by Hazel Parker
“Lane!”
“Can’t be too careful here,” he said as he drew every curtain and shut every window. “You have no idea what that man is capable of.”
“OK, well, sure, but I leave on Tuesday. Tuesday morning, at that.”
“Good,” he said. “By the way, he’s never been in here before, right? Damon?”
“What? No!”
“OK. Can’t be too careful, though.”
Now he was checking my room as if he thought the NSA or the FBI had bugged it.
“Lane—”
“You don’t understand,” he said, continuing his investigation of the room. “This man has committed more rapes and more murders than you’ve seen on any of those criminal shows. Even if that’s an exaggeration, he’s done enough to warrant you being very afraid of him. You may say you’re leaving Tuesday, but that’s still too long. Anything past ‘right now’ is too long. So I’m going to stay with you and protect you until Tuesday.”
OK, this should have been great. This should have made me happy to know that Lane would be there the next three nights.
But this was not getting the Lane I had the time of my life with. This was getting the professional yet crazy Lane, and I wasn’t enjoying it.
“You’re going to stay with me until Tuesday,” I said, repeating the words. I couldn’t believe I was finding myself in a spot where I found the idea of staying with Lane repulsive, but here I was.
“Yes, it’s for your own good.”
“I’m sorry, but you know I know how to handle myself, right?” I snapped. I couldn’t help it. This was just getting far too aggravating. “You know I survived an abusive bully of a father, right? You know I’ve dealt with all sorts of horrid creeps and assholes through the years, right? You know I’ve had men try and tell me all sorts of things from behind a counter? And you think that one man, as tatted up and scary looking as he is, is going to scare me?”
That seemed to finally shake Lane from his stupor as he stopped looking under the couch, looked at me apologetically, and sat on that same couch.
“Carrie, you realize that this is the same man that ultimately led to me getting fired out, right? You remember when we were out, and I said that there was this evil, modern-day Ted Bundy out there? The man that’s stalking you is that man.”
Well, it was suddenly a little harder to hear what Lane was saying and roll my eyes at it. I may have felt that he was being a little over the top, but it was hard to say he was overreacting if that were true.
“Damon Wicker is quite possibly the evilest man I have ever met in my time in law enforcement and with the Savage Saints. He gets aroused by fear. He gets turned on when he hears women scream no. And then, once he conquers them, he doesn’t want anyone else to have them, nor does he want them ever to have another feeling that would overcome that fear. He doesn’t like the idea of his victims recovering and making their lives better. So almost all of the time, he kills them.”
“Jesus.”
“Look, you can tell me that I can’t be here or that you think you’ll be fine. OK, I hear you. But I’m also going to tell you that Damon is not like anyone else you’ve seen before. All these other assholes who yelled at you in the restaurant? They were probably just having a bad day. But they weren’t bad news. Damon doesn’t have bad days. He just is bad, period. And while I hate to see you leave Tuesday, it provides me some measure of relief to know you’ll be far away from that asshole.”
Oh my God…
I had no idea. Here, I’d just thought Damon was a bit disturbing, but not anyone that a 9-1-1 call couldn’t handle. But to hear Lane describe it…
There was just one thing I didn’t get.
“How did you figure this out?” I said. “I mean, what makes you say that he’s stalking me now? What gave it away?”
Lane looked embarrassed to say the answer at first, but he finally relented.
“Marcel told me that you came by the clubhouse last night looking for me,” he said. “It hurt like hell. I knew that that was probably the last chance I would have ever gotten to see you. I figured that even though Southern Comfort was closed, maybe you’d have to come back for something. So I sat at the coffee shop across the street all day, hoping you would show up at some point. Well, you didn’t, but Damon sure did.”
“And…what did he do?”
I almost didn’t want to know the answer. It wasn’t like there was anything Lane could say that would reassure me, but there sure was a whole lot he could say that would make me feel even more uncomfortable.
“He tried to get into the building. It very much looked like he was looking for you. I’ve been in your store multiple times, and I don’t think I’ve seen but two other girls—and you’re the one that’s always there. So maybe I’m wrong, maybe he’s looking for someone else, but even if that’s the case, why risk it? Especially since you’re only here another sixty hours or so.”
Lane was starting to convince me. The biggest factor was the repetitive nature of it. Creeps had a tendency not to show up more than twice—once to make their point, twice to think they could change my mind. But for him to have made a third appearance and then try to get into the store even with it obviously closed…
“Well, you’re not wrong,” I said, sitting next to him—not quite touching distance, but close enough that it could easily change to that. “He’s come over a couple of times. The first was to introduce himself. He was weird, but I didn’t think anything of it. The second…”
I suddenly remembered that he had waved at Damon and me just as we had left for New Jersey.
“What?”
“Well, the second was when he came and offered to invest in the store if I was more careful with…well, you should know. With whom I hung out with.”
