Revealed to Him

by Jen Frederick

  Excitedly, I call Daphne and tell her about my impending date. “Can you fall in love with someone you’ve never seen?” I ask as I straighten my hair. The wispy brown locks usually have a slight curl in them, but I want to look older and sophisticated.

  “Sure. Isn’t that how Internet relationships are? You email someone or chat with them and then just confirm your lust in person. Why? Is this about the winky face person? The lumbosexual?”

  “The lumbowhat?”

  “That’s the type of guy who is spending thousands of dollars to look like he’s in a back-country camping ad, but he doesn’t camp. He just looks like he does, and he’ll cry if you show him a picture of a cute puppy. Hence the flannel and the inappropriate use of emoji.”

  “No. He is definitely not a lumbosexual.” Jake didn’t seem like the crying type.

  “Should you even be talking to this Jake guy? Have you cleared it with Dr. Terrance?”

  “I don’t have to have permission from Dr. Terrance to make a new friend!” I exclaim, affronted.

  “I’m just saying that so soon after your meltdown at the elevator, it doesn’t seem wise to invite some stranger into your apartment.”

  “He’s going to sit on my balcony. He’s not even coming inside to act on my lust,” I point out.

  “He’s bringing food and wants to get to know you better. That’s what guys do when they want to get in a girl’s pants.”

  She’s right, but I’m okay with that because if all he wants is sex and I can actually follow through, that would be it’s own small miracle. “True, but what if I’m not pretty enough for him? Because for a guy to take on a basket case like me, he must either have no other options or he thinks I’m supermodel pretty.”

  “You are very pretty,” come the words of a best friend.

  “I’m not a dog, but I’m no model.” And model types are everywhere in New York. A guy like Jake who owns his own business and his own home would be attractive to them. Hell, he’d be attractive to 99.9 percent of the single heterosexual ladies in the city and half of the married ones too.

  According to the little information that the Internet reveals, Jake owns an Upper West Side townhouse worth at least five million according to some real estate site. His mother was a lawyer and his father was a banker. Both are retired. He holds a degree in business management from Columbia, plus there’s the added benefit of a touch of danger. He was a soldier and wore a uniform. I found a picture of his platoon—or what I think might be his platoon—on Google but I didn’t know which of the dirty-faced, camo-wearing guys with guns was him. There isn’t much else that Google coughed up about him. “It’s all academic. I’ve not made a new friend or acquaintance since, you know, before.”

  “There’s a first time for everything. By the way, the pages you sent me today were brilliant.

  Whatever you are doing, keep doing it and keep sending me pages. You’ll make your deadline if you keep at it. If flirting with Paul Bunyan makes you write like this, then I approve.”

  “So I should keep my door shut and my feelings repressed and regurgitate all the emotional mess on the page.”

  “If that’s what is keeping your creative engine motoring . . .” She lets the unfinished statement dangle there.

  “Maybe there will be lots of romance in this book.”

  “Everyone likes romance,” she agrees. The phone beeps and it’s Dr. Terrance.

  “Dr. T is on the line,” I say.

  “Go,” she orders. “I’ve got work to do. Keep writing!”

  “Yes ma’am.” I snap off a salute she can’t see and switch over to Terrance.

  “Hello, Natalie, did you get the delivery today?”

  Guiltily, I cringe. “Um, I haven’t called down for it.” I’ve been too busy flirting with the sweet security guy my cousin has hired to worry about taking drugs. Besides, now that I’ve got a date with Jake, the last thing I want to do is take some antianxiety medication that will dull all my feelings and turn me into a walking, talking, monotone zombie. That will really impress him.

  “If you don’t take your proper medication, then we can’t move forward.”

  “But Dr. T, I felt really good today and I was thinking—”

  “Natalie, when is the last time you were able to leave your building?”

  My fingers curl in anger so I take a second before I respond. “A while.”

  “Two weeks and three days, if my calculations are accurate.”

  You know they are, I say silently. Out loud, I try to convince Terrance I can do this without the medication. “I think we should just try, maybe once, without the medication.”

