While They Watch

by Khloe Summers

  Ten feet out of the driveway and the Jeep stopped, my door opened, and Matteo got in. His mouth set in a hard line.

  “What’s this?” He opened his phone. On the screen, a video of us at the lake. His naked body highlighted in the dusk as he pressed against mine with a force that drove me into the sand. We awkwardly watched the video in its entirety, as I feared the response through his clenched jaw. “What the fuck is this? I trusted you.”

  Trembling, I fought words to my lips. “I got an email. It was blackmail. They said if I show—”

  “Really, so that’s what you’re going with? Extortion?” He threw his hands in the air and stepped out of the jeep, “I was dumb to trust you. You’re just like the others.”

  I followed his movements, tears streaming down my face in a river of sorrow. “No, Matteo. Please. Just listen. I thought it was Daniel.”

  He stopped and turned, shouting back, his tone balancing anger and pain. “Would that have made a difference? That you couldn’t just talk to me?”

  The dark eyes I’d found so much innocence in were downturned and grimaced. A shade of his face I hadn’t yet seen. Complete and utter disappointment. My heart was heavy as I screamed out, desperate for him to hear my side.

  “Please, just listen. I’m so sorry! This is all an awful mistake.”

  He walked towards me quickly, his hand lost in his pocket. “This video getting out is the worst disgrace my family has ever had. And I did that. Me.” He shook his arms wildly as he spoke, spitting the words in a hurricane of emotion. “You knew how important this was to me. How could you do—”

  “I didn’t! I didn’t do this—”

  “Right, just like you didn’t disarm my alarm system. I should have listened to those guys at the restaurant, stayed away from some money-grubbing whore.”

  Whore, okay. So now I’m a whore. The words rang deeply. I knew he was upset, but it didn’t seem right coming from his mouth.

  “Erik will take your phone. Don’t make it hard for him, or I’ll make your life hell,” he barked, his expression dulled and red.

  Moments later, Matteo had disappeared around the bend past the line of sugar cane. Erik searched through my bag for more electronics before taking my cell, examining it closely. I had fucked up; I deserved all this. And if it helped Matteo see I wasn’t lying, than it was worth it. Once Erik had finished with my phone, he handed it back, curling his lips inward like he was feeling bad for the situation.

  Silence and awkward glances filled the Jeep on the way to the airport. The light plumeria breeze now a sickening scent of distress and anger. A text from Lyla buzzed.

  Lyla: When are you coming back? You got another note.

  Another note. Another fucking note. Daniel’s face flashed in front of me. Suddenly, I wanted to strangle every last breath from his lungs. Thankfully, I had an eight-hour plane ride in seat 26B to plot just that.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I’d never had a restraining order before, so I wasn’t sure how they worked. Though I was pretty sure I could break it since I was the one who imposed it.

  “No more letters! How could you? How could you send that video to the media?” I screamed, looking crazy with bloodshot eyes and messy hair from the long flight.

  “What fucking videos? And there are no goddam letters; I told you that.” His face screwed up, as though I’d lost it. “It’s seven in the morning, Hannah, get the fuck off my property.”

  “It’s not your property. It’s ours!” I said, suddenly stiff with rage.

  “You couldn’t find a dime at that center; I paid for everything. I’ll sign those divorce papers when you’re a bit more realistic.” He was calmer now than the night he’d hit me, but when I looked at him, his fist was all I saw. “Where’s Prince Charming anyway? Thought he was fighting your battles for you.”

  A woman’s voice echoed from rooms away, the same we’d heard from nights before. “Who’s there?”

  He yelled back to her with a tone he’d never used with me, kindness, and compassion. “Coming Hun, it’s nobody.”

  Then, as though I actually were… no one, he closed the door, retreating inside the house of pain we’d built together, with a woman who was worth kindness. I didn’t want my relationship with Daniel back, but the reality of being no one in the street at sunrise was more than I could handle after twenty-four hours of hell.

