Protected by the Officer: A Safe Stalker Romance (Safe Stalkers)

by Phoebe Buck

  “Why?” She spits back at me.

  Damn it. This is not the time to be stubborn.

  “Do what I tell you.” I hiss. Joanna kisses my neck and squeezes my arm before sliding out from behind me and gingerly climbing onto her bed.

  Before I can lift the bed skirt, an arm comes flying out with a knife in its hand. I manage to dodge him, but as soon as he’s out, he’s back in again.

  Fuck. How the hell do I get him out without being stabbed? His arm flails out again when I lean towards the bed. I don’t have eyes on him, but he must be able to see me well enough to know when to strike.

  My eyes meet Joanna’s.

  Where I expect to see panic, I see a calm determination. She nods to where I’m kneeling in front of the bed and mouths, “do it again.”

  I don’t know what she’s planning, but I trust her.

  I lean towards the bed again. As expected, he lashes out, but the second his hand comes into view she pounces. The massive kitchen knife she pulled out of nowhere has gone straight through the back of his hand, sticking into the floor.

  Greg lets out a pathetic wail as the blade passes through his flesh. I’ve seen worse than this in my years on the force, but for some reason, this gets to me. Maybe it’s because she’s the one who’s done it, but it knocks me on my ass and I scoot back and away from where he’s wriggling in pain.

  A second later I pull my shit together and get to my feet. I hold out a hand to Joanna who takes it and jumps down from her bed, landing against me.

  With her safe and out of reach, I hand her my phone. “Call 999, let them know we need an ambulance” She nods and dutifully dials the phone as I kneel down and take a breath before lifting the skirt and staring into the face of the man that crept into her home and tried to take her away from me.

  He’s a sad little worm, with eyes too big for his face and patchy scruff on his neck. And worst of all, he’s fully sobbing, his lower lip quivering like a toddler. I might even feel a little bad for him if he wasn’t lying next to a bag overflowing with nefarious goods. All I can see from where I’m crouched down is a rope, a pair of scissors, and a pack of condoms, but it’s enough to know what he was planning.

  I drop the bed skirt and walk to where Joanna is looking out the window for the first signs of a police vehicle. She’s still on the phone with 999 but puts her hand over the microphone to address me.

  “Should we take the knife out of his hand or something?”

  “No, let the paramedics take care of that.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her tight, keeping my eyes on Greg’s hand in case he decides now is the time to grow some balls and fight back.

  “Fuck you, Greg!” Joanna yells from across the room. I laugh against her neck and decide not to tell her about the kill kit he’s got next to him. I want her to stay this brave and unafraid of that asshole.

  “My name’s not Greg, it’s…”

  “Stop!” I bark with the full force of my voice. “She doesn’t need to know your name. You speak one more word to her and I’ll put that knife through your other hand.

  I kind of want him to say something else so I can get in my own shot at him, but I’m also relieved when the only sound we hear from under the bed is intensified crying. You act like a Greg, you get called Greg.

  “So, where the hell did you get that knife?”

  “Under my pillow, why?”

  “I thought you weren’t scared?” I say, brushing the hair out of her face.

  “I’m not scared, but I’m also not stupid.”

  As we hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance, Joanna relaxes into my touch. Finally, we’re at the end of this mess. But I wouldn’t change a second of it. As much as I hate that asshole under the bed, he’s the only reason she came crashing into my life and I can’t imagine a life without her in it.

  Epilogue

  6 months later

  Joanna

  That’s it. The last box. I slide the knife through the tape and fold it up, tossing it into the pile with the rest.

  “So, what the hell do we do with them now?” I say, looking at the stack that’s climbing halfway to the ceiling of my new apartment. No, not my apartment. Our apartment. I got to get used to saying that.

  “Do we know anyone moving soon?” Michael says, collapsing onto the couch he brought from his old place.

  I slip in beside him and let my sore muscles relax. This couch is an epic improvement over my ancient futon and there’s no way I was letting him leave it behind like he planned to. He thought we should start fresh, buy things that were ours together and leave behind our old lives, but this was too good to toss.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then recycling it is.” He slaps my knee and walks to the pile, taking a giant stack in his hands.

  “Wait, no, we can put them on the curb. Just because we don’t know anyone doesn’t mean someone doesn’t need them.”

  Michael sighs. “Don’t make me ticket you for littering.” Always a cop, this one.

  “It’s not littering if you put it on Kijiji,” I say, tucking my phone in my pocket and grabbing the rest of the boxes. We drop them on the curb and I quickly snap a picture and add the listing. I know when I was first moving to the city, I would have loved to have found these just lying on the curb.

  By the time we make it back up the two flights of stairs, the boxes are already being loaded into the back of someone’s too small Citroen.

  “See?” I point out the window at the young woman laughing at her man trying to squeeze the hatchback boot closed with the glut of boxes pushing right back against him.

  Michael nods and goes to the kitchen, popping open the bottle of Prosecco we’ve had in reserve since we submitted our application for this place. The market for apartments, especially a stunner of a place like this is intense and we only gave ourselves 50/50 odds of getting the offer.

  I stare out the window after the couple drives off with the boxes and appreciate the limited view we have. The row of houses across from us are the same height so we can’t quite make out the Thames in the distance, but there’s blue sky with creeping gray clouds in our eyeline.

  Sure, it’s not much, but it’s better than staring at people’s ankles and exhaust pipes like I was at my little hovel where Greg watched me sleep.

  I feel a chill race down my arms remembering the day we finally caught him and what they found under that bed. I never told Michael what I read in the police report, but I’m sure he saw it too.

  The things they found in there were enough to prove his claim of accidentally wandering into the wrong apartment were a lie. Not that it needed much proving as he obviously broke in. That and his history of harassment put him behind bars for long enough that I don’t think I’ll have to worry about him ever again.

  Michael’s warm hand finds my waist as he places the glass of peachy bubbly in my hand.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  “I was just admiring the view.” I press my back into his chest and motion to the street below us.

  “Ah, yes, the overturned trashcan and Nando’s neon sign really add just the right amount of charm to the neighborhood.” He laughs and kisses my ear lightly.

  “Hey, we knew we weren’t moving to Kensington Palace. People would kill for a one bed in such a convenient location. You should be so lucky.” I nudge his ribs with my elbow expecting another laugh, but he only sighs.

  “I know you’re thinking about him again. I can tell by the way your shoulders are almost touching your ears.”

  Sometimes I wish he could just stop reading me so I could pretend everything is normal, that we didn’t meet under such circumstances. But if Michael was normal, he wouldn’t have known I needed help.

  If he wasn’t so persistent, I would have been all alone when Greg secreted himself under my bed.

  “I’m not thinking of him.”

  “But you are thinking around him.” He says, pulling me tighter.

  I’m no
t one hundred percent sure what that means, but it seems to fit. Because I don’t think about Greg, or whatever his name is, that often. I think about the way he made me feel, the constant unease that’s now nothing but a memory.

  Because even if someone else were to come along and decide I was their new obsession, I know I’d be safe.

  Michael is never leaving me, but when he says it it’s not a threat. It’s a promise that makes all my worries melt away.

  “Michael,” I turn and place a hand gently on his broad chest. The words that have been bubbling in me for so long are stuck in my throat. I’ve resisted saying them, but I don’t know why. Maybe I was saving them for a special moment just like this when everything ahead of us seems like roses.

  “I love you.”