Crave The Enemy

ALEKSANDER

There are worse jobs than picking someone up from the airport. Not many, but yeah, I'd rather watch paint dry than pick him up from the airport.

I can't wait to get this over with.

My job is simple, pick him up, watch him, kill him when necessary. He's disposable .

I don't know why I was assigned to do this. I also don't know why I agreed. I could have sent any other person. Could it be curiosity.

No, I can't be curious to see him fly in from Italy.

I've heard enough about him from my siblings to sketch a mental picture of him. Arrogant, reckless, a trouble maker who wears his smile like an armour and his ego like a crown.

I hate him already.

Still, there is a difference between knowing about someone and watching them step into your world.

The terminal smells like burnt coffee and impatience. I lean against the railings, sunglasses hiding my eyes even though we're indoors.

Everyone here is holding flowers, balloons, big 'welcome home' signs.

I've got none of those, just a simmering headache and his name written in my mental burn book.

I've never met him in person. And frankly, I don't want to.

I take another sip of coffee, bitter, just the way I like it.

The intercom announces his flights arrival and my gaze cuts towards the gate just as the passengers spill out. Business men, tourists, women dragging their toddlers.

And then I see him.

He walks like the floor belongs to him, like he whole damn airport does.

Black leather jacket, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses still on inside. A duffel bag slung over his shoulder, not because it's heavy but because it looks good there. His hair is messy, but the kind of messy that's too perfect to be accidental.

Tall, broad shoulders and the smirk I've heard so many tales of.

Domenico fucking Vescari.

I could kill him. Not right now but the thought dances across my mind.

When his gaze locks on me, his mouth curves into a smirk that says he already knows who I am. Perfect.

He doesn't hurry. In fact I think he walks slowly on purpose just to be irritating.

"Ah" He says when he's finally close enough. "You must be my welcoming committee"

I stare at him "Aleksander"

"Nope, I did my assignment, it's Sasha, didn't know I had to tell you your own name"

I grit my teeth. He doesn't get to call me that.

"It's Aleksander to you"

"Of course you are" he says, grinning like he just met his favorite person.

"I'm Nico, you can start being impressed now"

I turn and walk towards the exit "Get in the car"

I hear him chuckle behind me " Are you always this charming?"

I don't reply him.

"I like you already. I was told you'd be one with a scowl. Nice touch. It really brings out your eyes"

I close my eyes and take a deep breath so I don't end up murdering him here.

He's just trying to get on my last nerve.

He yaps on about the 'boring' flight and the champagne.

In the car, he throws himself on the passenger seat like it's a throne.

"You drive" he asks, eyebrow raised. "Dangerous"

"For you or for me" I start the engine.

"Both, you look like you're planning my funeral"

"Maybe I am"

His grin widens.

"Cool"

I keep my eyes on the road.

"You always talk this much?"

He leans back, smirking "Only when I want someone to like me"

"Then you're failing"

"Ah" he says tapping the dashboard like he's testing it's patience "So theirs hope"

By the time we hit the freeway, I'm already reconsidering why I agreed to this. But then again, watching Nico from my peripheral vision, leaning back, humming to himself, I figure it's better I know what I'm dealing with. And right now, I'm dealing with a man who thinks the lion's den is his playground.

The freeway hums under the tires. I'm trying to focus on the road, on the space between us, on anything but the smug shape of him sprawled in my passenger seat.

Then I hear it. At first, I think I'm imagining it. Maybe he's playing music - badly. But, does music have wet breathless sounds and moans?

Then I glance sideways.

He's watching porn. On his phone. Volume up. Like it's the most normal thing in the world to do at nine in the morning in someone else's car.

"Are you serious right now?" I grind out.

He doesn't look up. "Dead serious." He tilts the screen toward himself, lips quirking. "They're just getting to the good part, wanna pull over and watch?"

I drag my eyes back to the road, jaw tight. My palms feel hot against the steering wheel. I'm not watching, but my brain fills in the gaps anyway, skin and hands.

"You're disgusting," I mutter.

"You're blushing," he shoots back.

"I'm not."

"You are." His voice dips, just enough to hook under my ribs. "Need help with that?"

I don't have to ask what he means. My grip on the wheel tightens. Can't believe I'm getting a boner right now.

"No."

"That's not a no to the boner part," he says, grinning. "That's a no to the help part."

My scowl deepens. "I don't do guys."

"Shame." He leans back like he's settling in for the rest of the drive, still smirking. "You'd be fun."

I focus on the white lines flashing beneath the headlights, anything to stop thinking about the sounds coming from his phone.

And the fucker is not helping.

He shifts in his seat, slow and lazy, like a cat stretching. His knee brushes mine. Not enough to be an accident.

"Relax," he murmurs without looking up from the screen. "It's just background noise."

I glance at him. "In case you've forgotten, this is my car."

"That's why I turned the brightness down," he says, like he's doing me a favor.

I grit my teeth. "You're not going to make me-"

"Hard?" He finally looks at me, eyes dark behind the sunglasses. "Too late."

The flicker of heat in my stomach pisses me off more than it should. I slam my gaze back to the road. "I told you. I don't do guys."

"And I told you, shame."

He tucks his phone away, finally, but the damage is done. The silence now is worse than the moaning. I can still feel him looking at me. Not casual or curious, it's like he's measuring every reaction I have and filing it away for later.

His voice drops, low and deliberate. "You sure you don't? Or is it just that you've never?"

I breathe in slowly, counting to three. I've killed men for less than this level of provocation.

"Don't test me," I warn.

Nico smiles, slow and wicked, like that's exactly what he's doing. "I'll take that as a maybe."

I don't bother correcting him.