by A. R. Torre
“Like stuffing envelopes,” he says with a smile. “That’d probably give me more packages to deliver. More opportunities to stare at your closed door.”
“Maybe I’ll start opening it for you. Just to stop your hand from making any more girly signatures.”
He grins at me, and I grin at him, and there is a spark of possibility in our exchange. Maybe. Maybe there is a possibility for happiness after all, despite my online slutdom and psychopathic urges.
Then there is a different flicker inside of me, my dark demons reminding me of their power, and I meet Jeremy’s eyes. “You should probably go.”
Maybe. Maybe not. I have to remember what I am.
CHAPTER 79
“YOU SHOULD PROBABLY go.” I repeat the phrase unnecessarily, testing the words on my tongue while my heart argues with the logic.
“Okay.” He stands and walks to his bag, slides the laptop in, and zips it closed.
I haven’t had much physical interaction in a long time, haven’t ever shared this space with another body. I’m out of practice in relationships, courtesies, and social norms. So maybe this is normal, this casual acceptance of my directive. “Okay? You don’t mind?”
He turns, grins. “I was here because I thought you might need someone. You seem to be back on your feet. Plus,” he adds with a wink, “I needed my truck back. Wanted to make sure you didn’t run to the border with it.”
I laugh, an awkward sound that my throat is still getting used to. Giggling, it knows. I’ve giggled more in the past three years than four preteen girls at a Justin Bieber concert. Men seem to love a girlish giggle, especially when it’s in response to some bit of wit they have conjured up. I hesitate as he moves closer, then allow him to wrap his arms around me, a sigh slipping out of me as he nuzzles and then gently kisses my neck, breathing in the scent of me before letting go.
“I’m gonna hold you to that date,” he warns. “I want a full evening—dinner, movie, the whole works.” He does that thing again, that casual grin that my heart finds irresistible.
I scowl despite the pattering of my heart. “I never verbally agreed to that.”
“You accepted my keys. It’s kind of a physical acceptance.”
I follow him to the door, then pull it open and shoot him a pointed look. He leans in, hovering above my lips, asking for permission, and then moves forward when I don’t pull away, placing one soft kiss on me, a moment that is way too short, my lips begging for more as he pulls away. “You know, I can always hold your packages hostage,” he whispers, before straightening and stepping out into the hall.
I narrow my eyes, sticking my head out into the hall. “You wouldn’t dare!” I call to his departing back.
“Two weeks from tonight. A date. I’ll call first to confirm.”
I shut the door with a smile. A smile that darkens, the jitters of my soul reminding me of who I am, what I consist of. What I am capable of. I hear the squeal of metal as the elevator descends and walk to the window, watching as he climbs into his truck and shuts the door.
I have to remind myself that “out there” is normality. Something that I am not. Just because I left this apartment, walked down that street, and got into a car doesn’t mean that I am normal. I am locked away for a reason. I have to remember that. I don’t need a first-date disaster, a drive home with that beautiful man dead in the passenger seat, his head hanging loosely from tendrils of skin, blood staining that soft gray leather. I know what I am. I know what I have done. That is what I need to remember.
I pull off my sweatshirt and pajama pants, slip on lace thongs and a push-up bra. Then I power up the computer, turn on the spotlights, and return to life.
CHAPTER 80
LIFE AFTER DEATH is a strange thing. I have forbidden myself to follow Annie, to meddle in her life any more than I already have. It is a selfish mandate, fueled mainly by my desire not to know how the other half lives. To see the media storm that is no doubt surrounding her return, the images of her and her parents, her normal happy life…it will remind me too much of Summer and Trent—of the life they should have lived out—of the pieces of life I am missing out on now. It is easier for me not to look, for me to concentrate on another thing: the eye of the camera. I need to continue surviving as I did before: eighteen-hour days spent with clients, wearing out my body and soul, so I have little to think about at the end of the day except sleep.
But I am different now, The step into the outside world has poured fresh blood into my veins. I feel like Simon—the need for more more more tugging at me. At night, when I lie down on the bed, my thoughts move to loneliness before bloodshed, the yearning for arms wrapped around me stronger than death before me. It was a mistake, having Jeremy stay over those nights. I can’t stop thinking about it—his easy grin in the morning, his utter lack of anything sinister—just carefree kisses placed softly on my neck. Not even a push for sex, his moves restricted to comforting kisses and touch. A hand trailing over my neck when I opened my eyes. An arm encircling my waist and pulling me to his hard, warm body. Soft lips pressed to mine, slow kisses until my drugged mouth responded, letting him in to explore further. The heat of his breath against my hair as we spooned in my bed, his leg wrapped around me, holding my body captive in his strong and capable arms.
It’s been eight days since he left my apartment. I have spoken to him through the closed door every day since then—his deliveries resuming their steady and dependable schedule. He hasn’t pushed, hasn’t argued, hasn’t done anything but accept my regular response, his mouth twitching that gorgeous smile through my peephole view. I don’t know why I won’t open the door. I am fairly sure, in the middle of the day, with this man I have lain with, that I could control myself. He is aware of my weakness, has already shown an aptitude for defeating me in the game of combat. Plus, as evidenced by a cheerful yellow Post-it note left three days ago on one of my packages, he no longer carries box cutters. It’d be difficult for me to kill him with my bare hands. So maybe I keep the door shut to protect my heart and not his body. Whatever the reason, I haven’t opened the door and I now yearn for his touch.
