Every Breath You Take

by Bianca Sloane

  He leaned back and smiled as he consulted his watch again. She should be out of that bathtub soon. He hadn’t been able to hear what she was mumbling to herself over the slosh of the water when he went in to leave her gift on the bed. Not that she deserved it, what with the way she’d been acting. Then again, maybe this would give her a little incentive and make clear to her how much he loved her, since she’d obviously forgotten.

  He looked at his watch. She should be done soon and his gift would be waiting for her.

  “Punish her.”

  He watched her.

  He hadn’t planned it that way. When she hung up on him that last night, all he could do was lie in his bed at home staring at their prom picture. It was all he could do for weeks afterward. That night, the only thing in front of them was a bright, happy future. Not this. Not this at all. How did it all go so wrong so fast? The sadness and emptiness paralyzed him, though there was a cold comfort in the four stark-white walls of his childhood bedroom.

  He didn’t want to go on.

  But when her engagement ring arrived in the mail, it made him mad. And that note on that crisp little scrap of yellow: “I’m so sorry, Joey. I’m so sorry.” Throwing it in his face that she had no intention of becoming Mrs. Joey Green.

  It gave him new resolve—spurred him into action. His daddy always said quitters never won. Exactly—if he quit, of course he wouldn’t win. He was gonna drive up to that school and win her back, whatever it took, however long it took.

  With her engagement ring sitting snug against the top knuckle of his pinky, he threw whatever clothes were littering his floor or spilling out of his dresser drawers into a duffel bag and got into his truck and just drove.

  He sat across the street from her dorm, watching and waiting. The minute he saw her, he would rush her, overwhelm her with his love. She would see, she would understand, she would remember. He would slip that ring back on her finger where it belonged, and they would start their new life together. Just like they’d always planned.

  Except he didn’t plan on seeing that tall, skinny dude in track pants and a windbreaker walking her to her dorm that chilly afternoon. They were laughing. It’d been so long since he’d seen Nat laugh. He loved that soft, tinkling sound. That dude touched her arm and she lit up. She liked him. She liked him? She swore—up and down swore—there wasn’t anyone else. On top of the humiliation of telling him she wouldn’t marry him, she was cheating on him. Rage boiled in his loins, spread across his skin like a rash, pushed out of his ears like steam from an angry kettle.

  That dude leaned down and kissed her, and she let him. He mashed his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth, his eyes squeezed shut against this catastrophe. No, no, no, no, no. NO.

  He looked up, and they were both gone, that dude shuffling off down the street, whistling to himself, she having gone into her dorm. He had whiplash, not sure where to start first. Follow that dude and give him the beat down of his life? Storm inside and up to her room to punish her for her betrayal?

  Punish her.

  She couldn’t treat him like this. After everything he’d done for her, she couldn’t just throw him away like he never existed, like he never mattered.

  Punish her.

  Chapter 46

  SHE

  Natalie immediately recognized the lacy red babydoll dress with the giant satin bow underneath the bust splayed across the bed. She’d taken it to Paris. She remembered telling Jason to close his eyes as she fiddled with the bow in the bathroom, tying and untying it at least ten times in search of the right amount of flounce. It would never look as bouncy as it had in the Victoria’s Secret window. Then again, maybe it wasn’t supposed to.

  She had let one leg curl around the doorjamb, following it with a coquettish smile. Jason didn’t say anything, just leaned back against the headboard, clad only in his sky-blue pajama bottoms, a crooked grin on his face as he watched her saunter toward the bed. She shimmied and swiveled, let her hands ramble across the peaks and dips of her body, relishing the sensation and warm with the knowledge that he was lapping it up like milk. She leaned over him, he pulled her on top of him, and she whispered “Merry Christmas” as he undid the bow.

  She stared down at it now, the sash tied together in a loose knot.

  Natalie glanced at the closet and dresser drawer then looked back at the dress.

  “This wasn’t here before,” she whispered. “I went through every piece of clothing in that closet, everything in the drawers and . . . this wasn’t there.”

  Natalie clutched her stomach and whimpered. Was he holding a stash of her lingerie? Was he expecting her to put on a show for him?

