Obsessed

by Devon Scott

  Dawn.

  There.

  He allows himself this one micro-moment to speak her name.

  He says it again.

  Dawn.

  What a lovely thing she was.

  He remembers her as he desires things to be.

  Back when they were together. As one. A unit. A family.

  A family with a future.

  Damian remembers her smile. The smile that could cure any ailment.

  Any disease.

  She told him it was he who refreshed her.

  Rejuvenated her.

  Just one look, and the smile would return.

  How that used to warm his heart.

  He couldn’t wait to get through his day and get home to her.

  Everything, every single thing he did was in direct response to her.

  He was always trying to get back to her.

  For a time it was like this. Just the two of them.

  Their love bound them together.

  Two against the world.

  Then something changed.

  He remembered how she looked when she came home from Miami.

  Something had changed.

  He’d have to have been blind to miss it.

  She didn’t look at him the same way anymore.

  Oh, she tried, tried to pretend things were the same after South Beach, but he saw right through that bullshit charade.

  That’s when things began to unravel.

  That’s when things fell apart.

  It took him a week.

  One week of reading her e-mail.

  The account she thought he knew nothing about.

  The one she hid from him.

  But he found out.

  One look at the photos changed everything.

  Mocha. Dude. Butterscotch.

  Together. In ways that stopped his heart cold.

  Dude buried to the hilt. Entombed. And her expression said it all.

  This is rapture.

  His Dawn.

  What he saw stabbed him deep and vicious. Raped him of all that was to be.

  He almost killed her then with his bare hands.

  Thought about it. Considered it so long and hard his brain began to hurt from the inside out. Like a nail was being hammered into his skull. The pain spread like cancer. Enveloped where it could. Took up residence in his bones, veins, muscles, flesh.

  One look at the photos, and he was an invalid for life.

  Damian blinks.

  Shakes his head, and Dawn abandons his psyche.

  She is as she was before.

  Kennedy.

  Left side of the bed.

  One knee up. One hand on the headboard.

  Legs the color of mocha chocolate.

  Her sweet spot speaks to him. Beckons him near.

  Like a tasty piece of candy. She is a delectable morsel of delicacies, spread before him in all of her glory.

  Damian moves, going to the other side of the bed to retrieve the duct tape. He returns momentarily.

  “Hands in front of you, wrists together.”

  Kennedy’s face begins to wilt.

  “Hurry up, bitch, we don’t have all night.”

  She places her hands together and in front of her breasts, raising them up to him. He pulls an eighteen-inch strip of tape away from the roll and advances on her.

  “Make one wrong move as I bind you, and I swear to God you’ll be rewarded with a bullet to the forehead. Do not fuck with me!”

  Kennedy nods.

  He wraps the tape around her wrists. Loops the roll around her hands, once, twice, three times. He considers tearing the tape from the roll, but decides otherwise. He leaves it dangling from her wrists.

  “Turn around. Knee up on the mattress, as before.”

  Kennedy swallows, turns her head to meet his gaze.

  “Do whatever you want to me, I will not resist. Just do not hurt my son, I beg you.”

  Her eyes seem to sparkle. He’s unsure if it’s from her tears. But the effect is magical. Damian doesn’t move. For a moment he is locked where he stands.

  Unable to proceed further.

  He drinks in her features, and her sexuality, which shines like a beacon.

  He can understand how she was drawn to her.

  He understands the power she commands now.

  For the first time in as long as he can remember, Damian is afraid.

  And that gives him pause.

  Chapter 74

  “Goodman,” he barks, answering on the first ring.

  Michael swallows hard.

  “Joe, it’s Michael. Something’s wrong. Kennedy and Zack have disappeared.”

  Phone to his ear, Michael is sprinting to his car a block away from Kennedy’s BMW.

  Joe is in the backseat of a taxi, heading north on Seventh. They’re in Chinatown, just passing the Verizon Center on the right.

