Because You're Mine

by Marin Montgomery

  The night passes as I watch the crowd around me fill the bar stools and then empty out, each face being replaced by another one. Some are happy, some lackadaisical, some boisterous, some arguing over the dumb shit couples argue over—babysitters and work issues.

  I reach for my wallet, the leather sitting next to my ambitious third round at this particular juncture. As I put it back in my pocket, I realize the engagement ring is nestled in my other back pocket. I finger it through the thin fabric of my dress pants. The first thing I’m going to do when I see her again is put it back where it belongs. I clench and unclench my hand, the pricelessness of squeezing the last breath out of her ungrateful lips. The want is so bad I can taste it on my lips, and I bite down hard until I feel blood. I taste it, and it calms me, the bitterness a gentle reminder of how she’s going to pay for this.

  There’s no way I can drive the Audi home. The bartender offers an Uber, but I prefer a cab tonight. I am not in the mood for incessant chattering or questions. A buff bodybuilder type in faded blue jeans and a V-neck tee is out front when I stumble through the doors of the restaurant, thumping into the glass with a loud bang. He looks in the rearview mirror as I manage to thrust the heavy metal door open and half-crawl, half jump inside.

  He takes into account my bloodshot eyes and my disheveled appearance—my tie askew and my hair mussed from running my hands through it. There is no judgment, as caustic as it sounds, he’s used to my type—businessmen in bars, some celebrating, some deprecating right on the spot—taking them home to their families, to their mistresses, to their dealer’s house for another snort of cocaine.

  I’m not unusual and because of that, not a threat. His dark eyes focus back on the street ahead. His hands grip the steering wheel, and he commences his conversation with whoever is on the other end of the phone. I am relieved.

  At the driveway of my house, I pay him in cash and an extra twenty for his troubles. He is appreciative but stoic, a slight turn of his head the only indication he is grateful. It takes me a couple tries to get the key in the lock. It is times like these I wish I had my garage door opener with me. I enter the house, cold and uninviting, and I am reminded all over again of Levin and how she left, the broken furniture a remnant of my earlier feelings.

  The closet hadn’t fared so well. It looks like a scorned lover—empty and desolate—the way I felt now that she left. It smells like her—the Chanel perfume she wears a lingering whiff in the large walk-in closet. Her clothing, shoes, and purses are all arranged according to their color. Jeans are folded on a shelf, same with her plain t-shirts and gym attire. I grab a Missoni scarf from the rack and smell it, burying my face in the zig-zag pattern of the fabric, the loss of her strangling me just like this scarf around her neck if I used it correctly.

  I slide down to the carpeted floor wondering what Levin is doing at this very moment.

  Halfheartedly, I toss a few pairs of shoes creating chaos in her orderly space, ruining the line-up of matched pairs. I’m about to chuck another shoe, this time, a tennis one, when I feel extra weight, something tucked in the front of the shoe.

  I shake it. Levin’s phone slides back, the case, a picture of us—smiling, happy, newly engaged.

  Biting my lip, I type in her passcode. It doesn’t work. Sighing, I try it again. Still incorrect.

  Her passcode changed since yesterday. The location services were on all this time, a decoy so I would think she was home. I slam her phone down in my hand after trying a few guesses.

  Her birthday.

  Mine.

  Eric’s.

  This is a problem for George, he’ll have to break into her phone.

  My mind wanders to tonight. She should’ve been at dinner. Instead, I come home to an empty house that seems all the more vacant, the missing items taunting me in their absence.

  I toss and turn in our king bed that now feels enormous—empty—like my insides. The ones she ripped clear out.

  To think we had almost nailed down a wedding date.

  She suggested a destination wedding since Eric was gone. I wanted a big, overblown wedding with a top-notch caterer, a videographer, a live band, and an impressive venue—something to show I was serious about this. About her. Us.

