by Martha Woods
“Hi,” I greet everyone as I arrive. The large round table is encircled three-quarters of the way around by red velvet seating, and the rest of the table is surrounded by tightly packed red velvet stools. Cara got a good turnout. I spot Tommy and Julia towards the end of the seat and throw them a quick grin. I’m not annoyed that she could make it. Not at all. Much. I have to stop thinking like that. It’s not like I want Tommy back. It’s the last thing I want. And I’m sure Julia’s a really nice girl. A really nice girl that just so happens to be younger and thinner than me.
I squeeze onto the end of the seat beside Cara, who looks stunning. Her red hair hangs in loose curls around her face, and her sparkly green dress matches her eyes.
“How’s it going?” I grin.
“Good,” she says. We shout slightly to be heard over the music. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”
“So you said in your two text messages,” I laugh. “Sorry. My cab was late.”
“Do you want a drink?” Cara asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “I just wanted to say hello first.”
“Well, you’ve said it!”
She shouts the last part loudly enough for everyone to hear. It is met with whoops and whistles and a few raised glasses. It’s going to be a good night. I can feel it.
“I’ll be right back, I need to go to the ladies’ room quickly.” I excuse myself from the table, perhaps just buying myself a moment away from the awkwardness of having Tommy and Julia sitting right opposite me. I’ll get over it soon enough. But everyone’s got their insecurities, right?
I make my way to the ladies room, but just as I’m about the open the door, I hear a voice in my ear.
“Excuse me, miss,” the voice says.
I turn, a smile on my face. The smile vanishes when I saw who it is. I am standing looking directly into the face of the man from the alleyway. Not Mister Muscles. The other one. The one who left urgent bruises on my arms before disappearing into thin air.
With an audible swallow, I turn away from him. It can’t be him, I tell myself. It can’t be. But it is. I know it, and there is no point in lying to myself about it. I feel a rush of fear. Why is he here? Was he looking for me? Did he follow me here?
I don’t have any answers anymore. Seeing him makes me certain once again that I am not crazy, that I really did see those things in the alley. But that’s a small comfort, if any. Somehow, though, the man himself doesn’t make me feel afraid. He makes me feel a lot of things, but fear isn’t one of them. The fear comes from the thought that if I’m not coming unhinged, something equally frightening and even more impossible is happening, and I’m somehow mixed up in it.
I decide then and there that I am going to hunt this man down right now and ask him all the questions I need answered. And if he thinks I’m crazy, so what? I don’t know him, and I don’t care what he thinks of me. Except I sort of do.
And if he does turn out to be some kind of psycho killer? Well, I am still a cop at heart, even if I am on leave. I can handle it. Plus, it’s not like he is going to try and off me in one of the most crowded bars in the city. And I am not even close to stupid enough to go off somewhere quiet with him.
The decision made, I turn around. He’s slipped away into the crowd, and I’m suddenly unsure if he even recognized me at all, or if he was just trying to slip past some woman in his path and that woman happened to be me. Even so, I scan the venue. It doesn’t take me long to spot him and my uncertainty disappears. He remembers me. He stands opposite me, only a few strides away, his back leaning casually against an ornamental column, smiling at me.
I cross the distance between us quickly, somehow feeling more powerful since I’m wearing my heels. “Who are you?” I demand.
“I believe we’ve already met. My name is Vincent,” he says simply. “And your name is Amy.”
My calm demeanor slips a little when he utters my name. The pause before it tells me he wants me to actually hear it. To understand that he knows who I am.
I clear my throat, determined not to show him how disconcerted I was am, how hypnotized I feel by those almost black eyes. And most importantly, I am determined not to let him see the shudder of desire that went through me when he said my name in his low, seductive voice.
There is something raw and masculine about him, even down to the way he smells. Musky and wild. Feral, almost.
“I know what you did to that woman,” I blurt out.
“Yes, it was lucky we both saw her fall, wasn’t it? She could have been there for quite some time, exposed and alone, otherwise.”
