by Stella Noir
She puts the mug back down and sighs.
"Yeah, I never realized it until just now, but I think that's the problem. He's too much like me," she repeats. "He never had to struggle, he grew up in a loving home in a nice suburb with a white fence, had good grades in school, was an athlete. Everything came straight and simple to him. We share all that. Our stories match, but our dreams and desires didn't."
She looks at me with intent. "I know it's very different for you."
I huff and nod.
"I shall say so," I agree. "It starts with the loving home. I never had that."
Her eyes widen with curiosity. It's odd to me that my story would excite her, but I'm also flattered by her sincere interest.
"My father met my mother while vacationing in Mexico," I begin. "He knocked her up, was forced to take her home by his own peers. But I highly doubt they ever loved each other. She cried a lot before she died."
"Oh," Lily says. "I'm so sorr –"
"It's okay," I interrupt her condolences. "I was six when it happened. I'm all cried out."
"Did your father ever remarry?"
I shake my head. "No. He raised me by himself, if you could call it that. He drank a lot, had a lot of women, and hated the fact that his son was restraining his freedom. He did what he had to do. He gave me food and shelter, but no love. I developed other ways to gain attention."
Her eyes are glued to my lips, and I don't like the hint of pity that's drawn across her face.
"What did you do?" she asks.
"I had my fun at school," I say. "My idea of fun generally got me into trouble, though. I bullied other students, got into fights all the time, built little explosives and put them in other people's lockers."
She laughs and shakes her head at that last part.
"Why did you do that?" she asks.
I shrug. "I was interested in science."
"That's an interesting way of putting it."
"It's not a good way to gain recognition in the form of good grades," I point out.
Lily nods. "True. We had boys like you in my school."
"But let me guess," I say, fixating on her through narrow eyes. "You never had anything to do with them?"
She casts me a sad smile. "No. I didn't. But I kind of regret that."
"You shouldn't," I object. "There's nothing cool about hanging out with the trouble makers, no matter what you think."
"I kinda‘ like it," she says, winking at me.
"Because you have no idea," I say.
She really doesn't. I wonder if it would excite her to hear that one of my fucked up gambler buddies is threatening her life right now just so he can get my attention. I won't tell her about it because, despite her eagerness for danger, I don't think she could handle the reality. She doesn't have to know about the pictures, and she doesn't have to know about the extra surveillance I've organized around her home and work place. They are my security and I've shown them who they're supposed to look out for, which is why they didn't make a move when Peter approached Lily in front of the bar. They're doing a good job at keeping Lily safe without her knowing anything about it. Then again, it's easy to hide from someone who doesn't have a clue that she's being watched. Lily's cluelessness also makes her an easy target for Titus.
"You're right," she says. "I have no idea. That's why your story is so fascinating to me."
I glare at her. "Are we still talking about that article?"
Her eyes widen in shock, and she raises her hands in defense.
"No, no, that's not what I was saying," she exclaims. "I wasn't saying it's interesting to me as a journalist. Just to me, Lily."
We exchange a look, and she reaches for her mug again. This time, the tea has cooled down enough for her to be able to sip on it.
"Well, I'm glad my life is so entertaining to you," I say while she drinks. "Because it sure as hell was no fun living through it."
Her face goes slack and she pales slightly. "I'm sorry. That was really dumb of me to say."
I lean forward and take her beautiful face between my hands. She looks at me, her blue eyes full of remorse.
"You never have to apologize for showing an interest in me and everything I am," I tell her. "It's flattering. I'm just not used to it."
A bitter smile crosses her face.
I know there will be more questions, and most of them will hurt to answer. But I'm beginning to think that I will be ready to answer her honestly one day. She deserves to know.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lily
Our first proper date. Jed said he wanted to do this right and he kept his word. It's a Friday night, and he let me know a few days ago that we will spend the evening at a five-star hotel restaurant.
It's hard to take myself seriously, seeing how nervous this evening is making me. I spent half the week wondering what I should wear. I know that he likes dark colors on me when it comes to lingerie, but other than his love for dresses, I know very little about his taste. But I'm also aware that this question is probably more important to me than it is to him.
He picks me up in a black stretch limousine and pours us a glass of champagne on our way to the restaurant.
"You look very dapper," I compliment him after he lets me know that he likes the jade green cocktail dress I picked to wear for him tonight.
He's wearing a black suit that hugs his buff body perfectly, complimented with a slim silver tie. His hair is gelled to the side, making him look older, but in a good way.
He leads me inside the restaurant. It's an expensive steak house I've heard about before, but I never imagined myself eating here, ever. It's way out of my price range.
When we’re directed to our table at the far end of the restaurant, right beside a window with an amazing view across the night skyline, he pulls the chair away for me to sit and then orders us a bottle of expensive champagne.
"Or would you prefer Scotch?" he asks, winking at me as he sits down.