  Her mind is made up, stubbornness rearing its ugly head as she’s adamant we follow her wishes. She hadn’t hired a wedding planner or taken on the responsibility. I should’ve known she was having second thoughts. I suppose I didn’t want to see it then and didn’t want to accept that something wasn’t going according to my plan.

  I was frustrated then, wanting to get the show on the road. There was a need to breathe new life into my business. People love weddings—the celebration of two becoming one, the cake, the dancing, the vows.

  The vows got me every time.

  Promise to have and to hold until death do us part.

  I would keep that vow despite the fact we’ve yet to say those words aloud. I figure they’re implied. She said ‘yes,’ didn’t she?

  My mind goes into overdrive, a mental picture of us at our wedding.

  Initially, a large but intimate wedding was the plan, at least for me. I had a lot of business associates and making them feel like one of the family was the goal. If they felt like part of my life and not just dollar signs, it would bode well for business.

  Levin had been adamant she didn’t want that. I thought I would persevere and win. I always did, especially when I used money as the main objective or pointed out that her lavish lifestyle cost lots of money.

  She never asked for the things I gave her, but that didn’t matter.

  I knew we could work through whatever problems she had. I just hoped it wasn’t about Eric.

  She would see that this was a mistake—her leaving me—I would make sure of that.

  I fall into a restless sleep, tossing and turning.

  My cell buzzes next to me on the nightstand. The digital numbers on the alarm clock say 3:00 a.m. I fumble as I reach for it. The caller ID says unknown.

  It better be Levin.

  “George.” The voice on the other end is gruff.

  I say nothing, wallowing in the sound of his heavy breathing.

  “Found her in Arizona. In a rental car. Impala,” George pauses. “She’s in a hotel tonight. A Super 8 in the South Phoenix area. Shady as fuck.”

  “A Super 8?” I’m incredulous. The idea of her in a budget motel sleeping on the comforter, so she doesn’t have to get in the bed is almost asinine.

  “Arizona,” I repeat it. Random. As far as I know, she doesn’t have ties there unless she’s fucking some Phoenician idiot. One of those men who brag about hiking and the mountain trails they can ride, all while carrying one hundred pounds of water and useless camping shit on their back.

  George hangs up, promising he’ll email me the details.

  I throw the phone down. Sleep is useless at this point.

  Arizona. That might be the ideal spot for our wedding.

  I get up tossing the covers off and stubbing my toe on the edge of the bed, but I feel nothing. I’m too distracted.

  My phone chimes twice. George’s email and my flight itinerary.

  The travel bag’s in the closet, and I throw some clothes and my toiletries in and zip it shut. I swallow some aspirin and Uber a ride to the airport.

  Precious time has already been wasted, her phone a red herring.

  I need her back with me.

  After all, she’s mine.

  Chapter Nine

  Levin

  The drive to Phoenix was virtually a straight shot down the I-10.

  Even though this area’s notoriously unbearable in the summer, it still seems like a good choice. Alec hated the desert. To him, it’s suburbia hell, an oven that never cools down, and he couldn’t imagine life without the ocean nearby. The heat strangled him, and he called Phoenix a ‘desperate wannabee California.’

  Anywhere is a better idea than sleeping next to a murderous ex-fiancé.

  Th
e five-hour drive wasn’t terrible, but my nerves were shot. My hands grew tired from clutching the steering wheel, and my eyes kept darting to my mirrors every time a car lingered too close.

  My car rolls into a half-empty parking lot at a Super 8 in a seedy area since the vacation rental lease doesn’t technically start until tomorrow, I decide this will do. My eyes are heavy and sleep-deprived, and I need to be able to function tomorrow.