  “How did it feel the last time you tried?”

  “Not good,” I admit. “But I met this guy—”

  “A new person, Natalie? Why haven’t you told me about him?”

  “I meant to, but it was just the other day.”

  “And who is he?”

  “Oliver hired him to look into my situation, to give me some additional security.”

  “Oh dear, Natalie, I’m going to talk with Oliver. I don’t think introducing a new person into your life at this time is good for your fragile state of mind. Now I want you to take the medication, and then I’ll call you tomorrow after I’ve spoken to your cousin.”

  “But—” I start to object, but the dial tone tells me he’s already hung up. I’m about to call him back when I get a buzz on my phone from the doorman downstairs.

  “Hi, Jason,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “You have a visitor. Should I send him up?” He sounds confused—I never have new visitors.

  “Is he six foot three and two-sixty?” I ask wanting to be sure it’s Jake.

  “Um, I’m a doorman, not a doctor.”

  He’s earlier than I expected, but maybe he’s just as excited as I am. I resist the urge to clap. “Sorry, send him right up. And thank you, Jason.”

  “No problem. Let me know how you enjoy it!”

  I raise my eyebrows at this. Jason and I have a friendly relationship over the phone wherein I call and ask for packages and he leaves them outside my door after ringing the doorbell, but we certainly aren’t at the stage where I’d tell him dirty details from any intimate encounter I had.

  The door rings and my heart starts pounding. I flex my fingers wide and take deep, calming breaths. I move slowly toward the door, pushing hard through the anxiety that is threatening to drag me under. “I’m coming,” I call, in case he’s worried that I’m not home. Ha, I’m always home. He murmurs something that I can’t quite hear.

  The doorknob looms large and my wet palms have a hard time turning it, but I do, slowly. “It’s Jake,” I tell myself. “He’s sweet. Kind. He will not hurt you. He will not hurt you.” I repeat it over and over as I turn the knob, as I take each breath, as I open the door.

  And when it’s wide enough for me to see outside, I scream. I scream and scream and scream. My breath seizes and oxygen becomes a memory. Stumbling forward, I hit my head on the door and then black out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  JAKE

  I hear the scream from the elevator and I know it’s Natalie. The metal box doesn’t move fast enough for me and I pull at the doors the minute they crack open, dropping the bags full of Chinese onto the floor. The screams stop abruptly, propelling me forward at an even faster pace. My Beretta is in my right hand, and I’m down the hall in two strides with the barrel shoved against the intruder’s white greasepainted face. His fake red smile and nose look macabre against the black metal of my gun.

  He shrieks and raises his hands. “Don’t shoot, man. I’m just a messenger,” he blubbers. The gun slides against the greasy paint. I start to question him, but the smell of urine fills the air and he starts crying. Nothing worse than a crying clown. I shove his face against the wall, stepping wide to avoid the pool of piss. With my left hand pressed into the middle of his back, I pull a zip tie out of my back pocket and whip it around his wrists, pushing up his gaudy p
urple sleeves to gain access.

  Quickly, I secure him and then let him go. He slides to the floor, leaving a track of white greasepaint and red lipstick streaking down the wall. Just inside the apartment’s entry, I hear whimpering and I steel myself against what I might see. There’s no blood, but Natalie is curled into a ball. Her knees are tucked against her body and her hands are clenched to her head.

  “Shit,” I mutter softly. Kneeling down, I pat her slowly, feeling for any broken bones. She shudders under my touch. Her skin is clammy from shock. Concerned she doesn’t want to be touched but not wanting to leave her on the floor in the entryway, I opt for the lesser of two evils and pick her up. She feels slight, not substantial enough to fight this by herself. I hold her tightly against me, trying to send her whatever strength she can draw from me. I carry her into the one room new to me—her bedroom.

  I’m nearly struck blind by the assault of pinkness. Thank Christ the walls at least are white. There are the hot pink chairs with no arms that flank a window with pale pink floor-to-ceiling curtains drawn shut. They manage to block out all of the afternoon sun. It’s dim and cool in here.

