Mine

by Kenya Wright

  “Okay.” She tapped her fingers on her thighs as if she was nervous. “What’s going to happen to my apartment?”

  “I’ll have my men go there later tonight to process it.”

  “Should we call the cops?”

  “Not yet. I don’t like them. They get in the way.”

  Her finger tapping increased.

  “Trust me.”

  “I do, Hunter. You just scare me a little.”

  “I scare everybody. Don’t take it personal. It’s why I entered the security industry. Being a professional clown wasn’t working. I always made the little kids cry when I showed up in a wig.”

  She smiled.

  I wish I could let her keep that smile on her face. “Zuzu, your stalker should be taken seriously.”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s at least six types of a stalkers.”

  She turned my way as if wishing she had a notebook to write what I was going to say. “What type do you think mine is?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She leaned back in her seat. “What are the types?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I can handle—”

  “I just want to know. It keeps my mind off what happened to my apartment.” She stared out of the window.

  Buildings and streets sped by. The sky darkened above, and the city brightened with lights. People crowded the walkways, pushing and shoving, ready to get home.

  And somewhere, this sicko stood in the shadows. He’d probably waited outside the building to see her reaction. Maybe he even had cameras put in her place.

  My men will find them, if he did.

  I fisted my hand and kept my attention on Zola. “The first type is the rejected stalker. It’s usually an ex-lover trying to reconcile the broken relationship or get revenge for his perceived rejection. For this guy, the stalking allows him to continue the relationship and be close to you.”

  “This is sick and disgusting.”

  “This is what love does.”

  “What?” She blinked. “That’s not love.”

  “It’s a consequence of love.”

  “It is not.”

  “Fine.” I shrugged. “What would I know? I’ve never been in love.”

  She stared in shock. “Never?”

  “No.”

  “None of your girlfriends?”

  “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

  Shock screwed up her face. “But—”

  “No, I’m not a virgin.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Anyway.” I cleared my throat. “The second type is the resentful stalker. He feels like you humiliated him in some way. Even if you were both strangers, he believes you mistreated him. We’re talking a mentally ill person with paranoid beliefs.”

  “I can’t think of anything I’ve done to someone. Not even an argument on the train or—”

  “There’s no logic to stalking. Even if you think you did something, you never did anything to be stalked.”

  “I just wish I could stop this.”

  “I will.” I looked out the window and spotted my hotel. “We’re here. We can talk more about stalkers later. Now, you need food and rest.”

  “And wine. Lots and lots of wine.”

  “I can do that.” I smirked, climbed out, and opened the door for her. My phone buzzed. I checked it. York’s name glowed on the screen.

  I answered, “Yeah?”

  “Everything good?” York asked.

  “No.”

  Worry rode his tone. “What happened?”

  I gestured to Zola to go ahead. I’d be watching her the whole time. “This guy wants her. He’s just fucked up her place, jacking off and pissing everywhere.”

  Something crashed on York’s side of the line. “What the fuck? Is Zola okay?”

  “She’s fine. She’s been with me the whole time.” I clenched the phone hard as she walked into the lobby and stood. “He did it to leave his scent on the place. It’s a sign that he’s lost it.”

  “Clearly.”

  “York.” I sighed and turned away, so Zola wouldn’t hear. “Soon, he’s going to want to leave his scent on her.”

  “Fuck that!”

  “Exactly.”

  York’s voice held range. “Do you need anything from me? Money or—”

  “I’m good. Zola just won’t be making all her nightlife events.”

  “Damn it. It’s not like she’s a party girl. Every club event is in her contract.”

  “She told me. Something about cigarettes.”

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  “What?”

  “That’s a lot of money she’s saying goodbye to. If she doesn’t go tonight, a stalker will be the least of her worries. They’ll have her in court for the next year.”

  I shut my eyes for a few seconds. “We can tell them about the stalker and—”

  “I’ve told them. They don’t care. You think she’s the first model with a stalker? It comes with the job.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “They’ll sue her over it.”

  I grumbled. “Fine.”

  “What?”

  “She’ll go to the event, if she wants to.”

  “Good.” York sighed. “I can have some extra men arrive along with her team—”

  “No. I’ve got it under control. Send me a list of all the guests at this event, if you can get it. And send me a list of her ex-lovers.”

  York laughed. “You think she would tell me who she’s messing with after you beat up that football player?”

  “I hoped so.”

  “No way.”

  “You don’t know about any past guys?”

  “She keeps her love life pretty secret. However, she was messing with Trigger.”

  I groaned. “The same rapper who’s releasing this album tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  I frowned. “Am I going to like him?”

  “No.”

  “Is he still into Zola?”

  “Oh yes. Very much. His entire side B on his album is dedicated to her. And all the songs are depressing.”

  I made a mental note to check out the songs before the party. “Okay. I have to get back to Zola. Send me the lists when you can.”

  Things were going faster than necessary. The stalker had ruined her place for a reason. Something had triggered it. The ransack was a message.