“You mean—”
“That day that you took me to New Jersey on our date? It was wonderful and amazing, but right before we left, when I hopped on your bike, I saw him. He was standing at a street corner. He waved to me like some idiot, but it was very deliberate. You didn’t see him because you were looking ahead at the road, but unfortunately, I saw him. He knows that we…he knows what we are. And because of that—”
“Well, I’d welcome a chance to finish what I tried to do last time I had him in my hands,” he grunted. “If I die, so be it, so long as he does too.”
“Lane!”
I put my hand on his in reaction to that statement. I sure didn’t want Lane to die, and the gesture was meant more to show that I would never let him do such a thing.
But the gesture remaining where it was, the hand resting on his…that said something very different.
But to my surprise, instead of turning into it, instead of taking the touch and turning it into something more, Lane moved it back, not in a rush as if I had cooties, but still. I tried not to pout, but in these emotional times, who knew what the hell I actually showed.
“The bottom line, Carrie, is that you are not safe until you are on that plane, it is up thirty thousand feet in the sky, and we know that Damon is not on the plane.”
“Oh, he’s not from Mission Impossible, let’s not—”
“Carrie, just humor me.”
I bit my tongue. I had to not because of Lane’s request, but something very different.
The Lane that I had fallen for didn’t seem interested in protecting his romantic interest. He just seemed interested in protecting an individual, someone he didn’t have feelings for. Maybe I was misreading the situation, but I suddenly got a sickening feeling that despite my best efforts and despite his coming to the shop…
Now that we were together, now that he knew I had booked my flights, he had officially moved on.
“Well, I appreciate all that you are doing,” I said, scooting closer on the couch. “It’s admirable.”
“It’s not,” Lane said immediately. “No, it’s not. It’s just a job. It would have been admirable if I had stopped him before he raped and murdered anyone. At this point, i
f anything, it’s disgusting that I’ve let him get away with it so long.”
Never before had I seen Lane look so tortured—and that included when I had rescued him from the bullies. Those bullies just called him names about his weight.
This adult bully tormented him with the failure to protect society. I couldn’t imagine having to live with that burden, but I was grateful that someone carried it with honor and duty.
I leaned over and kissed Lane on the cheek. It was simply meant to convey my thanks for what he was doing, though admittedly, I hoped it might lead to something more.
But Lane just remained on the couch, staring blankly ahead.
And I had to say, that hurt.
Lane was probably just protecting himself from getting pulled back in again. He probably figured that now that I was moving away, there was no reason to pretend we could be fine for three nights and move on. I got that.
But still…really?
“I’m…I’m going to go to bed,” I said, unsure of what else to say. “But thanks. Uh, Lane, thanks for everything.”
He was so far in his own world, thinking about Damon and the past, that I couldn’t even get a response. I would have felt disgusted if I wasn’t so sad.
I almost wished, as I went to my room, that I had just paid the extra hundred or so bucks to get a flight out tomorrow instead of Tuesday.
* * *
When I awoke, I knew exactly what I needed to do.
Lane wasn’t going to like it. Lane was probably going to hate it, actually. But it was my life, and I needed to not be in a state of paranoia and sadness the whole time.
I walked out of my bedroom to the couch, where it looked like Lane had barely moved. If he had slept, he had then gotten right back into the same position as the night before. I supposed that was supposed to be an impressive holdover from his days in the NYPD, but to me, it just showed how rigid and unresponsive he would be.
It was only going to make things worse knowing that, on the other side of this work, he was probably going to suddenly wake up one day and realize he had a chance to be with me and had all pushed it away.
“Lane,” I said.
I waited until he looked at me. I took a deep breath.
“I understand you don’t want to be with me right now, knowing that I’m flying home in two days,” I said. “But this is too painful. I can’t have you be my security after all that we’ve been through. I’m going to ask you to leave.”
“No.”
“Lane—”
“I know you don’t want me here. But I know you heard everything I said last night. Letting you stay here alone with Damon still out there is not something that’s going to happen. I don’t care how much discomfort there is.”
“I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave.”
Lane scoffed and put his head in his hands. I wanted to do the same. I was feeling a little ridiculous.
But this whole damn thing was ridiculous. Emotions were too high, perceived threats were probably made to be too large in the head, and time was moving way too slowly. How the fuck was I supposed to get through this with my lover right there rejecting me every second?
“Can we put someone else on patrol here then?” he said. “Can we have another member of our club here?”
“I’m not letting anyone inside,” I said, pausing a beat. “But if you want someone to patrol the outside of this area, then I won’t stop you. They’ll have to deal with it if the front desk says anything, but that’s not my concern.”
Lane scoffed again. Part of me begged myself to reconsider. Hell, just change your flight tickets.
“Fine,” Lane said. “But I’m not going to leave until someone else shows up.”
“OK,” I said.
Lane pulled out his phone. He sent off a few text messages. After a minute of silence, he nodded.
“Have a prospect on the way here. He’ll stand guard.”