I barely hear his words. His voice is almost hypnotic, soothing. I shake my head slightly. What’s wrong with me? This man attacked a woman in front of me, and I’m fighting the urge to flirt with him.
When I look at him, I don’t see a monster or a serial killer. All I can see is him sweeping me up into his arms, kissing me, holding me close.
“Why did you disappear when the others came?” I ask. I choose my words carefully. I don’t want to say vanished. I want him to know I know, but I don’t want to say it out loud.
He shrugs with one shoulder, an easy, languid movement. “They would have thought I’d done something to her.”
It is a reasonable explanation, but I don’t buy it. Not for one second.
“I will find out the truth of all of this,” I vow.
He doesn’t respond. He just stares at me, his expression unchanging. I feel exposed, naked somehow under the intensity of his eyes. They fix onto mine and won’t let go, as if we are magnetized to each other’s gazes. I find myself afloat in a sea of darkness within those eyes. I remain silent for a moment, trying to find some composure.
“I’m going to prove that what you did to that woman wasn’t normal,” I say. It’s not the best choice of phrase, but it does have a certain ring of truth to it. It wasn’t normal. Not even close.
Again, Vincent doesn’t speak. He just watches me. There is a look of amusement on his face that almost makes me angry, but I just can’t seem to muster the emotion. There’s something false about the expression, though. His mouth curls up slightly, but those intense eyes never change, never show any trace of the amusement or of any other emotion. They barely blink, and they never once leave mine, not even for a second.
With a force of will I didn’t even know I had, I pull my eyes away from his, and the spell is broken. Of course, he hasn’t been hypnotizing me with his eyes. What am I thinking? He was probably just watching me intently, making sure I wasn’t going to flip out or something, and that unnerving appeal I felt towards him made it seem like he was transfixing me deliberately.
“Don’t think I’m letting this go,” I say.
“Maybe you should,” he responds.
Oh, he’s found his tongue then. I wish he would find mine. I blink the thought away. I am so annoyed at myself. When did I become this teenager trapped in an adult’s body who goes to pieces around anyone remotely good looking?
That’s not entirely fair, though. Vincent isn’t just good looking, he’s more than that. There’s just something about him. Something I can’t put my finger on. Something intriguing and mysterious and downright hot.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like my cop brain and my primal brain are at war. I try to bring myself back into focus. I’m not sure what to make of his response. Is it a thinly veiled threat? It sure sounds like one, but the sincerity in his voice and the sympathetic frown make me think otherwise. Maybe it’s more of a warning. That if I don’t leave this case alone, I’ll only send myself crazier. Except that’s crazy, because Vincent doesn’t know about any of that. Or does he? I find I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he knew everything that had happened since he disappeared out of that alley.
He’s right of course. Not about the crazy – let’s face it, I’m already there. He’s right that I should drop it. If Rick finds out I’m still sniffing around this case, or any other for that matter, I’ll be suspended.
Maybe even fired.
I should really text Rick, let him know Vincent is here. But something stops me. It’s partly a pride thing. He didn’t believe me last time, so why should I put myself in that position again? But it’s more than that. Vincent is something different, and I don’t want Tommy, Cara or even Rick getting in the way of how this thing will play out.
Vincent has gone back to staring intensely at me. It’s unnerving and fantastic at the same time. It worries me a little how much of an effect he is having on me. I always thought I was above these instant attraction things, but this is different. I’m scared that if Vincent whispered I should go jump off a cliff, I would.
And something in his slightly arrogant stance tells me he knows it too.
I know I’ll get nothing else out of him now. And the longer I stand here, the greater his effect on me; the more I feel his pull. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been speaking to him, or how long I’ve been playing this mental tug of war with myself. Without another word, I turn and walk away from Vincent, heading back to my friends.
I don’t need to glance back to know he is watching me walk away. I can still feel those eyes boring into me, as though they can read my very soul. I want to look back; I want to see his face one more time, but I don’t. I won’t give in to this. I won’t. And somehow, I know I have far from seen the last of Vincent.