"Champagne will do," I reply, giving him the same cheeky wink.
My heart is fluttering, and when I reach for the glass of water that's been brought to us right as we sat down, I notice that my hands are shaking. He notices it, too.
"Nervous?" he asks.
"This feels like a first date," I reply.
"It is a first date," he reminds me. "The only difference is that I've already fucked you twice this week and am not sitting here with blue balls."
I blush at his words and glance around to make sure that no one is sitting close enough to hear him. Of course, my behavior makes him chuckle.
"Don't worry," he says. "No one here will know what a naughty girl you are."
Our champagne arrives and he immediately raises his glass to me. We clink glasses, smiling at each other like two teenage idiots, as if everything we're doing is just an act. I guess, in a way it is.
"Why is this so weird?" I ask him.
Jed smiles and shrugs. "I can only speak for me – it's been a while."
"Yeah," I whisper. "For me, too."
"How is your article going?" he wants to know.
"I turned it in," I say. "But I don't think it's going to make it as an editorial. They may not even use it at all."
He tilts his head and casts me a quizzical look. "How come?"
Because it sucks would be the honest answer. I don't feel like I've done a good job in delivering a story that tells anything new or grabs the reader's attention enough. Since I had no true survivor story to include in the article, I shifted the focus back to PTSD in general and the counseling work of Joe and his facility. I think it's still an important story to tell, but I don't know if my editor in chief will agree.
"It doesn't have the bite to it that it needs to become something special," I explain.
Jed furls his brows. "I hope you're not blaming me for that."
I hastily shake my head. "I'd never. I can't even imagine the spanking that I would earn for that."
I love seeing the broad smile tha
t crosses his face at my words. That was exactly what I was aiming for, to make him smile. I still remember the man who had been sitting at the bar waiting for me on that first evening when we were supposed to have our interview. Jed has changed so much within the short time that we've known each other, and I want to believe that I played a role in that.
"Tell me if I'm going too far," I say, receiving a confused look from him. "But there's still so much I'd like to know about you. And under our new rules and the condition that my article is done anyway, I think I should at least be allowed to ask, right?"
His gaze darkens, but he nods. "I can't promise you all the answers you seek, though."
"Who's the woman in the pictures?" I ask straight away. "The pictures you hid away after I saw them on my first visit to your place?"
He shakes his head. "That's one of the questions I'm not willing to talk about just yet."
He opens the menu and starts studying it as if we weren't in the middle of a heavy conversation. I roll my eyes at his stubbornness, but let it go for now. How silly of me to think he'd actually answer that one. I should have started off smaller.
We order our food and engage in superficial small talk for most of the evening, commenting on our work week, on the lavish interior of the restaurant we're sitting in, and – once it's been served – the marvelous food.
I'm angry at myself for putting that sensitive question out there so blatantly, as it casts a shadow on an otherwise beautiful evening. He doesn't seem to be angry or annoyed at me, but he remains absentminded and the way he speaks to me is oddly stiff.
Another thing I notice is that he keeps scanning our surroundings, as if he was waiting for someone to join us.
"Is everything okay?" I ask him after our plates are cleared. "Are you expecting someone?"
He looks at me as if I caught him doing something bad and quickly shakes his head.
"Everything is fine," he assures me. "I was just checking for the bathroom."
"I thought you've been here before?" I wonder.
He looks at me with a blank expression. Something is definitely up, but I guess this will be another thing he wouldn't give me an answer to.
Maybe he's planing a surprise for me? He's acting like someone who does, and he did say that he wanted our first date to be special. If you ask me, it's already special enough with the exuberant form of transportation, the food, the lush environment.
But who knows?
"Excuse me for a moment," he says.
My heart flutters when he gets up, as the idea of an impending surprise forms in my head.
But when he gets up from his seat, I notice something else that immediately changes my focus.
He's wearing a gun underneath his suit jacket.
Jed is armed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jed
That fucking asshole. I hate that he managed to get inside my head like this. Next to Lily's insistence on asking me the one question that I'm not willing to answer yet, this fucking bastard manages to ruin the evening for me.
I didn't hear from him for a while, and just as I was about to withdraw my security guards thinking that he wasn't capable of more than an idle threat, he showed up again.
This time, he sent a letter in the mail, made to look like an innocent bill or notice. There were no pictures, just a letter with two simple but ominous sentences.
"When you least expect it," it read. And, "Right in front of your eyes."
There was no return address, of course, and no way of tracing this back to him, just like the package. I contacted the police, but since I couldn't provide any hard evidence, they aren‘t able to do anything about it. I didn't expect anything else, which is why I've relied on my private security company for a while now.
It's so obvious what he's doing that it'd almost bore me, if the potential consequences weren't so gut-wrenching.
Titus wants to make me feel as if I can't protect her. Just like I couldn't protect Victoria.
He knows me too well, and that's his strength.