CHAPTER 81
ANNIE
ANNIE SITS IN a small room, her mother and father on either side. Across the desk are a woman and a man, both in dark suits, their faces unfamiliar. She can feel the tension in the room, coming from her parents, their nerves radiating in waves from their body. They shouldn’t be nervous. She knows what to say, remembers everything she has been told.
“Annie, we only have a few questions for you, but it is important that you tell the truth. Do you understand?” The man speaks slowly, in a tone that is normally used with babies.
She nods solemnly, keeping her expression quiet, her eyes big.
“You’ve told us about Uncle Michael and the shed. But you haven’t told us how you got out. How you got to the church that your parents found you at.”
“I don’t remember.” She speaks clearly, looking the man in the eyes.
“Did someone threaten you? Tell you not to tell?”
She feels her mother tighten beside her and speaks quickly. “Uncle Michael made me drink the soda, and then I fell asleep. I woke up at the church.”
The man stares at her, then at his partner, the two of them exhaling in frustration.
“I think Annie’s been through enough,” her mother says, standing and tugging Annie to her feet. “I’m taking her home now. Where she belongs.”
CHAPTER 82
IT’S A SAD world when I am bored by the sight of a grizzly-bearded trucker modeling lace panties. I fight a yawn, move briefly upward, out of sight of the camera, and let the yawn out. Once I recompose, I settle back down, an impressed smile on my features.
“Oh…,” I purr. “The sight of your ass in that lace is so fucking hot. You like that, don’t you?”
Mistyone62 looks over his shoulder, at the cam—his dirty face a mess of want and arousal. “Oh God, yes…” He giggles, the sound
contrasting with his gruff features.
I bite my bottom lip, widening my eyes in a show of amazement. Then I hear something. Shit. I straighten, looking toward my door. I look at the cam and hold up a finger to my lips in a shushing motion.
The sound repeats—a knock. It is so out of place at this time of night that I almost second-guess the sound. I glance at my computer screen, at the clock in the upper right-hand corner: 11:34pm. I lean forward, speaking quickly. “Misty, I’m sorry, but I have to go. My roommate just got home.”
His screen quickly goes dark. The threat of exposure is always their greatest fear. God bless my imaginary roommate, who has gotten me out of more ridiculous situations than my stun gun or knife ever will. He types a few sentences of text, promising to be on tomorrow, then he is gone, the END CHAT message filling the screen. I am already moving, stepping across the room and placing my eye to the peephole, taking a deep breath before looking through.
It’s Jeremy, his strong body showcased in a sleeveless shirt and what looks like running shorts, his hair damp, earbuds pulled out and hanging around his neck. I swallow the drool that is threatening to drip from my mouth. I can almost smell the masculine scent of his sweat, the glisten on his muscles visible even through the warped view of the peephole.
“Leave it. Thank you.” I speak the words of our script, a smile stretching across my face.
He laughs, his head tilting backward, the carefree movement catching my heart through the peephole. He rests a hand on the door, leaning closer in a way that allows me to hear him more clearly. “You’re up. I was worried you’d be sleeping.”
“What, and leave half of the men in America hanging?” I say dryly, eliciting another chuckle from him, his grin widening when he hears my voice.
“I didn’t mean to bother you.” He runs a hand through his hair, my eyes drinking in every inch of the movement. “I just needed to hear your voice. I—” He curses under his breath. “Fuck, I don’t know. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
I bite the side of my smile, trying to keep it from spreading. “You just come from the gym?” Sweat. Sweat tastes good. You can lick it off of him. Maybe nibble on his skin. Draw a little blood. Then a little more. Fuck, maybe he’s a masochist. Just let him in and let us work on him. Tie him up. The voices inside my head titter, greedy with excitement and the possibility of blood. I push them to the side. I have missed his voice, his casual air that accepts the twisted woman that I am.
He glances down at his outfit. “No. I mean, I was out on a run when I decided to stop by. Sorry it’s so late.”
I don’t bother responding to that apology. He can stop by at four a.m. if he wants to. Five a.m. if he takes that shirt off and lets me see his sweaty chest, heaving with the evidence of his exertion. I want to touch that chest, want to run my fingers over the cut of his muscles. When he was here with me, spending those days…sex was the last thing on my mind, Jeremy acting the perfect gentleman. But now I have recovered from my trip outside, now I am back into my world, away from the breeze and the sounds and the experience of sharing air, vehicles, space, with others…and contact is an experience I miss. The unpredictability of real life, outside of this apartment. In 6E, I control everything, no variables present to fuck with my normal. Out there are people. People like him doing things that affect every thought, action, and emotion that exists.
“May I come in?”
My breath hitches, the push and pull inside of me too strong to ignore. “I don’t know,” I say slowly, running my hand along the seam of the door, my ear pressing expectantly against it, hoping he will continue speaking, my body craving another bit of his voice.
