Breaking Bennett

by Anne Jolin

  “Keep your chin up. You have no reason to hang your head. Okay?”

  I nod, the frog in my throat keeping me from agreeing with him.

  “You can park in my spot.”

  “That’s not why I—” I try to explain, but he cuts me off.

  “It doesn’t matter. Just park in my spot.”

  I start to object once more, but he shakes his head.

  “If you want to argue with me, I’ll win. Just park in the damn spot, babe. Okay?”

  I concede, nodding yet again. Bobblehead Beth is back. Great.

  “Say it out loud,” he urges.

  Sighing, I repeat his phrase. “I’ll park in the damn spot.”

  Standing upright, he removes his hand from my face and pulls away. I swivel back to face the computer screen as I feel him leaving.

  “One last thing, Beth,” he says. I turn my head to look at him. “If you need anything, you’ll come to me. Not Ellis. Understood?”

  “Yes, Braxton. I understand.”

  I’m not ashamed to say that I admire his backside as he walks to the elevators.

  Cinderella, Braxton—whatever or whoever he is… I’m certain I want more of him. All the sides of him for that matter.

  The rest of the afternoon flew by, although I periodically found myself touching the spot where his fingers had been on my chin. I’m not really sure what had changed in him then, but I was quickly learning that he had many sides, not all of which were pretty.

  I completed nearly another hundred and fifty files, but that still only left me at halfway done. After staying an hour late, despite the fact that he’d told me not to, I finally decided that it was time to go. Ellis and Nikki had already left for the day, so I figured I’d better head home too. Once I’d shut down my computer for the night and pulled my purse from the bottom drawer, I headed towards the elevators.

  All things considered—and there were a lot of things to consider—the day wasn’t a total write-off.

  Stepping inside the doors, I press the button for the first floor of the garage and begin to rummage through my purse for my keys. Somewhere during the hunt, I locate my cell phone. I was so busy all day that I didn’t bother to check it—not even during lunch. After finally finding my keys and sliding my finger to unlock the screen, I scroll through my missed messages. There are a couple from the girls asking about my first day and one missed call from my parents’ house. I’m about to decide that they can wait until I get home when I see the slew of missed messages from an unknown number. Against my better judgment, I open the thread and scroll down to the first text.

  8:30 a.m. – Unknown Number: Betty, baby, call me. I miss you.

  It’s so much like most of the other texts I’ve gotten that I barely pay any attention to it before moving on to the next one.

  9:10 a.m. – Unknown Number: I fucking love the way you look in that skirt. Are you wearing panties for me underneath that? I bet you aren’t, you naughty girl. If any of those lawyers get to see what’s mine, I’ll be angry, Betty.

  I break out in a sweat at the thought of him knowing where I work. He already knows where I live, but I feel safe there. The city was always his territory. He lives here.

  10:10 a.m. – Unknown Number: Answer me, bitch.

  Another message comes through as I finish reading the last one and an eerie feeling washes over me. It’s as if he knows I’ve read them, which is impossible given that I have turned off the read function on my phone for specifically that reason. My blood runs cold as I read the new text.

  6:11 p.m. – Unknown Number: Tires blow out all the time on the Sea to Sky highway, doll. Have you checked yours?

  The elevator doors bing and open slowly into the cool garage. I step out nervously, clutching my keys in my hand as I scan the remaining cars in the lot. Even though it’s August and still light outside, it’s dark down here. The only light is from the florescent bulbs in the ceiling.

  I quickly scurry the feet few to my car, the heels of my shoes clacking across the pavement. Terrified, I do a once-over of my car, checking all four wheels. I’m about to write it off as a scare tactic—one that’s working—when I see the envelope stuffed under my windshield wiper. Trying not to shake like a leaf, I pull it out, opening it cautiously and removing a folded piece of paper. I almost gag at the stench of cologne wafting off it. Kyle. I cautiously unfold it, revealing neatly typed computer script.