  I sweep the pink floral comforter back and tuck her under the pile of down and blankets. Despite the warmth, she continues to shake. The good thing is that she’s conscious and I don’t feel any wounds on her skull. Probably fear shut her down for a moment, but she’s awake now, just very afraid.

  “Natalie, honey.” I kneel down with shh noises, but she can’t hear me—or doesn’t want to. She needs to warm up. I could strip down and climb in bed with her, but I’ve got the dipshit in the hallway to deal with. Plus, I doubt that a woman who suffers from severe agoraphobia would be okay with waking up to find a stranger in bed with her.

  Leaning over, I brush aside the light brown hair and press a soft kiss against her temple. She stills and her hand reaches out to wrap around my wrist. The touch of her palm against my skin sends an electric shock through me, and for about five seconds, my heart beats double-time.

  “You came,” she whispers, her words a stutter on her shortened breath.

  Shit indeed.

  “Yeah.” I squeeze her hand. “I got you.”

  She snuffles and tucks her head under the covers, as if for refuge. With another squeeze to reassure her I’m still here, I look around for her phone. I wish I had someone to come and sit with her while I go interrogate the piece of trash outside.

  “Natalie, sweetheart, I’m going out to talk to the clown. You stay here.”

  There’s a slight movement under the covers, which I take to be agreement. I bend down and press another kiss to the crown of her head, the only part of her that is still visible. Then I draw the comforter up and over so that she’s completely engulfed. If that’s what makes her feel better, then so be it.

  Out on the counter, I spot her phone. In the Favorites, there are five choices.

  Editing goddess

  Dr T

  Big daddy

  Papa

  Mom

  I make an educated guess that Oliver is big daddy. I tap the contact and the phone rings. Oliver picks it up on the second ring. “Natalie?” He sounds slightly breathless, as if I’ve interrupted a sex session or a workout, but I don’t really give a shit which one.

  “This is Jake Tanner. Someone sent a clown to your cousin’s place. She must have opened the door thinking it was me and got this joker instead.”

  “A clown? Like a real live clown or an asshole from the Internet?”

  “He could be both, but yeah, he’s got the white face, a stupid wig, and a fake red smile.”

  He curses. “She’s fucking terrified of clowns. I’ll be down in a second. Don’t move.”

  Ignoring him, I walk out to the hall and pull out the Beretta I’d tucked into the back of my jeans. With my prosthetic, I grab the back of his purple coat and haul him upright so he can see the barrel of my gun. “Sit up.”

  “Don’t shoot,” he cries again and tries to raise his arms. He forgets they are bound behind his back and the motion tips him over. I don’t even bother to set him right again. He whimpers as he lands in the puddle of his urine.

  The doorway at the end of the hall bangs open. Oliver obviously took the stairs. He’s on us before I can begin questioning.

  “Who’s this piece of shit?” He nudges the clown with his sneakered toe. He’s clad in workout shorts and a side-vented T-shirt. I mentally cross off sex session.

  “Don’t know. I was bringing Natalie dinner and heard her scream. Ran down here and found this piece of shit standing outside her door.”

  “Why does it smell like piss?” One nostril curls in disgust.

  I point to the wet stain on the clown’s pants.

  “Fuck. That’s foul.” Oliver takes a big step back. For a football player, he seems remarkably fastidious. Maybe I’ve spent too much time in the trenches. A little urine is nothing when you’re on a mission.

  I tuck the gun into my harness. I’m not going to need it for the incontinent clown.

  “You always wear that?” He gestures at my holster.

  “Always.” Turning to the clown, I give him a little tap on the face to get his attention. “Why don’t you start talking?”

  “I’m just doing my job,” he whimpers. “I was told to deliver a message. That’s all. The chick took five days to answer the door and when she saw me, she freaked out. She’s fucked up, man!”