I plop back into my seat beside Cara.
“About time,” she laughs. “Didn’t he even offer to buy you another drink?”
I look down at a full Cosmopolitan. I don’t even remember ordering it; it must have been Cara wanting to get my night started. I drain the liquid. It tastes good and strong. Perfect.
“I’ll go and order another round,” Tommy announces, standing. “Same again, everyone?” Tommy signals the waiter.
He doesn’t seem the least bit fazed that I’ve been talking to a handsome stranger. Well, why would he?
I realize Cara is still waiting for me to answer her. “We were just chatting,” I say. “Why would he offer to buy me a drink?”
Cara snorts laughter. “Sure you were,” she says. “You were talking to him for a while. Come on, spill.”
A while? That can’t be right. I sneak a glance at my watch.
My thoughts are interrupted by Tanya, a girl from Cara’s office. “Damn girl, you did well there,” she says with an appreciative nod. “Did you give him your number?”
I nod mutely. I didn’t, of course, but if I say that, they’ll want to know why, and I am nowhere near ready to get into all of that. Saying yes is the easy way out. Plus, I can’t help but think that if Vincent wanted to call me, he wouldn’t need me to have given him my number. He would just know it.
Tanya and Cara are laughing and discussing where Vincent and I might go for our first date. It feels so surreal, but how can I stop it? I laugh along.
“If he called me, I don’t think I’d even bother with the date.” Tanya laughs. “I’d invite him to my place for dinner, and we would get right on to dessert the second he rang the doorbell.”
At least I’m not totally crazy. He is incredibly hot. Maybe that’s all my weird response to him was. But surely I shouldn’t rule out the fact that I’m almost certain he’s a serial killer.
A huge tray with our drinks arrives. Everyone has cocktails, and a round of tequila shots. I am saved from further questioning as everyone starts passing around salt and handing out lime wedges.
I’m not a huge fan of tequila, but right now, I need to get drunk and forget all of this. Forget Vincent, Damon, and the events of the last few days. I lick the salt and throw back the shot, then suck on the lime, grimacing. With a laugh, I take a gulp of my cocktail to wash away the taste.
Before long, we’ve made our way through half a dozen more shots, and I’m onto my fourth cocktail. I am just about to cross the line from tipsy to drunk, and I feel good. I feel the warm tequila glow in my stomach, and I hear myself laughing constantly. I even join in the conversation about what exactly I would do to Vincent given half a chance.
I know I am going to be hungover tomorrow. But that’s ok. That’s normal. And right now, I need something normal in my life.
I don’t resist when Cara shouts, “Oh my god, I love this song,” and grabs my arm, pulling me to the dance floor.
Giggling, I dance with her. I forget about everything and everyone and just feel the beat pounding through me, moving, dancing, laughing.
* * *
I stand beside the river bank, looking out over the water as a low fog rolls in. I hear footsteps to my right, and I turn to look. A woman is walking towards me. She smiles, and I smile back.
I turn back to the river. I hear a rustling sound coming from the trees behind me. I turn, just in time to see a black shadow dart out of the trees. It jumps up into the air, heading for the woman. I open my mouth to call out a warning, but I’m too late.
“Amy, help me,” she screams as she lands on her back, the shadow thing on top of her.
I don’t know her, but she knows me, and I’m her only hope. I push aside my fear and try to run to her, but I can’t move. My legs just won’t obey me. I try to call out to her, and my voice is the same. Unresponsive. I stand in frozen, silent horror and watch as the black shadow squirms its way up to the woman’s body. It seems to be still for a moment, and then it is frenzied, tearing at her. Feeding.
After what feels like hours, the shadow leaps off of her and runs back into the trees, and suddenly, I'm not frozen in place anymore. I run to the woman, already knowing I’m too late to save her, but not knowing what else to do.
Her body is horribly mutilated. Her chest and stomach are crisscrossed with deep lacerations and I can see her intestines poking out through the holes, shredded. Of course, she must be dead, but she isn’t. Not quite.