“Is it because you worry about hurting me?”
I nod, forgetting for a moment that he can’t see me. “Yeah.”
“I could hold you down. Straddle your body. Like we did the first time we met.”
“You mean when I was naked?”
He looks up at the peephole, flashing me another smile. “Yeah. You naked now?”
I laugh, looking down at my sheer bra-and-panty set. “Not quite.”
He can control me. He’s shown that before, when my attempt to take his life was thwarted by his strength and agility. This time he will be prepared, will be more capable, especially if I move into a position of restraint willingly, before the urge to kill strikes. I toy with the notion of letting him in, the dark desires in the back of my mind sitting up and taking notice. I shouldn’t. It is too dangerous, too risky.
He sits on the floor by my door, leaving my field of vision, the door moving slightly as if he is leaning his weight against it. I follow suit, sliding down the steel surface until my butt hits the floor, my ear pressed against the cold metal.
“You didn’t try to kill me when I stayed with you.” His voice is quieter, and I have to strain to hear it.
“I know. I think my body was recovering. For a minute, I thought that maybe…” My words fade and I feel him shift.
“Maybe what?”
“I had hoped that maybe I was better. Back to normal.” And I had hoped. I had allowed myself, during those three days with Jeremy, to dream of normality. I had been at peace, my demons quiet, my psyche granting me the gift of touching him, kissing him, without thinking about how good his head would look decapitated from his body. It had been almost cruelty, getting those days, a glimpse into a life I will never have.
“You used to be normal?” He sounds so surprised that I laugh, a real laugh, one that bubbles out of me and feels incredible.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I used to be totally normal. Till I was seventeen. That’s when things changed.”
He doesn’t push the conversation further, a fact I am grateful for. I don’t want to ruin this moment by bringing up my past, don’t want to appear any more freakish than I already am. We sit in silence.
“It’s okay, though, right?” His voice breaks the silence. “This is your normal now. And you’re happy, right?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I’m happy.” And I am. Right now, with him, I am happy. In that realization, I decide to open the door.
I move quickly, before my brain has a chance to react—to tell me that what I’m doing is foolish. I stand, running my hands over my body, adjusting, pushing into place, and putting the lines of my lingerie where they should go. I fluff my hair, wet my lips, and reach for the handle, my heart beating a rapid pulse in my chest.
CHAPTER 83
THE KNOB TURNS and I yank, a smile on my face, my heart dropping when the door doesn’t move. Doesn’t budge. The crack of metal on metal reminds me of the dead bolt that holds me in, a dead bolt I have forgotten about in my excitement at having a visitor. I laugh despite my frustration. There is humor in the fact that when I am finally ready to open the damn door to my life, it is locked, and from my own directive.
Jeremy’s voice has risen, and I look through the peephole to see him standing. “It’s locked,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Thanks. I know that.”
“So unlock it.”
I groan, leaning against the door. “I can’t. I don’t have a key.”
“What?” He sounds alarmed, and I look through the small bulb of glass, to see his fists clenched. “What if you get hurt? Or need help?”
“It’s kind of hard for me to get hurt in here. And if I was in a situation where I needed help, I’d just wait for the morning. That’s when he unlocks me.”
“Who?” The word is vehement, angry. As if he will rip apart the keeper of the key, all in an attempt to protect my independence.
“Jeremy…” I try to calm him with my voice. “Calm down. It’s for my own good. At night…” I pause. “At night is when I am the most dangerous. A lot of times I can’t control myself, and I want to leave the apartment—to go out and hurt someone. I need this lock. It is what keeps me inside. The day is easier. I can control the day, can survive without the lock.”
“I don’t want you caged in like an animal. That is bulls
hit!” He pounds the door with his fist, the strong impact creating only a dull thud of sound, every dollar spent on its construction showing its worth.
I shake my head, stepping closer to the door. “You don’t understand, Jeremy. What I am, how I think…it isn’t like you, or like others. I have survived this long because of how I live. Because of the rules that keep my sanity, and my urges, in place.”
There is silence, and I wait. I do not begrudge the lock. The only times I hate the lock are when it is needed most—when I am blind with need and it is the only thing keeping me inside. At those times I scream and pound against the door, cursing Simon, cursing myself. But right now, when my mind is clear? I don’t care if there is 180 pounds of yummy on the other side. I know what I need. And I need and appreciate the restraint.
“Mind if I talk to you a little longer?”
I grin. “I’m good with that.”
I sit back down, hearing his voice move as he does the same, and we talk, our conversation passing back and forth through the steel door for almost an hour. Until my eyes droop and my voice slurs. Then he says good night, giving me one last peephole glance at his beautiful body before he walks down the hall.
“Be careful running home,” I call out, watching him step slowly backward, away from my door. “There are a lot of crazies out there.”
He grins, a cocky smile that lights up the dim hallway. “I like crazies. Me and them…we have a little bit of a thing.”
A little bit of a thing. It is a glimmer, a crack, a chance of something more, and it is what I focus on as I drag myself into bed, my eyes drifting closed before I even have a chance to pull my blanket up.