  If there was a word beyond exhaustion, that is what I felt as I finally checked in to the damp, old motel. I had enough in my pocket for two nights and maybe a bit of food. I pulled the heavy curtains over the thin, glass windows overlooking the parking lot, and threw the chain over the door. Ignoring sounds of the maid trolley on cement in the hall, I stripped down to my black tank top and climbed into bed. Reaching over, I pulled on the gold chain that hung from the lamp, switching it off to study a line of silver that crept through the separation in the curtains.

  For hours, I studied the path of light, fading in and out of sleep. In the moments of rousing, I thought of the videos, wondering who’d sent them, wondering if Daniel was telling the truth. Then, my eyes would close, and I’d feel Matteo holding me in his arms—safe and warm before jolting awake again. This went on most of the day before I gave up on sleeping and gave in to my growling stomach.

  On the first floor, next to the ice maker, sat two vending machines — one with water and soda, the other with chips and candy. For dinner, D2, and A11. A chocolate bar and potato chips with water from the tap to save money. Sitting against the tired, metal headboard, underneath an abstract painting of a sailboat, I listened as the reporter on News 9 at six went on about the racy video that had been leaked.

  “Billionaire and good boy Matteo De Luca looks straight up naughty in this newly leaked video.”

  I felt sick and threw my bag of chips onto the end table, picking up my phone to check the messages. Five new texts. All from Lyla.

  Lyla: Have you seen the news?

  Lyla: Do you know who leaked it?

  Lyla: They’re saying his image is fucked.

  Lyla: Where are you?

  Lyla: I still have this note here.

  I couldn’t figure out why she felt it necessary to bring up the note again in the middle of my evident crisis.

  Me: Thanks. I’ll be in tomorrow.

  The pillow called my name again, and soon, I’d drifted into an uninterrupted sleep that carried me through till morning. The kind of sleep that blacks you out to time and space, rendering you dead to the world. Though, I do remember a dream. An odd snippet of a picture that stuck with me as I opened my eyes. Me, carrying a knife. The blade so sharp, it lacerated everything it touched, leaving blood and tears to fall behind. The faces of people I didn’t know screaming for help as I balanced the dagger in my hands—trying not to hurt a soul, but unsure of how to stop.

  Thankful for the light of morning, I rolled from the stiff bed and showered in the tiny enclosure with a thin bar of soap, quickly washing my hair with complimentary shampoo. Anxious to get to the shelter, I threw on the cleanest thing in my suitcase: a lilac-colored sundress and golden sandals.

  “Shit! The car! I don’t have my car,” I seethed through clenched teeth, knowing I’d have to use the money I’d planned to spend on tonight’s stay for an Uber ride up to Tahoe. An hour and $72 later, I was standing outside the gates at Matteo’s, stupidly wondering how I’d get inside for my Jeep without the code. “Damn it!” I howled, throwing the keys on the ground. I was clearly losing my mind.

  I pushed the call button, hoping someone would answer, nothing. Pacing back and forth in front of the gate, I went through my phone, looking for Matteo’s number. I would text him once, get the code, get my Jeep, and move on. Except Matteo De Luca was no longer in my contacts, and his texts had been erased. Erik must have deleted it when he was going through everything.

  Knocking over my suitcase on the side of the road, I sat on the hard exterior, burying my wet face in shaking
hands. There I sat, as though we’d never existed, as though Matteo De Luca were just a figment of my imagination. And I, some poor girl, begging for shelter from mid-morning heat. Right on cue, a text from Lyla.

  Lyla: Are you coming in? You said you were coming.

  I didn’t want to ask her for help. In fact, I’d gone through great lengths to avoid it. Though, now I was broke and out of options.

  Me: I need a ride, I’m on Yellow Bridge West.

  Lyla: Okay. Like right now?

  Me: Sure, whenever you can.

  Twenty minutes later, Lyla pulled to my rescue in the new transport van. “Hey, GPS brought me to your last known location,” she joked, rolling down the passenger side window.

  The new transport van had large cages lining the sides, with a narrow lane in the center for access. Towards the front, a small refrigerated unit meant to hold meds that needed cooling. I’d been away so long; I had no idea we’d replaced the van.