  “Zack’s cell phone shows he’s at home. But Kennedy’s car is on Constitution. I just saw it. They were with me less than thirty minutes ago.”

  “Michael, I’m on my way. Let me call it in. I’ll get some uniforms to your house as well. But stay away from there. Let us handle things.”

  The call goes dead. Michael reaches his Range Rover huffing, his breath vaporizing in front of his face. He gets in, cranks the engine, and takes off with a screech of tires.

  Meanwhile, Joe is yelling at the cab driver to run the red light at Massachusetts Avenue. The cabbie, a wiry man from Pakistan, is telling him he won’t break the law, regardless of the potential tip he may receive.

  Joe dials his district station. Gets a sergeant on the line.

  “Davidson, this is Goodman. Connect me with dispatch, please.”

  A few seconds later, a female voice gets on the line.

  “Dispatch.”

  “This is Detective Goodman from the Fifth. Code eight, backup for a possible kidnapping. Suspect is armed and considered dangerous.”

  “Code eight, possible kidnapping. Officer needs assistance,” she repeats.

  “I’m en route but need all available squad cars in the area to respond.” He gives the Taylor Street address.

  The light turns green, and the cabbie punches the gas. They whiz by Mt. Vernon Square. In the distance, Joe can see Howard University, its steeple standing tall. He’s still a good ten to fifteen minutes out.

  The dispatcher reads back the address.

  “Affirmative. Goodman out.”

  Joe bangs his fist on the door frame as he yells to the cabbie, “Jesus, can’t this piece of shit go any faster?”

  Tretch is behind the wheel of the blue Crown Vic when the call comes over the radio.

  “Code eight, officer needs assistance. Possible kidnapping. Suspect considered armed and dangerous. 1365 Taylor Street, N.E. All units in the area respond.” Terrell, in the passenger seat, takes notice. He reaches for the radio.

  “One fifty-nine, copy. We’re code three, en route.”

  Tretch hits the lights and sirens, stepping on the gas.

  “Shit, that’s Joe’s call,” Terrell says, staring at Tretch. His partner nods.

  “ETA four minutes away.”

  They are speeding down Bladensburg Road, heading westbound. They are no more than a mile and a half away.

  “Make it three,” Terrell says. “The vic is Goodman’s ex–old lady.”

  Tretch stares at Terrell.

  One of their own.

  He nods.

  Punches the pedal again as his face tightens.

  * * *

  Kennedy lays her bound wrists on the bed. She leans in, taking a breath and exhaling, her entire frame shuddering as she places her knee up, arching her back and ass to the ceiling. The fullness of her speaks to him. In Damian’s world, it’s a song. It’s a symphony.

  Damian blinks. Indecision is etched into his forehead. But what he sees takes his breath away. He wants to drink her in so bad he can taste it. Consume her in one bite. He wants her that bad. But the pain is
threatening to debilitate him. He can feel his heart in his throat. Working overtime. Primed to explode.

  Kennedy presses her face to the comforter.

  The act forces her mocha-colored ass higher.

  Her sweet spot is spread before him, and he finds he can barely breathe.

  In an instant, Damian rushes over, grabs her ass as he drops to one knee, opening her wide. He licks her repeatedly like it’s his last meal, long swathes with his tongue before pulling back.

  Kennedy shivers in disgust.

  The gun wavers.

  Fingers to his temple, digging at the flesh, hoping for a respite.

  And then he’s rushing toward the bathroom door.

  She watches him go. He stops at the door. Takes one step inside, feet straddling both rooms. Opens his mouth.

  “Do not fucking move.”

  Kennedy refuses to blink.

  Damian swallows hard and steps inside.

  He disappears momentarily from view.

  Kennedy waits only a second.

  Then she makes her move.

  Chapter 75

  Face to the mirror.

  Damian gapes at the person staring back.

  He no longer recognizes himself.