  My knees start to quake and I have to grip the hood of my car to steady myself. These are unlike any of the messages he’s sent before, and he’s never been bold enough to send me an actual letter. What’s even more terrifying is knowing that, once again, the police won’t be able to do anything about it. The bastard was smart enough to type out the threat versus write it by hand. And he didn’t sign it with a name.

  Bending at the waist, I start to dry heave, feeling sick to my stomach and scared shitless. As the hand holding the envelope moves to clutch my midsection, something falls out before clanking onto the pavement beside my heel. At the sight of it, I’m unable to keep my food down any longer. I bolt to the trash can by the elevator and empty the contents of my stomach.

  A nail. It’s a goddamn fucking nail.

  After that, I retreated to the safety of my car, locking all the doors and called a tow truck. I wasn’t willing to take any chances that he’d punctured a hole in any of my tires. The driver thoroughly inspected my car, and although he couldn’t find any evidence of tampering, I still insisted he tow the car back to my house. It didn’t take a lot of convincing considering it was a far tow to Rock Falls and would cost me a small fortune.

  I spent most of the car ride on the phone. I called to ask Hannah if I could borrow her truck given that she’s on mat leave now. She said yes without hesitation, but when she asked why, I just couldn’t lie to her. I told my little sister everything, and somewhere during the conversation, I began to cry.

  I am certainly getting my money’s worth of this tow, I thought, looking over at the driver who was visibly uncomfortable.

  Hannah begged me to let her come over, but I was exhausted. Today was supposed to be the first day of my independence, and instead I became a weak, blubbering mess. Promising that I’d see her in the morning when they dropped off the truck—and that I’d go to the police station tomorrow—she finally conceded.

  By the time my head hit the pillow, it is after ten o’clock. My dreams are haunted by a wealthy, silver-tongued devil. One that seems hell-bent on having me—or my life. Whichever he can get his hands on first.

  WHILE HOPPING DOWN from Hannah’s red ’99 Chevy truck, I try to keep my hands from shaking. I slept like shit, what with being plagued by nightmares, and I am dangerously close to being late—again. I parked the truck in Braxton’s stall. Truthfully, I hadn’t actually planned on following through with his demand, but after yesterday’s events, the parking garage made my skin crawl.

  After hustling in my red, fitted dress and black heels, I drop down into my desk at exactly nine o’clock a.m.—right on time. I dig through my purse, pushing past the note and nail in a Ziploc bag, looking for my phone. Unlike yesterday, I am going to keep it on hand. I want to know of any surprises that might be headed my way before I venture downstairs alone again. I find the little bastard and place it next to my keyboard while hiding my purse away in the bottom drawer.

  “Morning,” Nikki chirps, setting a coffee down in front of me before perching on my desk.

  I grab for it with both hands, taking a hearty gulp. “God bless you,” I praise her, closing my eyes to breathe in the beautiful aura that is coffee in the morning.

  “Well, you’re not hard to please,” she teases.

  I open my eyes to look at her, but they must give something away.

  “Are you okay?” Her brown eyebrows furrow together in concern.

  Oh goodie. I don’t just feel like shit. I must look like shit too.

  I’ve mastered the skill of false bravado, though, and give her an award-winni
ng smile. “I’m good. And this”—I gesture towards the cup in my hand—“is perfect.”

  She doesn’t seem to believe me, so I continue with my course of deflection.

  “Unless, of course, you have it in an IV drip? Then I’ll take that.”

  She giggles shyly and I figure I’ve pretty well dodged the bullet. “Remember how, in The Devil Wears Prada, they call Meryl Streep the dragon lady?”

  I nod at her odd change in direction, baffled at how much she hit the nail on the head. I’m a big movie buff. “Yeah. I remember. In fact, I just watched it on Sunday night,” I announce proudly.

  “Well, I hate to break it to you, but the dragon king is headed this way,” she says, hopping off my desk. “See yah later, alligator.”

  “In a while, crocodile,” I call after her. Nikki Drake is good people. Two days in and I already love her to bits.

  I peek down the hall leading towards the elevator, and sure enough, here he comes looking like Heaven and Hell all rolled into one.