  Tomorrow’s the only day I have to settle in before I start my new job. Maddy’s cousin works at a resort in Paradise Valley tucked into the breathtaking mountains, and it turned out they’re looking to fill a new position. Catering to high-end clientele, mostly athletes, movie stars, and new-money types seeking beautiful seclusion, Alec won’t think to look for me here. Maddy’s boss is notorious for hiring cheap labor and paying them under the table which is what I needed—a job with no W-2 or paper trail for Alec to find me. Getting a job there required her cousin’s help, but the fact that I embellished my resume to reflect previous hotel management and au pair experience made me a prime candidate

  I was going to be cleaning rooms and running errands for the guests. It was a small resort with only twenty villas. It caters to the elitist generation by focusing on one-to-one personalized attention that results in guests feeling like they have their own assistant.

  For this reason, there was one household helper for every four rooms. We have to provide the utmost in customer service, and they need us to focus on our unforgiving clientele who could ruin their reputation if given bad service.

  At this moment, I’m in the opposite position trying not to picture rooms rented by the hour or the cockroach that crawled on the broken tile in the bathroom. I manage to lie down on the queen-size flowered bed.

  The bed is squishy and uncomfortable as I rest my body on the outside of the comforter. It looks like it’s never been washed and reeks of cigarette smoke and bad decisions, a painful reminder of my childhood and the apartment we shared with my mom’s boyfriend when I was nine years old.

  When men touched me, I could pretend. I could try to forget all the hurt and anger and the marks from my childhood. I did a good job at forgetting for a moment and letting them get their satisfaction.

  But I didn’t. My mind was always back to a place in the distance. It was always looking behind me. I remembered him. How he had first been warm to me, asking me questions, buying me little trinkets like bracelets and glitter and My Little Ponies. I thought he was different. Nice.

  Mother had introduced him to me as ‘Jeff.’ He was the handyman in our apartment complex. It was a sad little place. We’d recently lost our home to foreclosure after Dad left. We were sharing a small, one-bedroom apartment at the time. Mother was still working then as a cashier at the grocery store. Smoking and life choices hadn’t hardened her, hadn’t yet broken her spirit or taken over her body. The string of bad relationships hadn’t become the status quo yet.

  Jeff had stopped by to fix our leaky faucet in the kitchen. While he was there, he’d hung some pictures and replaced the broken screens on the windows. I was nine the first time I met him, still impressionable and trusting. My mom had been so thrilled that Jeff had taken a liking to her, to me.

  It was not the liking a man should have taken to a little girl.

  Nausea floods my body. I run to the bathroom to throw-up—my nerves shot, my head pounding. I don’t want to go back in the past. And as much as I don’t want to think about Alec, it is impossible to get him out of my head. When I met Alec, I thought he could save me from my history. I was crazy to think he could love me. Truly love me.

  If there’s anything I’ve learned so far in life, it’s that a man’s love is incapable of being genuine. They always want something. They’re only ever in it for themselves. Silly me for thinking Alec was different.

  Alec always had to outdo everyone and everything. If he decided he wanted marriage, it was a done deal. If he felt a baby would complete the picture, it was landscaped into our future. I never questioned it because I thought he loved me. I thought he knew what was best for us.

  At first, I admired his ambition. He didn’t drink excessively, and he seemed to care about building a business and longevity. He took an interest in my hobbies and what I was passionate about, at first supportive of my dreams.

  Then the red flags became glaringly obvious—he didn’t want me to work outside the home, he wanted me to play ‘wifey’ and coddle him. His drinking wasn’t to the extent of my father’s, but it became apparent that copious amounts of alcohol were involved in the day-to-day of Alec Durant. This was an obvious concern considering once my dad started the bottle, he never stopped. The trajectory was long and hard. I do give my mother credit for sticking by him long after the alcohol took over. Eventually, he lost his job because he started hiding bottles in his desk, then showing up late, then not at all.

  His face became red—at first, it was questionable if it was the liquor or his anger. He became bloated, sickly looking, and sweated profusely. I looked at him and recognized a stranger. He went from getting up at 7:00 a.m. and making me breakfast to sitting lazily on the couch flipping the channels while holding a whiskey sour.

