The squeal of tires has me jolting upright, looking at the road as a black Escalade pulls up and we are moving towards it with haste. I begin to panic, but I am paralyzed by it. Not getting into cars with strangers is something that is drilled into us from a young age, yet here I am, glued to man who is stepping into the car like we are one person. My savior sits in the back seat, and I remain wrapped around him, my body still not able to move. Straddling his waist, with my head still buried in his neck, his hand rubs up and down my back, and it is only then I realize I am shaking.

My body trembles uncontrollably, the shock at what just happened seeping into my body, and I internally curse myself. I need to be stronger than this. I am in New York now; things like this happen in the big city, don’t they? I need to grow thicker skin.

“You’re okay. Everything is okay,” he repeats in my ear, continuing to rub my back in slow and soothing motions. His touch is somehow making me feel safe and secure, when I have a feeling that I really should be running in the other direction.

“Take some deep breaths,” he says, and I do. I don’t need to have a panic attack, that’s for sure. I try to slow my breathing as the car we’re in speeds down the street. To where, I have no idea. I have never had anyone look after me in this manner and certainly not a man. At this thought, I bolt upright and look the man in the face.

His dark hair falls across his forehead, his brown eyes piercing mine like they’re trying to decipher my thoughts. His square jaw is tightly clenched, and his dark blue top stretches across his muscles. He is without a doubt the most attractive man I have ever seen. Not that there were many boys to look at back in my small town. But he is not a boy. He is all man. The tall, dark kind, and he’s older by at least a decade, maybe more. There’s an air of power around him; he is in control.

I tentatively look around the car and notice another four men in here, including the driver, all busy talking to each other in another language. Italian, I think, but I really have no idea.

As I bring my gaze back to the man in front of me, I see what looks like red paint across my shoulder. “Oh my God,” I whisper as I touch my crop top that is now tainted with bright red blood. Am I bleeding? Have I been shot? My breath quickens, and I start to panic all over again.