  She doubled over, the blood pounding in her ears. How much worse could this get?

  She gasped when she heard the door beep open. Joey moseyed in, leering at her. He nodded toward the bed.

  “I can’t wait to see you in that tonight. See you do a little show for me.”

  “I’m not wearing this.”

  “What’s that?”

  Natalie picked up the teddy, fingering the edges. “I said . . . I’m not wearing this.”

  “I guess you didn’t learn your lesson well enough the other day. You want to starve to death? Huh? Is that what you want?”

  “Go ahead, Joey. Kill me. Starve me. Then what? You’re alone, that’s what. You’re all alone. You’ve always been alone. You never had any friends—no one ever liked you. That’s why you’re keeping me, isn’t it? So you won’t be alone, because who else would want you?” She stood up, her finger pressed against one of the delicate holes in the bust. “I’m not wearing this, Joey. I won’t do it, I won’t—” she was ripping the dress apart, the errant threads fluttering as she continued to poke her fingers into the lacy holes and split them apart.

  “What are you doing?” he cried, lunging for her and snatching the shredded material from her, cradling it to his chest. “What—what’d you do that for?”

  “You’re not my boyfriend, Joey. You’re not my lover. You’re my rapist and kidnapper!” She beat her hands against his chest in hysterical thumps.

  He caught her by the wrists, and she continued to thrash against him as he threw her onto the bed. He straddled her, pinning her arms above her head.

  “I keep being nice to you, and you keep having a bad attitude. Now you’ve got to stop all this childish behavior, Nat, ’cause I’m not gonna stand for it, you hear me?”

  “I’m so tired of hearing you. Just stop. Stop talking. Just stop fucking talking. Oh, my God, I hate the sound of your voice. Listening to you is like nails on a chalkboard. You’re a joke, Joey, a joke. A pathetic, disgusting joke. If I could only turn back the clock, I would have never, ever gone out with you. I would not have wasted—”

  “Shut up, Nat. Shut up before you say something you shouldn’t be saying.”

  “You’re revolting. Every time you get near me, I’m sick. You make my skin crawl. It’s like a million little spiders are crawling all over me. And you stink, like rotten fish. Rotten, slimy fish. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”

  He slapped her. Repeatedly. After a while, she didn’t even feel the stings, didn’t hear the smacks. He yanked her off the bed and held the collar of her sweater before backhanding her and letting her drop to the floor in a floppy, sniveling heap. He stepped over her, the door sliding shut behind him. Natalie sniffed and wiped back her tears before pulling herself off the floor and stumbling to the bathroom. She stared at the blank wall, half expecting a mirror to materialize so she could inspect the damage. Instead, she filled a washcloth with cold water and draped it over her face, heaving into the rough, wet cotton as she tried to calm down. She wobbled back into the bedroom and dropped to the floor. She picked through the rubble of the shredded teddy, tossing it into the plastic trash can next to the bed.

  Chapter 47

  SHE

  She smelled frosting. Sweet, luscious frosting.

  And chicken. What else? Rolls, maybe?

&
nbsp; Natalie moaned and opened her eyes. There was a wedge of yellow cake dripping in pink frosting sitting on the vanity next to the bed. A red plastic plate held two pieces of chicken stacked on top of each other along with a roll, a dollop of butter smeared across the shiny brown top. She leaped for it when she was knocked back, the sound of metal clinking in her ear.

  There was a heavy chain clamped to her wrist.

  She whimpered as she shook the chain, which she could see trailed underneath the bed. She squatted on the floor and saw that the end of the chain was locked around the leg of the bed, which she knew was bolted to the floor. She could only stare at the food and cry and feel stupid and helpless.

  Joey strolled in, smiling. He sat on the corner of the bed, staring at the food just like she was.

  “Bet you’re hungry, huh?”

  “You know I am, Joey, please, it’s been days—”

  “Well, it ain’t—it hasn’t quite been days. One day. No dinner last night. No breakfast this morning. No lunch this afternoon. Now maybe you’ll break your streak and get some dinner tonight. If you’re good.”

  “Please, Joey, please. I’m so hungry. I can’t, I can’t—”

  He turned to look at her. “You know what you have to do if you wanna eat, right?”