  But what are you trying to say to her? Besides, of course, that’s she’s yours.

  One thing I knew for sure was that she could never return to that apartment. I’d already had a suite. I didn’t plan to stay there. It was just going to be my headquarters while here. But now, I’d keep Zola there until I found her a new place. One that was more secure.

  7

  Stalking 101

  BROKENHEARTED

  The time has come.

  Right through the binoculars, I stood in the building across from Zola’s apartment and watched them see my surprise. Adrenaline rushed up my spine.

  Love will come from this. I know it.

  Sometimes, my dick grew hard off my own genius.

  How long had I been waiting? How long had I been watching her?

  I’d started two months ago, and I’d only had time to follow her around for a month. The next month, I killed for love. But now, it was time to return to the game.

  The time has come. All my watching. All my noting. It all comes to this week.

  Zola lived in a one-room penthouse in Brooklyn. Although worth a good bit of money, she’d made do with a little furniture and a lot of books. When she wasn’t on a modeling job, she rose at noon and ran in Battery Park.

  On her sunny off-days, she read by the window until the moon rose. Then, she shifted to her bedroom and fell asleep with the book open and her face halfway off the pillow.

  On her rainy off-days, she lounged in Sampson’s café, nodding her head to classical music, stuck in a book and sipping their finest java.

  She posted none of thi
s on her social media, barely giving life to her online persona.

  She was worth close to three million due to her new deal with Natural Health Cigarettes and Siguoni Purses. She held two savings accounts and one checking. Her brother York invested her money in stocks. He never skimmed or stole. Meanwhile, Zola gave money to at least one homeless person she walked by, even if they looked more like drug addict than down on their luck. She’d started a charity called Hunter’s Run. It would be launched in a year. The details were in an unguarded folder on her computer labeled Top Secret. The proposal discussed helping children of abused parents. It would cover any of the kids’ legal, medical, living, and even psychological expenses.

  I’m sorry to do this to you, Zola. But I must.

  She wasn’t a bad person and was completely underserving of the chaos in these upcoming weeks. Although financially independent, she lived like a school teacher. Not much outrageous shopping, although it appeared that several designers let her take clothes home.

  She liked to write. I’d snuck in and read some of her notebooks. It was always stories with amazing beginnings, but no middles or ends. I think she had a respect for words but didn’t really know how to organize them.

  Therefore, she read more than anything else in her life and had a high grocery bill for her weekend book fests.

  I had cameras all over her reading area.

  When she dug into a romance novel, she always ate braised duck, tiny roasted potatoes, and brandied brussel sprouts with red wine. She stopped eating during the sex scenes, as if unable to focus on munching and the sex at the same time. When the couple got their happy ending, she had pie.

  For the mysteries, she consumed hordes of red meats with thick gravies and bowls of rice as if preparing to survive in some deadly adventure and needing all her strength. Beer came with any murder scene. She gorged on thick salted caramel malts at the killer’s reveal.

  Science fiction called for bacon.

  For fantasies, she went vegan—roasted vegetables and brown rice. Lots of nuts and green smoothies.

  For some reason, she masturbated in the second act of a fantasy. It was as if world-building made her horny. It was in those times when she would slip her hands down into her yoga pants, let the book fall to her side, and rub her pussy up and down, moaning as she pinched her nipples with the other hand.

  This was Zola.

  Putting the binoculars down, I closed the curtain and left the window. The dead old woman still lay on the floor right where I’d left her. Her skin had rotted, and the stench had become unbearable. Soon, the neighbors would complain.

  I lit a Natural Health cigarette and considered my options. I wasn’t a fan of smoking, but I needed to slip into Zola’s skin, experience what she did…be around the things she’d been around.

  I can’t lift the old woman and take her anywhere. And she’s dead. I’m not touching her now. Things would take me.

  I exhaled the smoke and stared at the rotting woman. “We’ll just have to set you on fire. There’s no other way.”

  The dead woman was the least of my worries.

  Time was moving fast.

  I headed back to a crappy apartment, several blocks away from Zola’s. I’d rented it two months ago. In this neighborhood, the homeless huddled under crumbled boxes in back alleys. There was always a stench in the air of urine and unwashed bodies. Most were broke. They didn’t live off money. They survived on misery. They didn’t walk the street at nights and barely enjoyed doing it during the day. And they damn sure had no time to look at who was coming and going.

  It was a perfect place to hide.

  The time has come.

  A good hour later, I sat in my furnished room. Not much filled the place—a bed, desk, and an old television on a stand. Pictures of Zola covered every wall. There were more images of her than anything else.

  I stared at the images glued in front of me.

  A siren howled in the distance.

  Zola. Zola. Zola.

  I yearned for relief.

  I craved it on my tongue.

  And I would get it soon.

  Zola was the answer.

  8

  A Break in His Armor

  Zola

  Apparently, security pays as good as modeling.