  The pungent smell of it makes me gag to this day. This is probably why I only have the occasional drink. It is the devil to me in liquid form. The purest kind of evil there is.

  He started hitting my mother. The fights became fight or flights, run-for-your-life types. There was no more love in the house. It had died. It wasn’t long before the word ‘separation’ and ‘divorce’ became a topic of discussion. After my dad lost his job, he never left the couch. It became his temple where he slept, ate, and drank. Until one day, he up and left. The house was foreclosed. He died in a Seattle homeless shelter, a sad and angry waste of a man.

  Eric knew this, and so did Alec. I had nightmares that would result in me finding my father passed out on the street, toothless and begging out of a Styrofoam cup, and he doesn’t know it’s me. He refuses my help and my money. I see his haunted eyes, but they don’t recognize me. It shakes me to my core every time becoming a stranger to my father.

  Speaking of strangers, I’ve been sleeping beside a savage—one that I thought I knew and loved. I shudder as I think of him lying next to me at night, while I dream of our future, he’s thinking of his past and the lives he ruined.

  Or not. They say murderers don’t always feel remorse. They’re narcissistic.

  Alec would eventually find the ring in the crib. It might take him a minute, but he would come into the room and try to destroy the crib because it was a reminder of me. Our baby. Our life.

  I don’t think anyone had ever left him until Heidi tried and then Eric and now me. My body started to shake. The comforter was threadbare and did nothing to help the chills subside. I curled myself into a ball.

  The sobs start to wrack my body as I realize that everyone close to Alec has died. If he finds me, there is a good chance I won’t live to see another day. The realization as it dawns on me causes me to cry myself into submission, the comforter now soaked with my tears.

  It is at this exact moment that I want to run into the arms of a big, strong police officer who can lock Alec away for life.

  But I can’t.

  Not yet.

  I need proof.

  Chapter Ten

  Alec

  The airport is dead, just like Levin if she doesn’t follow through on the marriage proposal. I lean back in first class and think about my life, my history, my family, and the loved ones I’ve lost.

  No one has ever left me and got away with it.

  When my parents moved halfway across the country, I had to teach them a lesson. It was an invaluable one, at least to me. They lost their lives when I cut their brakes back when the sensors on your car didn’t provide you with diagnostics on what was wrong. I scowl at the thought of how smart our technology has become—a double-edged sword—helpful when trying to locate Levin, not as useful when trying to get away w
ith murder.

  My parents are a sore subject. I chew at a hangnail. I’m restless. This flight’s short, less than an hour. Too much time to think.

  Mom and Dad wanted me to go to therapy. They said they were concerned for my well-being, but I think they were more worried about their safety.

  After I left Oklahoma, I went directly to grad school to forget. I headed home afterward. Home was San Diego. Heidi took a toll on them, hell, she took a toll on me.

  I'm sure they loved me in their own way, but they kept trying to dictate my life. They even had tried to warn Eric that I was unstable and host an intervention. They almost ruined the business before it was up and running.

  That was an unforgivable sin.

  Eric came to me after they spoke with him, the look of horror and concern in his voice as he shared with me what they had said.

  “Bro, your parents are worried sick. They told me you went off your meds. Is this true?” Eric’s voice was hushed. “I didn’t know you were taking meds.”

  “I’m fine.” I smoothed the annoyance in my voice over with a grin. “My parents don’t know what they’re talking about. They haven't seen me in years.”

  That part was true. I hadn’t seen my parents in over two years since my senior year of college, since the accident. I hadn't meant to choke her to death. I just wanted to talk about the rumors I heard around campus—her impregnated with someone else’s baby other than mine. I close my eyes as the image of her purplish, mottled face comes into view. How her eyes went lifeless, the color bleeding out of them, her heart eventually stopping. The baby. No more kicking in her belly.

  Strike one.

  Then they tried to get me committed.

  Strike two.

  That didn’t work, so they decided to move to Florida.