  Her heart plummeted to the bottom of her stomach. She shook her head. “No, Joey, please, please don’t make me . . . please. . .” she couldn’t finish, her voice crumbling.

  She felt the weight of the bed shift and heard the scraping of the plastic fork against the plastic plate. Natalie looked up to see Joey sawing off a tiny piece of chicken and popping it into his mouth.

  “Mmm! Man that tastes pretty good. I could go right on eating, too. Blow my diet for the day. Did—so you know how I lost all that weight, right? I have like two chocolate protein shakes a day and work out two hours a day. Then I usually try and eat like a little meal at the end of the day.” He sucked up another sliver of chicken skin, grease shimmering on his lips. “Now see, this here, this is just the right amount of food for me. And this cake? Yeah. I could eat that no problem, ’cause I worked out two and a half hours today. Got to work off all this stress you been causin’ me.” He tore off a little chunk of roll. “I can keep on eatin’ if you want. Or I could let you have what’s left.”

  She kept straining against the chain, the metal digging into her wrist as she tried to crawl toward the food. “Stop it, stop eating. Please, let me have it. Please, please, please.”

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a wad of lace that she recognized as her own, a black nightie that she’d worn for Jason one night. Joey dangled it in front of her.

  “You want to eat?”

  “Yes, please, you know I do.”

  He threw the teddy at her. “Then you put this on and give me my show.”

  Natalie dropped her head in defeat, her shoulders shaking with hunger and desperation. “Okay,” she sobbed. “Okay, Joey, I’ll do it, I’ll do what you want.”

  He came over and undid her shackles. She bolted toward the food, but he was too quick for her, locking his arms around her waist. “After,” he said as he carted her toward the bathroom, her legs thrashing against him the whole time. He threw the nightgown in after her. “You eat after I’ve had my show,” he said as he went to slam the door. She tried to run out after him, but he pushed her inside, causing her to fall to the floor. She flung herself against the door, pounding on it with her fists.

  “I hate you!” she screamed, strings of spit flying out of her mouth. “You let me out of here, you son of a bitch!”

  He didn’t come storming back into the room, and all Natalie could do was collapse against the door and sink to the floor in tears. She dropped her face in her hands, unable to make herself stop crying or shaking.

  Joey pounded on the door, and she escaped across the room away from it, terrified he’d come barreling in. “You’re taking too long, Nat. I’m about to eat this chicken here right quick if you don’t hurry up.”

  She grabbed her stomach, the physical pain of hunger stabbing her insides. The nightgown slid out of her hands to the floor and she undid the top button of her blouse.

  “I’m sorry, Jason, I’m so sorry. Oh, my God. Please forgive me, Jason, please. I have to do it, I have to do it,” she whispered, her fingers trembling as she began to untangle the nightgown. She stepped into it, hiccupping as she bent over the sink, certain what little was in her stomach would come dribbling out any minute. A thin trickle of lumpy brown saliva did indeed come squirting out of her mouth. She swished some water across her tongue and closed her eyes.

  Natalie opened the door to find Joey reclining on the bed, having shed his clothes save his white boxers. He was fondling himself and smiling. The food was nowhere to be found.

  “Damn, Nat. Damn! Man, now that I can see your body . . . Man, I am a lucky dude. Now,” he licked his lips. “What you got for me? Oh. Should I put on some music?”

  “No, Joey.” She sounded tired. She was tired. Sick and tired. Such a cliché, but clichés existed for a reason.

  He twirled his finger. “Come on, Nat. Turn around for me.”

  She took a deep breath and did a slow turn. She heard him grunt and moan a little. She rotated back around to see him furiously rubbing his bulge through his shorts.

  “Come on, where’s the rest of my show?”

  She rubbed the heel of her hand against her runny nose and did a slow walk toward him before turning back to her original spot.

  “Move your hips, Nat. Shake it a little, come on now. I guess you must not be hungry after all.”

  She pursed her lips and ignored the tears pooling in her eyes. Her mouth set in a firm, straight line, she shimmied a little, which elicited more grunts from him. She twirled a few more times and did a few more walks. His moans were getting louder, the sheets rustling like paper.

