He muttered a quick, “Thank fuck,” when the officer approached my window.

That followed with an, “Oh shit,” when the other officer appeared.

As the cops searched my car, Rat Bastard stared at me straight in the face and said, “I don’t know what kind of shit you’re into, Cassidy, but not cool.” His attention slid to the officer. “Those aren’t my drugs. Can I call a friend to pick me up?”

The officer, who’d been cool with him the entire time while eyeing me skeptically, said, “Of course, man.”

Then … they did the man hug.

Yes, my drug-dealing boyfriend did a bro hug with a cop.

A cop who then instructed me to turn around before slapping handcuffs on my wrists.

I cursed at Quinton.

Screamed.

Called him countless names.

But he didn’t budge.

I sat in the back of the cop car, careful not to touch anything. The stench of rotten eggs and french fries along with the sound of AC/DC tortured me during the ride.

Quinton’s betrayal shocked me.

My trust in people was a reality check.

Never to be repaired.

Not only did Quinton ruin my future, but he also ruined my insight on life.

On people.

Quinton called after Kyle bailed me out.

Over and over again.

Threatening me with a creative variety of things he’d do if I even muttered his name to authorities—slit my throat with barbed wire, cut my mother’s uterus out, catch my house on fire.

You know, all normal things a man you dated should say.

I might’ve been ignorant enough to fall for the wrong guy—the bad boy—but I refuse to be stupid enough to cross him. I’ll stay in line and keep my mouth shut until he leaves me the hell alone.

It’s been a week since he graced me with a text. That changed ten minutes ago when he messaged me with a selfie of him sitting in my living room, blindsiding and scaring the shit out of me. Dude was even holding my favorite teddy bear. He’s not supposed to know where I live, where to stalk me.

It’s fall, but I’m sweating when I step out of my car. Dread accompanies each step I take toward my apartment. With shaking hands, I shove the key into the lock, only to realize it’s unlocked.

Did he pick the lock?

Kill my landlord to get one himself?

I inhale a deep breath, terrified of what I’m about to walk into. Quinton is waiting for me on the couch. His arms are sprawled out along the back, and a Rolex dangles from one wrist as if he were a king awaiting his peasants.

Or prey, in my case.

I slam the door shut and toss my bag onto the floor. “Breaking and entering is against the law. Keep committing crimes, and I’ll eventually turn your ass in.”