Annihilate Me

by Christina Ross

  I brought a finger to my mouth and closed my eyes. No man had ever said that he was in love with me. And for him to say so in a letter was intentional—it meant that I could always revisit this moment. He didn’t want it to be something I would remember in a blur—he wanted it to be something tangible that I could return to whenever I wanted to. I couldn’t process my own thoughts or feelings at that point—they were scattered. Overwhelmed. Instead, I just started to read.

  “There are several kinds of love,” Steinbeck’s passage began. “One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you—of kindness and consideration and respect—not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.

  “You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply—of course it isn’t puppy love.

  “But I don’t think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it—and that I can tell you.

  “Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.

  “The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.

  “If you love someone—there is no possible harm in saying so—only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.

  “Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.

  “It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another—but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.”

  He ended the note with this: “For me, it’s the second kind of love that I feel for you. I’m saying this to you now not because I don’t want to say it in person—I plan to do so soon—but so that you have a love letter from me. People don’t write love letters anymore, but I think they’re important. I think letters between lovers are romantic. It can define a relationship. Lift it. I wanted you to know in writing how much you mean to me. In time, I hope you feel the same as I do. I’m looking forward to that day. I do love you, Jennifer. Now, you know that. I love you—Alex.”

  With a dizzying sensation, I carefully folded the note and put it in my clutch. I took a breath and looked out at the city, which seemed to sigh back at me with a breeze that encompassed me. My pulse raced. At that moment, my father’s voice started to encroach and steal away my happiness, but I pushed him away with a strength I’d never possessed. I denied him access to this moment, I shut him out of this moment, and I locked the door so he couldn’t find a way inside. I was determined to savor this letter without interruption from the corrupt, abusive drunk who happened to be my father.

  Did I love Alex? I wasn’t sure. What was love? It was a foreign concept to me, at least romantic love was. Steinbeck didn’t address sex when he spoke above love. Instead, he went to the core of what love was, saying the best kind of love gave you strength, courage, goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had. That’s what being with Alex was like for me.

  Am I in love with him?

  Before I could answer the question, Alex came up beside me and put his arm around my waist. His sudden presence gave me a start, but I stilled it. “You jumped me,” I said.

  “Sorry.” I turned to him, and he looked happy. He kissed me gently on the cheek and asked if I was ready to go.

  “Let’s stay for a bit.”

  “But you said that you wanted to leave?”

  “I’ve changed my mind. People are dancing near the orchestra. How about a dance, and then we can leave?”

  “I’d love that. I’d love to dance with you again.”

  Am I in love with you?

  “First, how did it go with Dufort?”

  “He’s intrigued. He knows that Wenn Entertainment is in the countries he can’t seem to get into. We’re going to meet on Friday. I think we’ll come to some sort of collaboration.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “You’re the one who thought of it.”

  “You’re the one who sold it to him.”

  “Which makes us one hell of a team.”

  “It does.”

  And it did. In so many ways.

  “Later, I want you tell me about the idea you had in mind for him,” I said. “At that meeting, you might want to pitch it to him. Because of your contacts, a lot of goodwill will be between you at that point. That’s an opportunity for more business.”

  He dropped his voice and pressed his mouth against my ear. “You know what opportunity I want? I want to be with you now.”

  “Well, there’s a change in subject.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Probably best not to do so here. Immaculata is here tonight, and she’s been tossing me daggers since you’ve been with Dufort.”

  “Immaculata is here?”

  “Mmm-hmm. She’s with Richard Gould.”

  “The AT&T Richard Gould?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, that’s how she got in. Fine. Let her lose herself in him. I’m all for it. Let’s dance. And then let’s get out of here. I want to get you into bed. There are all kind of things I want to do to you. And to say to you. In fact, you’re not going to know what hit you when I’m finished.”

  Funny, because I already didn’t know what had hit me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  When we left the party after an intimate waltz, during which Immaculata made it a point to step away from her date and openly watch us, Alex texted his driver on the elevator ride down, and then he pressed me against one of the walls. It was a long drop to the lobby, and he used every second of it to run his hands along my body before he knelt before me, lifted my dress, and kissed my sex.

  “In about fifteen minutes, I’m going to lick you here,” he said, kissing me on the spot where he was going to lick me. “And here. And maybe here where you’re already wet. In fact, I will go there. And my tongue is definitely going in there.” He looked up at me. “But why wait fifteen minutes when I can have you now?”

  In a flash, he turned around and pressed a button that stopped the elevator. Likely knowing he didn’t have much time before an alarm sounded, he fell back on his knees, lifted my dress, pulled down my panties, and covered me with his mouth. His tongue pressed against my folds and swirled around them for a moment before he entered me with his tongue. I gasped at the sensation and instinctively reached out a hand, put it on the back of his head, and pulled him closer to me.