  Gone is the man he used to be.

  Replaced with this thing standing before him—he can’t even say what he’s become.

  The H&K goes on the sink with a loud clatter. He turns the water on and scoops a handful into his palms. Splashes some on his face and chin. Damian is grateful for the cool, the momentary reprieve. He raises his eyes to the mirror again. Checks his reflection as he reaches for a towel.

  He focuses on the worry lines that have etched themselves deep into his skin.

  It’s come down to this.

  Standing before him is a man he does not know.

  A man with deep, unbridled pain.

  A pain that is unrelenting.

  All because of her.

  The bitch in the next room.

  Damian turns off the water.

  He’s conflicted. So many emotions running rampant inside. No time for this shit now. He brushes them away.

  Collects his weapon. Weighs the H&K in his hand.

  Finish this thing, he tells himself. Finish what you’ve come to do. What you’ve dreamed of doing.

  Only then will the pain cease.

  Do what you must do, Damian muses.

  That is the only remedy left.

  It’s where Michael put it.

  The Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun.

  Six-shot. Blued finish. Eighteen-and-one-half-inch barrel. The one Pop Pop gave him last time they were in Ithaca. Hanging from two large hooks that he drilled into the wall behind the headboard.

  Kennedy had put up a major fight.

  A loaded gun in their home? With Zack around?

  They had fought hard about that issue.

  But now, as she grasps the barrel with her bound hands, feeling the weight of it against her chest, she whispers a short, silent prayer.

  She has mere seconds.

  Seconds before Damian returns.

  She is out of time.

  No time to consider the realm of possibilities. No time to ponder the various courses of action. She has to act. Without thinking. Move. Act. Survive. All without conscious thought.

  Kennedy backs up to the bedroom door situated to the left of the bed. She crosses it in three paces, the sound masked by the thick carpet beneath bare feet. The door is slightly ajar. She uses her ankle to force it the rest of the way open. Positions herself halfway out into the hallway. Puts herself down on both knees. Wrestles with the gun until it is resting in her lap. She can hear him fumbling in the bathroom. Kennedy moves her hands up underneath the smooth, cold barrel until her hands are by the molded grip. Thumbs the safety off. Inches her fingers forward until she reaches the trigger. Curls her index finger around it. Her other hand twists as much as the duct tape will allow so her palm is pressed against the left side of the barrel.

  All of this—from grabbing the shotgun to stepping over to the door, getting down on her knees, and fingering the trigger—has taken six seconds.

  Six seconds.

  But to Kennedy it has stretched out to eternity.

  She can still hear him in the bathroom. Suddenly he’s on the move. Footfalls loud on the tile before he reenters the bedroom.

  Damian strides into the room, hard dick thrusting out from his pants at an obscene angle. The gun arcs up from the ground and over to the bed.

  “Where are you, bitch?”

  His captive’s no longer there.

  “Fuck!”

  Kennedy sucks in a breath. Her heart is pounding. Temples throbbing. All she can think about is Zack, bound in the next room, and her husband, whom she may never see again.

  God, please let me see my son and husband again.

  She snaps her eyes shut once she’s confident the gun is trained on Damian.

  Squeezes the trigger at the exact moment his face pans left and finds her down on both knees.

  He’s contemplating the sweet fucking she’s about to receive, when the explosion nullifies all conscious thought.

  A defeaning boom. The recoil jams against Kennedy’s gut as the gun goes airborne, somersaulting, flinging itself backward into the hallway.

  Damian drops instantly, as if his legs were pulled out from under him. A blood-curdling scream escapes from his mouth. It’s a wail that rises up, enveloping the buckshot-charged air. It takes Kennedy a split second to crab walk backward into the hallway, but before she does, her ears ringing and abdomen throbbing, she spies her captor on the ground, the left side of his face, shoulder, and arm a bloody mess.

  His face is pressed to the carpet.

  One eye appears to be missing.