  “In my office, Beth,” he curtly demands.

  Good morning to you too, asshole.

  Having learned my lesson from yesterday, I snatch up a pen and paper before following him into the room. Today, he’s wearing a charcoal Gucci suit with a black dress shirt sans tie. Everything about his body screams resemblance of a godlike being, but his black hair and the tornado in his eyes are hell’s fury if I’ve ever seen it before.

  It’s as if Heaven and Hell are in a dangerous tango for his soul, neither willing to give up until they consume his being entirely.

  “I thought I asked you to park in my spot, Beth, but I see that someone else has. Have them towed immediately and move your car there.” He’s not even looking at me as he takes off his suit jacket and hangs it up.

  Slightly annoyed with his demanding tone and feeling overwhelmed with déjà vu, I snap back at him. “It’s mine. The red truck. I drove it here.”

  His back is to me, and I can see his shoulders start to slowly heave from deep breaths. “Whose truck is it?” he growls.

  “That’s none of your business,” I snarl, turning my nose up in defiance.

  He spins gracefully around, moving with the speed and agility of a fighter as he prowls up to stand inches from me. His entire body is vibrating, the anger rolling off him in waves. When he lifts his arm to run a hand through his hair, I cower instinctively.

  “No!” he roars, stalking past me and slamming the door shut. He flicks the switch on the glass before swiveling around to look at me again.

  I’m not afraid of him in the slightest, which should seem alarming given the swinging pendulum of his emotions, but the cowering was a reflex, nothing more, so I remain rooted in place.

  As if he doesn’t trust himself, he collapses onto the couch across from me. “I’m an asshole, Beth, and I’m a walking disaster of a man, but I would never”—he squeezes his eyes shut in frustration—“ever lay a hand on you.”

  It’s hard to keep up with his mood swings, but I find myself moving anyways. Sinking down beside him on the couch, I rest a hand over his knee. “I’m not afraid of you, Braxton.”

  “I’m a sick fuck. I’m a monster,” he whispers, dropping his head into his hands.

  I reach up, pulling his hands away with my own. “I don’t know why you do what you do or why you feel the need to do it and you don’t have to tell me. But I slept with a monster in my bed for a long time, Braxton”—I cup his face in my heads—“and you are absolutely not a monster. You saved me.”

  Placing his hands over mine on his face, he looks so tortured, but my heart swells. “Whose truck is it, Beth?”

  “It’s my sister’s,” I concede, watching some of the tension seep from his body.

  “Why are you driving it?” It feels a little like he’s interrogating me, but I don’t want to tell him the truth either—that I’m still allowing myself to be terrorized.

  “I had some car trouble last night. That’s all,” I lie.

  He nods, removing his hands, and I let mine fall back into my lap. “Be careful,” he says as he stands. Whatever spell we were under is now broken. “That thing is old and, quite frankly, a death trap.”

  Disgruntled by his change in attitude, I abruptly stand. “Will that be all, Mr. Bennett?” I purposely use his last name, knowing he apparently hates it.

  “Braxton, Beth,” he reminds me. “Black coffee. Please.”

  Turning on my heel, I storm out of the office, not bothering to defrost the glass. Moody asshole should get his own fucking coffee. It takes me ten bloody minutes to work the stupid spaceship coffee machine. First, it needs more water. Then it needs more coffee beans. Then I need to empty the grounds container. By the time I am done, it is safe to say I am effectively wound up. After walking into his office, I place the coffee on his desk without a word and make a hasty retreat from the room.

  As I approach my desk, I can hear the sound of my phone vibrating. I halt, staring at the offending device like it’s on fire. It only vibrated twice, which means it’s a text message. My stomach plummets as I think of who it might be. Approaching nervously, I scoop up the phone as it vibrates another two times.

  9:49 a.m. – Unknown Number: You’re a smart girl, driving your sister’s truck. I was only kidding though. I’d never hurt you, Betty. You’re mine. Come back to me.