  “So, where’s Matteo?” Lyla pried, shamelessly digging in.

  “Still in Hawaii, I guess,” I snapped, annoyed by her pixie-like voice.

  Her reply rippled like a wave as she jumped to conclusions. “Hawaii? You guess? You two broke up?”

  I turned my head towards the window in apparent defiance with the world. “Yeah… looking so.”

  “That’s too bad,” she sighed, intoning fake comfort. “What happened?” She kept her eyes on the road, but I could feel her excitement in the air.

  “Why do you think?”

  “There’s more now, ya know. This morning, the press played a video of you both with some girls.” She said it proudly, excited for my punishment—as though I deserved exile.

  I gasped, immediately dizzy. Reaching for my phone, I googled Matteo Da Luca. Sure enough:

  ‘Billionaire and sole heir to the De Luca horseracing fortune has always been known a good boy, holding up his parents’ strong Christian beliefs and philanthropist attitude. However, this ‘good boy’ looks to be getting into a bit of trouble, as seen here in this racy photo. It’s still unsure whether De Luca paid the women or used his power to force them into the acts.’

  Underneath the article, a photo, blurred in spots, though still visibly him, thriving in passion with five women, whose identities were protected.

  “Pullover. I’m gonna be sick.” Acid made its way up my throat, causing a bitter taste that made me heave. I let my head hang at the side of the road for a minute before taking a few deep breaths and getting back into the van. Lyla stayed silent until we reached the shelter. Stepping out, I stretched from the van, breathing in the deep pine forest and congregation of wild animals. An oddly familiar smell I found comforting.

  Once inside, I noticed the office had been cleaned and expanded. Two desks separated by a floor to ceiling divider kept the areas semi-private. Lyla’s area covered in photos of her cats and animals she’d rescued, with a spider plant growing near the window that overlooked the forest. Piles of files and papers sat stacked on her desk, with a small pink flower that bobbled and smiled with touch. Mine, empty. Except for a single gray envelope with my name typed across the front. Sitting at my desk, I quickly tore open the note, muttering the typed letter to myself.

  “Watch as I destroy you piece by piece. Moment by moment, each drop of happiness in your life will disappear until everyone knows what a cunt you really are.”

  The words sank in slowly, forcing themselves to reality. This was all related; it had to be. But who did I know that had the resources to plant cameras for last-minute rendezvous?

  “Ly, where are you?” I called out into the lobby of the shelter—hoping to find more information about where the letters were coming from. But when I opened the door to the main office, I noticed reporters had assembled outside, all of them talking to Lyla. She turned, catching my shadow with the corner of her eye. Slack-jawed, I looked out at the circus. Lyla turned and pointed me out to the reporters. I tried to move, run even—though instead, withered in the doorway.

  Journalists barged in, taking over our space in moments, each hollering questions with clear, concise intent. They were out for blood. I wasn’t a person who was dealing with heartbreak, just as confused as they were. I was a paycheck.

  “Ms. Adams, what’s the status of your relationship with Mr. De Luca?”

  “Where is Mr. De Luca?”

  “Were you paid to participate in these sexual exploits?”

  Bubbling over with regret, stress, and exhaustion, I snapped—turning into a person, I didn’t know, responding eloquently and without pause.

  “My relationship with Mr. De Luca is mutual. The exploits were my idea. I believe that sex is a very natural thing that should be explored and respected. The fact that Mr. De Luca and I can’t enjoy that act privately says more about who shared the photos than it does us. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With my head held high, I walked away towards the back of the room. Blood rushed to my heart and then my head, sending adrenaline coursing through my veins as reporters continued to yell questions.

  “Ms. Adams, where is Mr. De Luca?”

  “How long have you been together?”

  “Do you know who released these videos?”

  “Will this affect the gala?”