  Oliver sucks in a breath at the insult toward Natalie and I move between them. I don’t need Oliver hitting the clown before he babbles out his answers. The elevator dings and a small man with a shiny suit and even shinier black hair steps out. He moves purposefully toward us and stops behind Oliver. Oliver looks over his shoulder and gives a tiny head nod of recognition. I peg him as an accountant or financial advisor. Maybe agent.

  Interrogating people in front of an audience isn’t my preferred method of operation, but I want to eke out what I can here and now. I don’t want to have to chase him down, plus later he’d have an opportunity to change his story. I want it fresh.

  “What’s the message?”

  The span between me shoving my gun in his face and him catching his breath has given him a false sense of security. He lashes out. “What’s your badge number? I’m reporting you for police brutality!”

  “I’m not the police, dumb shit. Now tell me what the message is.”

  “I think you should leave, Oliver,” the small man suggests quietly and tugs on Oliver’s T-shirt.

  The clown’s eyes shift away from me as if noticing all over for the first time we aren’t alone. “Wait, holy shit. Are you Oliver Graham? Jesus fucking Christ. My brother is going to shit his pants when he hears this.” His eyes dart to the open foyer door and then back again, narrowing in an opportunistic gleam. “Aren’t you dating Fannie Carter? Is this your side piece? I can be quiet, you know. You got any signed jerseys?”

  My gut tightens at the reference to Natalie belonging to another man. A reaction that I try to ignore. Meanwhile, Oliver sizes up the clown, probably debating how to respond. Given that Natalie and Oliver’s connection has been secret for years, he’s going to deflect, and for some reason I just don’t want to hear it. I think it would hurt Natalie, and the last thing I want is for her to be caused any more pain.

  It’s damn irrational, I know, so I push that aside with all the other little things that I don’t want to examine at this point.

  “Listen up. Who’s your employer?”

  “I’m an indie.” He lifts his chin proudly.

  “How do you take jobs?”

  “People fill out a form online and pay via PayPal.”

  “Great. Pull it up.”

  “Pull what up?”

  “Your PayPal account.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not pulling up my PayPal account for you!”

  I move before he has time to react. I reach inside his coat pocket, pull out his phone, and then spin him around so his cheek is kissing t
he wall again.

  “You can’t do that. It’s an invasion of my privacy. Oliver, are you watching this?”

  Oliver backs away. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing. I heard someone scream and came down to help.”

  “I’ll testify to that.” The suited man raises his hand. “I’m his agent and we do not know anyone here.”

  “Wait,” the clown calls out to Oliver’s retreating back. “What about the signed jersey?”

  He barely notices that I’ve pressed the phone against his finger to bypass the screen lock. I pull up the mail app and find the PayPal receipt. I pull out my phone and take a picture. I scroll through his contacts, swiftly snapping his favorites and his last ten emails. I look as his photo roll. Big mistake. He’s got a bunch of porn saved. I cut the zip ties and jerk him to me.

  “Don’t come back here,” I warn and then give him a hard push down the hall. He steps in his urine, slips, and falls. From the elevator bank, I can see Oliver smirking at the insta-karma. I enter Natalie’s apartment and close the door firmly.

  The phone rings before I can get two steps inside the apartment.

  “Call Terrance,” Oliver barks as greeting.

  “That her therapist?”

  Oliver grunts. “Yeah. They have a love/hate relationship, but he’s the professional. She’ll need to be medicated.”

  I don’t know Natalie as well as I’d like, but I’m not calling some guy she loathes. “Let’s have her sleep it off. When she wakes up, she’ll remember what happened and it won’t be an issue. We don’t need to make it an issue,” I clarify.

  “Did I miss your PhD certificate in your office? Call fucking Terrance.”

  I decide to hang up on Oliver.

  Natalie has her issues. She’s scared of new people. She’s scared of going outside. Guys with extreme PTSD lock themselves up because they’re worried that they’ll fall apart in public. She’s scared of being scared. I get it. I’ve had my own mild case of it and so I don’t stay, knowing when she wakes up, she needs things to be comfortable and familiar. I’m neither of those things . . . yet.