  As risky as this was, none of it felt wrong. I looked above us for a camera tucked within one of the corners, but I didn’t see any. Not that I cared much. I was with Alex Wenn. What was anyone going to say or do to us for what he was doing to me now?

  I ran my hand through his hair, and whimpered as he brought me closer to the edge. I could feel his breath hot against my thighs while he eagerly and successfully tried to please me. I thought about the letter he wrote to me and how he said that he was in love with me. And despite confusing this moment for me because I didn’t know what to make of it, or even how to process it, the way he laid himself bare to me in that letter actually fueled me now.

  For the first time in my life, I felt whole. I ground myself into him and came almost at once. I cried out, but he didn’t stop. He went deeper. When he was satisfied, he pulled out and flicked his tongue over my clit. Then he brushed across it with the stubble on his chin, which made me come again, this time to the point that my knees buckled.

  And then the alarm went off.

  Quickly, Alex slid out from under my dress and hit a button. The alarm stopped and the elevator lurched into motion again. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his mouth while looking at me with an arched eyeb
row before he came over and kissed me hard on my lips.

  “Those are your first two for tonight,” he said.

  I was practically panting. I pulled up my panties as the elevator slowed, and shot him a look as I tried to steady myself. “That was incredible.”

  “That was just the beginning.”

  The elevator stopped, and Alex shot me a sexy, mischievous look. The doors slid open, and I reached for his hand, which I leaned into because my body was still weak from what he’d just done to me.

  We walked across the lobby, went through a door that was held open for us, and slipped into the night. Ahead of us was the car. It wasn’t the limousine we usually took—this time it was a large, beautiful black Mercedes. It looked different from any other Mercedes I’d ever seen—it looked like a tank. A brute of a man was standing beside the rear door and holding it open for us. Just looking at him, I knew he was one of Alex’s guards, but I said nothing. Another man was at the wheel. I glanced around and took in Manhattan at night. Light reflected off glass. Traffic roared down Fifth. On the sidewalk, pedestrians either strolled or walked at a quick clip.

  We were nearly at the car when gunshots rang out.

  “Rifle!” the man holding the door said.

  People on the sidewalk screamed.

  Everything else that happened in that moment was a blur.

  I was propelled into the car so hard that my head struck the door as I slid across the seat.

  Another gunshot sounded, ripping into the sky.

  Behind me, I heard another scream. It was a woman. I heard people run. I heard people shout. Chaos had found its place here, and it rooted itself in an effort to bloom.

  The driver got out of the car, pulled out a gun, and hurried over to Alex. I heard him order Alex into the car, but Alex was shouting something to the man who held the door open for us. I saw the man break into a run and rush down the sidewalk. Then I saw the driver get behind Alex and shove him toward the open door.

  Another gunshot fired, but this time something went terribly wrong. Something connected with Alex’s chest. Winded, he collapsed onto me just as the door slammed shut behind him.

  The driver got back into the front seat, swung around, and reached out a hand to grab Alex’s arm.

  “Were you hit?”

  It was difficult for him to breathe. Frightened, I put my hands on his body. I felt for the warmth of blood, but he was at the wrong angle. I cupped his face, and saw that he was struggling to breathe. Somewhere, he was hit. I was sure of it.

  “Stay with me!” I shouted. “Don’t you dare leave me!”

  The driver was trying to assess Alex, but he should have been driving. Getting us to a hospital. I glared at him.

  “He’s hurt,” I said. “Shot! Do something, for Christ’s sake!”

  The car sped away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Were you shot?” I asked Alex as we raced through the streets toward whatever hospital the driver was taking us to.

  He lifted his head, blinked, and finally was able to catch his breath. He turned over on the seat, and pressed his hand against his chest, but I could see that his shirt was dry, not wet with blood. I felt to make sure. He was dry.

  “No,” he said. “When I was pushed inside, I think my chest connected with the edge of the door. It knocked the wind out of me and I fell on top of you.” He struggled to sit up and I put my hand on his knee. “I’m OK,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  I turned to the driver, whom I also knew was one of Alex’s guards since he carried a gun. I laced into him. “What the hell was that?” I said.

  “A scare tactic. They were using a rifle. If they wanted to shoot him, they would have.”

  “Who are they?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “Where were they shooting from?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say from one of the buildings across the street.”

  “So they knew we were here tonight.”

  “Apparently.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “When are you going to know? How long has this been going on?”