  I sat in the office, listening to the commotion, shaking as I wondered if Matteo would see the interview, wondering what he would think if he did. Twenty minutes later, they left, and I heard Lyla collecting money for tipping them off. Blind rage washed over every nerve in my body, scrubbing at my skin from the inside. I waited until the reporters pulled away, then swung open the door.

  “What the hell are you doing? I get it, you’ve done a lot around here, and there’s no excuse for how detached I’ve been lately, but tipping off the media?”

  Glancing over, she hesitated, pulling her long brown hair back into a ponytail as she climbed higher up on her pedestal. “Why are you even here? Because you need somewhere to go?”

  “So, this is about all the work you do here, and how I’m just some slacker?” I questioned, glaring at her elf-like form as she gathered papers, busying herself, as though she had more important things to do than listen to me.

  She didn’t respond.

  “Sorry, you’re so fucking jealous… you make me sick,” I yelled, hoping to tip her over the edge. She stayed silent as I walked back into the office, throwing myself into the high back roller with angst. I had completely lost it.

  Moments later, I heard the front door slam, and Lyla’s car start. She’d probably recorded that conversation and was off to sell it to the media too.

  Figuring work would be a good distraction. I fed the animals dinner then went back to the office to make a note of what they’d eaten. The animal records were all at Lyla’s desk, so I made myself comfortable on her side of the office. She had a straight view of the bear enclosure and the white-capped mountain backdrop. I pulled the spiral-bound books out of the top drawer of her desk, setting them gently on top. One by one, I checked each animal off, noting the time they ate and any medication that given, then reached into the drawer to put the books away.

  However, I accidentally opened the drawer on the right — not the drawer on the left. Inside, a stack of gray envelopes. Gray envelopes that perfectly matched the ones I’d been receiving. At first, I thought she’d been nosey. Maybe she’d read the notes then put them in her own envelopes. Then, I remembered the one delivered to Matteo’s in the middle of the night.

  Suddenly, pieces fit together where they hadn’t before, and I began to see a picture, one that horrified me. Lyla had sent the notes. She had called the media. I wondered if she was also the blackmailer. I wanted to call Matteo, tell him everything I’d learned. Discuss plans, call the police, then run off to some exotic land to stay safe. Instead, I slid the drawer closed and walked towards the window, seething with anger. Though my phone buzzed, taking me out of myself for a moment.

  Unknown: Get out of there. It
’s not safe.

  It’s not safe? What? Panic filed into my blood like soldiers, obeying a command. Thanks to Lyla, everyone knew who I was, and anyone could be fucking with me.

  Me: Who is this?

  Unknown: Matteo

  Matteo’s number could have come in as unknown, though anyone could be texting posing as him.

  Unknown: Go somewhere safe. Somewhere no one else would think to go.

  Me: Ok, but how do I know it’s really you?

  Unknown: Trust. Just go now! Make sure you’re not followed. Don’t trust anyone, not even the police.

  Unknown: The birdhouse to the right. I’ll meet you there.

  Me: What?

  I waited for a moment, wondering what the birdhouse comment meant. But no answer came and considering recent events, decided to assume the worst and find a safe place to hide. Stealthily moving towards the door, unsure of who was watching, I grabbed the spare keys to the van and shot off down the long dirt entrance.

  Rain was now pouring down, pounding at the windshield as I turned right towards the paved road. Flashes of childhood played out in front of me, as images of my parents came in and out of focus. Now, I didn’t have a choice; I had to keep driving.

  Hyper aware of my surroundings, I noticed a tan SUV in the distance. Its edges blurred by torrential rain, and flashes of light. It was Lyla’s Jeep against the tree line, rolled up on its side. Every inch of my body wanted to keep driving, pissed that she’d intervened, unsure if she was the threat I was running from. But the harder the rain fell, the more I felt compelled to help. Pulling to the side of the road, I hurried to the vehicle. Lyla was still conscious, dripping blood from her head and badly bruised. A red and purple bulge already forming on her cheek.

  “I’ve been shot. You have to go,” she begged, tears streaming down her cheek.

  “Shot? No, you’ve been in an accident. You’ll be okay. Can you walk?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard through the rain.