She has enough life in her to utter one more sentence. “You didn’t save me.”
* * *
As I wake up, I feel the vomit rising in my throat. I throw back the duvet and make a mad dash for the bathroom, stumbling onto my knees in front of the toilet just in time. The drinks all rush back out of me. I kneel there panting, a string of drool hanging from my lips. I dry heave a few times, my stomach clenching and then, just as suddenly as it came on, the nausea passes.
I take a shaky breath and wipe my mouth. I think of the dream. I didn’t save her. Of course I didn’t. I was too busy being charmed by the serial killer. I push the thought away. It was only a dream. It wasn’t real.
I stand up, wash my hands and face, and brush my teeth. I flush the toilet. I take two painkillers from the cabinet above the sink and swallow them, washing them down with a glass of not quite cold enough water.
I look at myself in the mirror, at my sallow skin, the bags under my eyes. I groan.
I’m never drinking again, I think to myself as I make my way back to my bedroom. Bella is waiting for me, loyal and expectant, wagging her tail as if to say, “It’s going to be ok.” I crawl into bed next to her and instantly fall back into a deep sleep. Mercifully, there are no more dreams.
Chapter 5
I wake up and instantly feel my head throbbing. With a groan I push myself up on one elbow and push my hair out of my face. I smack my tongue against the top of my mouth a couple of times. My mouth is so dry it feels painful, and it tastes like a small rodent crept in in the middle of the night and died in there.
I glance at the clock beside me. 4:47 p.m. No way! It must be wrong. I grope for my cell phone. The clock is right. It is almost 5 p.m. How did I sleep for so long?
I think back to last night. I may have slept late, but I didn’t really slept that long. I didn’t get in until after 8 a.m. I smile. It was some night. I hadn’t gone all out like that in a while. A job like mine tended to get in the way. I shudder as I remember waking in the morning – which may as well have been the middle of the night, given yesterday’s schedule – and throwing up. I also remember the nightmare I had.
It made sense after talking
to Vincent. The alcohol must have warped my memory of the conversation into something ugly and frightening, and then my own guilty conscience at not calling Rick must have kicked in, resulting in the disturbing dream. That’s why in the dream, I felt the woman dying was my fault.
I reach for the remote control, hardly daring to switch on the news. I do, though. I watch the newscaster run through various stories, including a dig at the police for not being any closer to catching the serial killer, who last struck the other night. I breathe a sigh of relief. No one else was killed last night. I laugh a nervous laugh. Of course, they weren’t. Do I think I’m psychic now? Psycho, more like.
With an effort, I drag myself out of bed. I turn the TV off and go to the bathroom. I take another two painkillers and down two glasses of water. I get in the shower and I stand under the water, turning the heat up as hot as I can stand it. Next, I brush my teeth, glad to be rid of the stale alcohol taste. I debate texting Cara, but I don’t. She would want to know if Vincent called, and I don’t want to talk about him right now. I don’t even want to think about him.
The painkillers are doing their job. My headache is down to a dull pounding, and I realize I am absolutely ravenous. I run a mental inventory of my fridge and cupboards. Nope. Nothing even close to greasy enough.
I get dressed, grab my things, and head out. The elevator ride isn’t long, and I am soon outside in the fresh, crisp air. It is cold, but not unbearably so. The cold feels good against my skin, and the chill wind seems to blow away the rest of my headache. It is already dark when I head for the pizza place down the road. Pizza is exactly what I need to feel human again.
I can’t believe it is already going on 7:30 and I am going for breakfast. Granted, breakfast is pizza, so it all balances out. I smile. It reminds me of my early twenties, when this would have been a regular weekend. It feels good to let go now and again, and I thoroughly enjoyed last night. The laughter, the dancing, the gossiping. The normality of it all. I even spent some time talking to Julia. And she was really nice. If anything, I finished that conversation thinking she probably deserved better than Tommy. She would tire of him soon enough. Just like I did.