  9:50 a.m. – Unknown Number: Hannah’s pregnant, isn’t she? It would be a shame if she were to have an accident. Does she still jog on Crescent Road every morning?

  My knees buckle and I sink down to the floor, clutching my cell phone so hard that my knuckles turn white.

  “Beth!” I vaguely hear a female voice shout in panic. It feels like I’m underwater though, every sound distant and distorted.

  “What the fuck happened?” Braxton roars, and I feel him kneel down beside me. “Beth, look at me. What happened?”

  I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

  I feel an arm snake under my knees and another around my shoulders before I’m lifted off the ground. Braxton carries me into his office, sitting down on the couch with me in his lap. I hear someone close the door behind us, and in the privacy of his office, I tuck my head into the crook of his neck.

  “Tell me what happened, babe,” he urges, rubbing a hand up and down my back.

  Instead of explaining, I lift up my iPhone and press the button to illuminate the screen. I know when he’s read it because I can feel the anger surging through his body like an electric pulse.

  “How long has he been sending these?” Braxton asks through gritted teeth. He’s doing everything in his power to keep calm.

  Sitting up slowly, I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and then fiddle with my hands in my lap. “A little over a week. They weren’t threatening until…” I trails off, not wanting to tell him about last night.

  “Until what?”

  “Until last night,” I whisper.

  He clenches his hand around my phone so tight that I’m almost certain it will break. “Tell me,” is all he manages to get out before I hear him start sucking in deep breaths.

  I momentarily consider not telling him. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he has a very short fuse, and I don’t want to be the one to set it off.

  When I start to stand, he tightens his arm around my shoulders. “I’ll be right back,” I explain. “I need to show you.”

  Returning less than a minute later, I dig through my purse before pulling out the Ziploc bag. Holding out my hand, I wait for him to release my phone before I scroll through to find what I’m looking for. Straightening my shoulders, I hold the phone out to him again.

  “I received these messages yesterday, the last one right as I entered the parking garage.” I pause to collect myself before I continue. “I checked all the tires and I was going to drive home until I saw this.” Holding out the plastic bag with shaky hands, I allow him to take it before dropping my eyes to my lap. “I didn’t want to take any chances,
so I called a tow truck. That’s why I have my sister’s truck.”

  I feel stupid for dumping this on him. We aren’t even friends. He’s my boss. It’s certainly not his job to be my knight in shining armor. Not that I’m sure I even need one anyway.

  “Motherfucker!” he bellows. “I should have fucking killed him!” Braxton screams, shattering the glass coffee table by flipping it over in a blind rage.

  I wince when a shard cuts my leg, but I ignore it as I search the room for him. He’s standing against the wall, his body shaking violently. It sounds like he’s trying to take deep breaths but it’s not working. He’s gasping. Panting wildly.

  As I’m sidestepping around the glass, I hear the office door open and Nikki sticks her head. I shake my head slowly at her, signalling that everything is fine. Once she leaves, I lock the door behind her.

  “Brax,” I whisper in a hushed tone as I approach him. It’s almost the same way you’d approach a wild animal—slow and cautious.

  He hasn’t moved at all from his spot, still focused on breathing. I don’t know how to help him, but I want to. Standing behind him, I slowly run my hands down his back before wrapping them around to his front, and then… Then I hug him. Resting my head between his shoulder blades, I can hear how hard his heart is pumping. His skin feels hot even through his dress shirt, and he’s still shaking.

  “You shouldn’t—” he starts to say, but I cut him off.

  “Shhhh. It’s fine. It’s because of me. Let me help,” I coax him, locking my arms tighter over his defined stomach.

  We stand like that for I’m not sure how long. Eventually, his breathing begins to even out and he removes a hand from the wall to place it over mine.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  I don’t know what comes over me, but I lift my head and place a kiss over his shirt on the backside of where his heart is. “It’s okay.” Releasing my arms, I start to back away when he pulls me back, wrapping my arms around him again.

  “It’s never helped before.”

  “What hasn’t?” I ask, embracing him again.