies and fucking dick worshiping women.

He could be anyone.

This is New York, after all.

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