  At over 10,000 square feet and on the 7th floor, Hunter’s hotel suite had been one of the most luxurious ones I’d seen. It had a glitzy Art Deco-inspired décor with precious marble and glimmering crystal on nearly every surface. The living room was white and gold with slanted reflecting walls. Brilliant white Chesterfield sofas by Fendi sat in the back of the wall. But that wasn’t it. There were two terraces overlooking Manhattan, a private spa with a Turkish bath and a Jacuzzi.

  There were four bedrooms. Each held a dramatic presence. Hunter had given me the diamond-inspired Princess Room—a shell-shaped headboard bed with a canopy of crystal and glass dripping from the ceiling.

  “Is this nice enough for you?” Hunter asked.

  “This is more than nice enough. But I would be fine with anything as long as you’re right next to me.”

  A muscle twitched under his eye. I grinned as I caught sight of his same old beat-up army surplus duffel leaning against the living room wall.

  “I’ll take you to the album release in two hours,” he said.

  I turned to him. “I can go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cool.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy.” If he was conscious of the delicious image he made leaning against the wall, he didn't show it. With his big arms crossed over that hard chest, he looked yummy enough to eat.

  I strolled over to the dining area. It was the only other place in the space that had Hunter’s private items—his books and two large notebooks.

  “You still haven’t changed.” I studied the book titles and read one out loud, “Spy, Run, Spy.”

  “I’ve always been a fan of action and suspense.”

  I read out the other book. “Death and Dismay.”

  “A few dead bodies between pages don’t hurt either.”

  I looked up. “I’m just surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “Usually, people choose books for an escape. They want to get lost in a different world.” I touched them.

  It’s just that…you’re so much like the heroes in your novels. Dangerous, dark, and deadly.

  Hunter shook his head. “I still get lost in these stories. Trust me. Real life is more horrific and has less happy endings. I would rather pick up a book on mystery and action than deal with it in reality.”

  I thought about back in the day when we would read together. I missed those simpler times. When he came to our house, he’d been thirteen. I was eight.

  He was five years older than me, but we had one huge thing in common. For Hunter and me, consuming books were like breathing. Every spare moment, we’d settle down in his room, endlessly turning page after page. Hunter with his crime and spy novels. Me with my romances and fantasies. Sometimes we found a middle ground novel that piqued both of our interests—court-intrigued elves, diamond burglars that fell in love.

  Mom let Hunter watch me. She was mischievous that way because I knew it was my job to watch him too.

  “Let me know if he looks sad or anything.” Mom patted my head.

  “But Hunter looks sad every day.” I blew out a huge bubble of gum.

  “Then, let me know if today is the day he doesn’t look sad anymore.”

  The bubble popped, splatting sticky stuff on my lip. I peeled it off and stuffed it all back in my mouth.

  She shook her head. “And behave when you’re with him, Zuzu.”

  “I always do.” I chewed on the gum to prepare it for another bubble. “I take care of Hunter the whole time, Mom. You should be paying me.”

  She huffed and then a chuckle came next. “You just better keep it together, little lady. He’s been through a lot. I want him to have a relaxing, lazy summer for once.”

 
And that was what he had. Those lazy summers, we would hang in libraries. Long sunny days, sneaking ice cream into the back, dripping it all over plastic-wrapped books. Hunter always cursed me for that as he cleaned them up the best he could, scared we would get in trouble and not be able to return.

  Mr. Follow-the-rules.

  During fall and winter seasons, we lounged in secondhand bookshops, hot cocoa warming our hands as we lost ourselves in wrinkled paperbacks. We sat close, almost cuddling, but not too much. Enough to not make Hunter uncomfortable, since he wasn’t a touchy person. However, near enough to feel each other’s energy and get lost in that.

  In the spring, we picnicked. York would get jealous, when we didn’t invite him. And then be bored with the picnic, when we did. I missed those days so much it burned in my chest. Tiny ham and cheese sandwiches on Mom’s old patchwork quilts. Lavender lollipop sticks leaning in mason jars of blackberry lemonade. Hunter’s smiles and the softness of his voice as he would take the time to read to me.

  Age meant nothing. Blood didn’t matter. Life was new worlds between pages and someone to share the magic with—to whisper with late at night, under the covers with only the moonlight as our witness.

  He was my hero, my best friend.

  “What are you thinking about?” Hunter studied my face, bringing me back to his hotel suite and out of nostalgic reminiscing.

  I smiled. “I was thinking about when we used to read together as kids.”

  “Those were good memories.”

  I scanned his huge notebooks, bound in leather. Very expensive. High end paper.

  “What’s this for?” I asked.

  “It’s for notes.”

  What notes do you write in there?

  I checked out the room some more. Two large metal briefcases stood in the corner. I pointed over there. “What’s in those?”

  “Guns.”

  “Good.”

  “I thought you hated guns,” he said.

  “Not when I have a crazy person stalking me.”

  He went over to the bar, took out two glasses, filled them with ice, and poured a brown liquor into them. “I figured you would need a drink.”