  “For a while,” Alex said. He hesitated before he spoke, but then he seemed to make a decision, and turned to me. “For the past week, I’ve been receiving death threats.”

  “Death threats?”

  “Another one came in this morning.”

  “Came in how?”

  “On my cell. A text.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I don’t want to worry you with that.”

  “You think I’m not worried after what just happened? After being shot at? And after that admission? Of course I’m worried. What did it say?”

  “That I’ll be dead soon.”

  He saw the look of fear that crossed my face, and stopped me before I could say anything. “Security is looking into it. If we need to bring in the FBI, we will.”

  “Who would want to kill you?”

  “Take your pick. Wenn has taken over dozens of companies and corporations. We’ve driven people out of business. People have lost their jobs because of us. My father was a frequent target of threats. As I said, this is nothing new for me, with the exception of what just happened. No threat has ever risen to that level. Otherwise, I’m used to it.”

  “What kind of life is that?”

  “The life I inherited from my father.”

  My heart started to pound in my ears. I thought I’d nearly lost him, which at this point in our relationship was incomprehensible to me. I was frightened to my core. I couldn’t lose him now. “This started when we were in Maine, didn’t it?”

  “It started before we went to Maine.”

  I couldn’t help feeling a spark of anger and betrayal. “And you didn’t tell me before we left? You knew about this, and still we had sex? Why would you do that to me? I’m emotionally invested in you now.”

  “Do you believe for a minute that I’m not as emotionally invested in you? Perhaps even more than you are in me? When we were in Maine, I still thought this was just another one of those pranks. Another fake threat. I’ve had dozens of them. And I didn’t initiate what happened between us that first night in Maine, Jennifer. You did.”

  “You still could have have stopped it. You knew how vulnerable I was at that point. You knew what I was giving up. Why didn’t you stop it, especially with this threat against your life? You should have stopped it. With the knowledge you had, nothing should have happened that night, or on the beach, or in the elevator a moment ago. I’m intimate with you now in ways that I shouldn’t be.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “What did you think was going to happen when we went to Maine?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Oh, please. We both knew.”

  I collected myself and focused on the real matter at hand—his safety, my safety and how we could end this now so we could move forward with our lives. “When will you get the FBI involved?”

  “Probably tomorrow.”

  “Why tomorrow? Why not just bring them in now? This is serious.” And then I knew why. “Because of the press, right? You’re worried about how news of this might affect Wenn’s stock.”

  “That’s right. So is the board.”

  “Screw the board. Screw Wenn. Your safety comes first. Certainly the FBI can keep this quiet. They’re the FBI for God’s sake. Get your team on the phone and get the investigation started. You said you’ve been receiving texts. Texts are sent through cell phones. Certainly, a name is attached to that cell phone.”

  “You’re being naïve.”

  “How am I being naïve?”

  “There are text services, Jennifer. Some of them offer a free trial—with no credit card attached. All they require is an email address, which both of us know can be bogus. And then there are TracFone’s. Do you know what they are? You pick them up at places like Wal-Ma
rt, Best Buy, Target. Wherever. They come pre-loaded with minutes. Nothing is traceable to the person who holds the phone, especially if that person paid for it in cash. It offers complete anonymity until you add more minutes via a credit card. If a TracFone is what this person used to send me those texts, don’t you think they’d just get another one when their minutes ran out rather than expose their identities to the world? Of course they would. You’re not seeing all sides of this. Those are just two right off the top of my head. I’m sure the FBI knows of a slew of other ways to send an anonymous text. And by the way—the number attached to the texts I was sent? When you call it, you get nothing. They’re not picking up for obvious reasons. I’ve tried.”

  “I don’t believe for a minute that the FBI doesn’t have the necessary skills and tools to deal with this kind of situation. What’s getting in your way now is you and your goddamned company. You hired me as a consultant—”

  “—a business consultant.”

  “That’s right, and that’s the advice I’m going to offer you now. Get the FBI on this. Let them do their work. Let them make this go away. If and when news hits that there was a threat against your life, we’ll be prepared to tell the press that we’re dealing with it. We’ll do our homework beforehand. We’ll counter with a shitload of news about other CEOs who have been similarly targeted, and make it sound as commonplace as it is. Just read the Times or the Journal. Or pay attention to the news in general. Or maybe even listen to a bit of common sense. Any person of great power—and that would be you, Alex—is vulnerable at any point in their lives. Your investors know that. They’d be fools not to. I don’t see how any of this could affect Wenn. Spin it correctly, and it might even be a win for Wenn.”

  “And how do you figure that?”

  “There’s no such thing as bad press, Alex. If there’s a way to spin this, should we need to, I’ll find it.”