“And he’s not coming inside?”
“Nope.”
“Good.”
Awkward silence fell over us. Could Lane just acknowledge me? Could Lane just come and hold me?
But he seemed too distant, too shaken even to consider it. He didn’t look me in the eye. He didn’t turn my direction.
“Alright then,” I said, but he didn’t respond.
When the prospect finally did show up, I was in my room. Lane didn’t bother to do anything other than to tell me the “security” had arrived. I just said thanks.
And like that, our relationship had ended.
How sad.
* * *
At least I got to Tuesday morning without incident, although a thousand thoughts came and went in my mind by the hour.
I just couldn’t believe that for everything we’d been through, we’d end like so. Lane knew I was going back to Georgia before, he just hadn’t known the timing of my departure. What did it matter that I was going to be leaving in a few days instead of a few weeks?
Maybe he felt like his childhood angel was leaving. I didn’t know. By the time Tuesday rolled around, I was just happy to go.
I had all my bags packed, all my other boxes shipped, and anything that I couldn’t pack or ship left behind for the apartment staff to do as they saw fit. I had about five hundred dollars cash from selling furniture, a backpack, and a purse. It was going to be a cumbersome trip to the airport, but I only had to do it once.
Just before I got to the door, I heard a loud knock. It wasn’t Lane’s knock, but since I was heading out anyway, I didn’t think twice to open it.
“Yeah—”
I screamed. A mutilated corpse fell to the ground, having been pressed up against my door. I looked out at the hallway to see two men entering and pressing a cloth to my mouth. Just before I passed out from the chloroform, I saw Damon appear, the wicked smile on his face.
“I told you to take my offer when you had the chance,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get a refund for your flight.”
He bellowed in laughter as the world started to fade from vision. Lane…I’m…
Sorry…
Chapter 19: Niner
I was disgusted with myself, but mostly, I was disappointed.
“What could have been” were four words that repeated themselves in my head over and over again. What could have been if Carrie had given me the chance to have Uncle or Fitz invest in her store? What could have been if I hadn’t been so callously cold at her apartment? What could have been if I had never seen her at the club party a few weeks ago?
Of course, such questions were stupid and didn’t do anything to make me feel better. Actually, they went a long way to making me feel worse. They only reminded me how great of a thing I’d had with Carrie, only to toss it all to the side because I didn’t have the emotional maturity to handle when things had gone to hell. Maybe, in that sense, it was a damn good thing we hadn’t worked out. I probably would have killed the relationship early in its formation.
When Tuesday morning came, I texted our prospect, Danny, to make sure that she got to the airport safe. His response seemed weirdly short, as it said, “You got” rather than “You got it,” but as long as it was a confirmation he was going to do it, I didn’t care.
I thought so much about calling Carrie, though. In my head, I envisioned calling her, apologizing to her, her wanting me to take me back, me getting to the gate just before she got to her flight, and it being a magical reunion. It would have been something out of the movies.
In reality, I just drearily made my way to Brooklyn Repairs for another day of work and club activities. It wasn’t a secret that I usually kept to myself and didn’t say much, but this time, I didn’t say anything at all. I deliberately ignored people who said “good morning” to me, didn’t go to the front to speak to any customers, and relied on Biggie and the other club members to figure it out. I overheard more than one customer call me a weirdo for being so recluse, but if they knew what I was going through, they wouldn’t
be saying a goddamn word.
Shortly around noon, I took my one-hour lunch break. Perhaps in a different time, I would have gone to Southern Comfort, said hi to Carrie, and gone back to work with a pep in my step. Even with the store closed, had things gone differently, maybe I could have at least had a sandwich and a short conversation with Biggie or someone else.
Instead, I took the downtime as an opportunity to go for a walk. I hoped that it would clear my head, or at least not make me so mopey. I didn’t give a shit how I looked to the world, but I cared that I was making myself miserable as hell.
I was doing a rather piss-poor job of that the first few minutes when I kept looking at my phone, reading my text message history with Carrie. How something that had been so good and so wonderful, something that felt so destined to be…how something like that had fallen to the bottom of the Hudson River, as dead as the victims of the mafia and other gang violence, was beyond me. I—
A phone call?
From Carrie? As in, Carrie Griffith?
And not just a phone call, but a FaceTime call?
The hell?
Something about this did not feel right at all. She should have been in the air by now, and even if she weren’t, she wouldn’t have called me. Everything about this felt like a trap or a lure for something that was bound to hurt me. The sixth sense I had developed as a cop was screaming at me to be careful.
But the other senses in my brain were also screaming at me to answer the goddamn phone. Did I want to pass up the chance to speak to Carrie—especially since, given it was on FaceTime, I’d know immediately if it was a trick of some kind?
I hesitated momentarily to answer, but once the hesitation faded, swiping to answer was immediate. It took a second for the visual to come on, but when it did, I could see it was Carrie immediately.
But I could also see that something was very wrong.