  He is struggling painfully slowly, gritting his teeth as blood flows from his open mouth. The pain is instant and complete. What he felt before was NOTHING compared to what he’s experiencing now.

  Left arm pinned underneath his broken body.

  His right arm is barely moving.

  Attempting to locate the H&K.

  Kennedy’s knees are stinging, but that no longer matters. The adrenaline coursing through her veins wills her to go on. She moves with surprising speed, locating the shotgun, which she picks up with her still-bound hands. Up on her haunches, she places the shotgun end up on the floor, pistol grip into the carpet.

  She is wheezing. Struggling to fill her lungs with air. In an instant Damian may materialize in front of her like an apparition, searing hot lead from a .45-caliber slug in her brain, killing her at once.

  Kennedy brushes the image away.

  Her hands grasp the barrel and pump it once, ejecting the spent shell and loading another into the chamber.

  She doubts Damian is getting up any time soon. But she can’t be sure. Better to be safe than sorry, her mama always says.

  Kennedy rises, shotgun in both hands. One, two, three steps and she’s in Zack’s bathroom, down the hall from his room.

  She’s panting like a runner, sweat dripping into her eyes. Her ears still ring from the deafening roar of the shotgun blast.

  The tile is cool on her feet. She steps over porcelain and into the bathtub, down on both knees, hard. Blood streaks the white surface.

  Ignoring the pain and her nudity, Kennedy places the barrel of the shotgun on the edge of the tub facing outward, toward the door and hallway.

  Finger shaking against the trigger.

  Heart thumping into overdrive.

  Let that motherfucker get up.

  Go on, get up and walk past me.

  I dare you.

  Should Damian find the strength to come after her, Kennedy will blow him away. This as sure as there is a God.

  Over the din in her ears, she imagines she is hearing someone shout “POLICE, OPEN UP!”

  It’s like a dream.

  One in which she’s floating outside herself, observing from above as this woman she’s
never met battles to protect her family and her own life.

  There’s another sound. Like breaking wood. Then multiple footsteps. Glass shattering. Screams and moans. It’s all happening so incredibly fast. She tries to discern fact from fiction. But it’s close to impossible with everything going on.

  Kennedy wipes the sweat from her face with her forearm.

  Sinks lower into the tub.

  Wills her finger to stop its tremble.

  And waits for someone to cross her path.

  Chapter 76

  Terrell is taking the steps to the front door two at a time when he hears the blast.

  Tretch is right behind him, on the shoulder mike. “Shots fired, shots fired, 1365 Taylor Street. Officers need assistance!”

  “POLICE, OPEN UP!” Terrell yells.

  He draws his Glock 22, nods firmly to his partner, who rushes up the stairs past him and barrels his large frame into the door. The frame buckles and splinters on the second try, and they rush in. Gun drawn, Terrell takes the first level. Tretch makes his way up the stairs, his Glock leading the way.

  “Police, Police!” His Glock is swinging from left to right and back again, covering one hundred and eighty degrees as he creeps up the steps. He hears Terrell announce “Clear!” as he makes it to the second floor. Tretch pauses, glancing down the empty hallway. Two open doors, one closed. He places his foot on the landing, steps toward the closed door. Terrell joins up behind him. Tretch glances back, taking his position by the closed door. He nods to Terrell, who nods back. Tretch’s hand goes to the knob and turns it, his body out of the line of fire. He pushes the door open forcefully.

  Waits a beat before popping his head in quickly. He spies Zack by his desk, bound by duct tape.

  He rushes in, gun trained on the closet.

  Terrell goes to the boy.

  “Clear!” Tretch announces and rushes out into the hallway. Terrell approaches Zack.

  “We’re the police. You all right?”

  Zack gulps, shivering and unable to speak.

  Tretch is inching his way to the first open door—a bathroom—when he hears glass shattering. It comes from the room at the other end of the hallway.

  “Police!” he yells.