  “That’s right, Nat, keep dancing for me, come on,” he said, his eyes locked on her, his hand jerking up and down like he was maneuvering a puppet on a string, which in a way she guessed he was. He gripped the side of the bed and arched his back as he cried out, creamy liquid spurting into his hand. He flopped against the bed, beads of sweat peppering his forehead, the clogged rasps of his breath filling the room.

  Natalie could only stand there holding her stomach and shaking as he lay prostrate on the bed, his eyes closed, his hand draped across them. Her eyes darted around the room in search of the food, her stomach rumbling in agony.

  “Whew,” Joey said as he raised up and smiled at her. “Damn. One more fantasy coming true. You’re so beautiful, Nat. You know, I really do love you. So much.”

  “Can I eat now, Joey? Please?”

  He stood up and ambled over to her. He snaked a hand up her arm, causing her to flinch. He cupped her cheek with his damp, sticky palm before he kissed her. She wanted to bite his lip, knee him in the groin, but she was too afraid. She couldn’t take any more demands or punishments.

  He pulled back and smiled before he flicked his head toward the closet. “Your dinner’s in there.”

  She flew away from him and into the dark closet, diving for the plastic plate of food. She stabbed the chicken breasts with the plastic fork, but it snapped in half, so she dug her fingers into the cold, slippery flesh, pulling out strings of rubbery chicken and shoving them into her mouth, not caring about the ribbons of grease streaming down her chin or the bits of chicken stuck to her cheeks. She polished off the squishy roll in two bites, licking the smudges of butter from her palms. She groaned as she swirled her finger in the thick pink frosting, crumbs raining down into her cleavage as she devoured the piece of cake with both hands.

  Joey stood over her, smiling as she leaned back in ecstasy, happy to have at last quelled the hunger pangs.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes closed. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t get undressed,” he said. “I’ll be back later tonight.”

&
nbsp; “He’d get back what belonged to him.”

  She had stabbed him in the back. Betrayed him. Lied to him.

  Still, he knew he’d forgive her. He loved her too much not to.

  And they’d reunite because they belonged to each other. Ever since that first day in Mrs. Tucker’s class, they’d belonged to each other.

  He’d get back what belonged to him.

  He just had to teach her a lesson first.

  It was the middle of the day. He peered around the corner to make sure the hallway in front of her dorm room wasn’t bustling with giggling girls. He quickly walked down the hall, his thick thighs making a noisy “swish” as he hurried in the direction of her door. He took the two metal hangers from his pocket that he’d unwound earlier, unfolded them and slipped the head of the unwieldy contraption under the door crack. He maneuvered the top hook over the door handle, gave it a quick yank and the door fell open. He slipped inside and closed the door, his heart racing but his mission secure.

  He stood staring at Dina’s side of the room: a hurricane of DVD’s, piles of clothes, and thick fashion magazines strewn across the unmade twin bed. The desk and dresser were crowded with robust bottles of perfume, rows of glittery nail polish, mountains of multicolored compacts, and a forest of makeup brushes.

  Natalie’s side was neat yet sparse, the tiny twin bed made with military precision and covered in the burgundy comforter and papery pink sheets he’d taken her to Wal-Mart to buy one Sunday afternoon this past summer. His heart somersaulted up and down his ribcage as he realized the prom photo of them that had been prominently displayed at Thanksgiving was now gone.

  He unzipped his pants and aimed for Dina’s bed, smiling at the general release of emptying his bladder and the satisfaction of knowing she’d never get that smell out of her nose, no matter how often she changed the sheets or switched mattresses.

  He flung open Natalie’s closet door, searching for the box, finally finding it wedged in the top right corner. He rummaged through its meticulously kept though well-worn contents: stacks of love letters between her parents, faded pictures of Natalie being cradled by one, then the other, then both parents. A grubby white rattle with a toothy pink rabbit stamped across the front. A squeaky yellow baby book filled with silky wisps of baby hair tied together with pink ribbon, a limp teething ring, and pages and pages of Laura Scott’s loopy, girlish handwriting documenting every breath of her daughter’s life.