The letter came two days before our date. Instead of withdrawing security, I increased my staff, especially the ones watching Lily. I'm surprised she still hasn't noticed that she's practically been surrounded by her own team of bodyguards for days now. They follow her everywhere, even inside her office building. I contacted and informed her boss about the security guy standing in front of the newspaper's offices all day and asked him not to tell Lily about it, for the sake of her own safety.
There are at least two guys at her apartment building at all times, even when she's not home, in case he tries to gain access to her place while she's gone.
Titus hasn't been seen anywhere. Ever.
It could still be nothing but an idle threat, but the threats in his letter make me more than nervous.
Right in front of your eyes.
If that's true, it means that Lily is in the most danger when she's with me.
When I excused myself from the table to visit the restroom, I was in fact checking in with my guys.
"Nothing," one of them assures me. He's been standing outside the restaurant entrance all evening. Another one is positioned at the back entrance next to the kitchen, and he gives me the same assessment as the guy based at the front.
"Nothing, all quiet, boss," he says.
"Thank you."
I pat him on the shoulder. These guys have no idea how much I owe them. I'm paying them generously, but even the slightest peace of mind from having them there over the past few days is worth so much more.
Still, I can't relax. And it turns out that I shouldn't.
When I return to the table, Lily is staring up at me through wide eyes, her face pale and painted with fright.
"What's wr –?"
"Why are you wearing a gun?!" she hisses at me, the terror apparent in her voice even though she‘s whispering and her words are only audible to me.
I sit down opposite her and reciprocate her stare. How on earth does she know that I'm armed? She must have seen the gun when I got up from the table.
She looks terrified. Is she scared of me? It hurts to see her look at me like this, as if I was the one she needs to be scared of.
"It's just a precaution," I tell her, trying to calm her down by sounding as nonchalant as possible.
But she doesn't buy it.
"Precaution for what?" she asks. "No normal person brings a gun on a dinner date!"
"Hush," I tell her, placing my index finger in front of my lips. "Calm down, Lily. You have nothing to worry about."
"Yes, I do!" she insists. "Why are you carrying a gun with you?"
She pauses, and her eyes widen even farther as she seems to process an even more terrifying thought.
"Did you always have a gun with you?" she asks. "Every time I saw you?"
I shake my head. "Don't you think you would have noticed?"
She shrugs, shaking her head aggressively.
"Who knows?" she panics. "What the hell do I know about you, really? What's this about?"
I raise my hands in a conciliatory motion.
"Lily, calm down, it's really nothing –"
"Yes, it is!" she objects. "You fucking tell me why you're wearing a gun as a precaution or I'm so outta' here!"
She lifts her hand and points her index finger towards the door. Her eyes are glaring; I've never seen her this infuriated. The tremors in her hands and fingers are obvious telltale signs of how scared she is right now – and she doesn't even have a valid reason considering she isn’t even aware of the danger surrounding her. Her lips are trembling as she stares at me, waiting for an explanation.
I can't tell her. Telling her about the threats would completely freak her out.
"Please, trust me," I tell her, trying to reach for her hand, but she moves away from me. "There's nothing for you to fear."
She shakes her head. "I'm not going home with a man who's carrying a gun and won't tell me why."
"Lily –"
She points at the side of my body where the gun is hidden beneath my jacket.
"Are you doing this to be more interesting?" she asks, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "Because if so, that's fucking sick!"
I shake my head. "Please, Lily, you're overreacting. There's nothing to –"
"Oh, fuck you!" she yells, loud enough for other customers to turn their heads in our direction.
"Get me a car," Lily says, her eyes watering.
"Lily, please –"
"Get me a car!" she repeats, now almost screaming. "I want to go home. Not your home. Mine. Alone."
My heart clenches painfully. I get up from my chair and approach her, trying to touch her shoulders so I can calm her down, but she evades my touch.
"Jed, please," she whispers, now looking at me with pleading eyes. "You either tell me what this is about and why you feel the need to carry around a gun as a precaution during our first date – or I'm gone. For good."
She squints her eyes at me, holding her arms tightly against her body as she awaits a reply.
I can't tell her, I just can't. I don't want her to leave, but I don't want to freak her out even more.
My mind is not quick enough to work out another reply, any kind of story, anything I could tell her, just so she'd stay and not be suspicious.
"It's a... habit," I try. "I've carried a gun for so long, always needing to protect myself, it's hard to let go."
She observes me for a few moments, furling her brows, her lips pressed flat.
"You're lying," she says. "You just said that it's a precaution. You're lying to me right now, aren't you?"
I sigh, because she's right. There's no point in lying to her. One of the drawbacks of being this close to another person is just this, the relentless honesty that both sides demand.
I'm dumbfounded and don't see a way of talking myself out of this. I know I have to do something, say something, to make her stay. But what is there to do, if I can't come out with the truth?
