The Alpha’s Desire 1(3)

 

 

 

Without looking back, I started the vehicle with enough force to cause a horrible metallic protesting noise before the engine purred to life. Every muscle in my neck tight, I focused on the alley, my way out, my way home. Hitting the gas too hard, I felt the tires spin, trying for purchase on the wet pavement. Once they caught, the car surged forward. With my shaking hands, I turned the wheel, waiting for the slam of metal against the brick wall of the building.

 

 

 

Surprised I’d missed, I came to an abrupt stop at the street. With a deep breath, I flew out into the traffic like a maniac. The honk of the horn of the angry driver behind me, that I’d cut off, only reassured me that I was no longer alone. I thought to lock the doors as I swerved back and forth, regaining control of my car, righting it in its lane. I didn’t look for the angry glare of the driver beside me as I stopped for the red light. Instead I cringed, the glass in the windows not feeling like protection enough. I tensed, waiting for something furry to come running down the street and smash through the glass.

 

 

 

My foot twitched to press on the gas as I waited for the light to turn. In no shape to drive, I couldn’t find another choice. I could have called my friend Chloe, still in the club, to come get me. But, one, I didn’t want to send her out into whatever was happening in that parking lot right now. Two, close to jumping out of my skin, I had not an ounce of patience in me to wait here and be made to feel like a sitting duck a second longer.

 

 

 

Many streets and a lot of bad driving later, I pulled into the parking lot of the apartment building I lived in. Turning off the car, I strained to look in every direction. Feeling unprotected, I couldn’t make myself unlock the door. My hand levitated above the door handle, gripping and releasing the air. I let my scream rumble in my throat at a low volume. For the first time in my life wishing I had a gun, I pulled open the glove compartment. I went for that odd tool my dad had placed in their years ago, the one that could slice your seatbelt or break your window if you drove into water.

 

 

 

Figuring the hammer-like end that could break the glass could crack a skull, or at least render a person unconscious, I gripped the object tightly. Getting out, I spun around, the hammer thing out in front of me. Satisfied to the biggest degree I could be that I was alone, I broke into a sprint to the door. It took me several tries to get my key in the door, but once in, I slammed it behind me. Racing up the steps, once I arrived at my own door, I figured I owed the owner of the building some paint to repair the numerous scratches my key had made around the locks.

 

 

 

Finally inside, I slammed my door shut and locked it. My violently trembling hand paused on the deadbolt. Letting my head fall to the door, I let my tears begin to fall.

 

 

 

“Home,” I sighed between sobs.

 

 

 

Yet, how come I still didn’t feel safe?

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

Once I’d forced myself to walk away from the door, I got into a good bottle of whiskey I’d taken from my father’s house when he’d passed away suddenly a few years ago. Having kept it for sentimental reason, all that took a backseat to the medicinal purposes that faced me now. The sting of my scratches outweighed the deep pain of muscles bruised. If only I could stop shivering, I was sure my pain would subside to some degree.

 

 

 

I prayed the burn of the whiskey would dull my senses, not just the nerve receptors but the thoughts and emotions clouding my brain. The more the hot flashes of adrenaline rushed through me, the more tears burned my eyes. My head began to throb as well, making me more aware of the stiffness building in my neck. Luckily, my head had hit my hand rather than pavement, but it still hurt to move my jaw. I hadn’t felt the scratches on my one palm as I’d gripped the wheel driving home. Now, I could barely bend my fingers over the setting scabs. I needed to get them and all the others cleaned out.

 

 

 

Sounded like so much fun. I lowered myself onto my couch in an attempt to calm the hell down. I read the label on the bottle of whiskey again and again like a well-read book. Not the first time I’d done so. When I’d lost my father, I’d done the same. No idea why. Once the violent trembling tuned down to a steady shake, I moved to the bathroom, bottle tightly gripped in my other hand. The one that had held the keys and gotten its knuckles scratched. Setting down the bottle on the sink, I turned on the shower. I wanted the warmth, but didn’t relish the idea of cleaning out my multitude tiny wounds. I looked like a girl who’d just wrecked her bike as I undressed. Scratches covered my knees and legs, given I’d been in a dress.