by Linnea May
A waitress.
Their faces. The way they looked at me. The way their voices sounded. So disappointed. Disgusted.
A cold clamp closes around my heart every time I recall that moment. And I hate myself for it. I have always prided myself for not caring about what other people think.
After all, I am independent. Free. Different. I don’t need what they need. I opted out of that life years ago, when I decided to quit college and figure things out for myself. Free from any restrictions and expectations.
But where did that lead me, really?
I would never admit it, but Evan’s request was a lot more intimate than I am comfortable with. He touched a sensitive subject. Just like he unfolds me sexually, masterfully exploring my mind and body, he also seems to see right through me when it comes to this matter.
He noticed that I am not completely happy with the way things are in my life right now.
Even I didn’t know that until he pointed it out. Or I didn’t want to admit it.
Still, I loathe doing this. It is shortly after noon and I am still in bed. I didn’t even get up to eat something. I’m not hungry. Pen and paper in hand, I am trying to do his assignment.
What makes me write?
What do I want to achieve with it?
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
The truth is, I haven’t written anything in weeks. The last thing I wrote was a freelance job with a strict deadline. It was a text about designer furniture that would be used on a website. Why they would hire a no-name freelancer like me for the job was beyond me. It could only mean that they didn’t have a lot of money for marketing.
That job was tedious. But it paid well and I wish I could land more of this kind. But the market is so competitive and people are willing to do the work for less and less. Especially when they are just starting out like me. I am not willing to sell myself cheap - but that is what I would need to do.
I have no diploma, no qualification except the credentials that were given by former employers. And those are few.
Earn money, I write.
That is the truth. I would like to be able to earn money with writing. It doesn’t even matter what I write. Writing is easy to me. I can write two long pages full of praise about a set of living room furniture that I would never be able to afford and that I think is ugly. I can give a detailed and lively description of just about anything. I just need a clear assignment.
Because that is my weak spot. Creativity. I told Evan that I have no stories to tell, and that is the truth. I can write - but I need somebody to tell me what to write.
Earn money without being creative.
I don’t like that sentence and cross it soon after I wrote it.
Of course, I would need creativity. Writing is always a creative process, even when one is just following an order.
And besides, isn’t this what I always blamed others for being incapable of? Creativity.
How am I even that much different? Except for the fact that I don’t have a regular job and don’t find myself glued to the same chair every day in the same room, surrounded by the same people.
My shifts are more diverse and I have a tendency to change jobs every few months. But I don’t do that for fun but rather out of necessity.
I only work these jobs, because I have to. Because I am not earning money with my little writing exercises from home.
But I know all of this. I have known all of this before Evan came along and subtly pointed it out.
This is stupid. This whole assignment is stupid.
What does he expect? I have a million things going through my head - most of them are connected to him and what happened to us.
He cannot expect me to quietly sit down right now and evaluate my life, come up with a new idea and plans that haven’t shown themselves in years before.
Besides, I am hungry. I need to get some food for now.
I’m sure he’ll understand.
I throw the little notebook and my pen aside and finally get out of bed.
Just a few hours later, I am standing in front of our full body mirror in the hallway, giving myself a last minute check before I leave the house. I am wearing another one of my few dresses. One that he has not seen before. It is strapless, which - as I am to find out later - will turn out to be the perfect choice for tonight.
It is still warm outside, but it might get chilly later so I decide to add a light cardigan, even though it does not match with the style of the dress.
He promised to pick me up, but when I walk through the door downstairs, I don’t see his car anywhere. I hesitate for a moment and scan my surroundings while I wait for him at the top of the stairs. He is nowhere to be seen.
That’s odd. Usually, he would be a few minutes early, waiting for me. I have never been the one waiting for him.
This is the first time that I have stepped outside after what happened at the restaurant.
I feel weirdly exposed, scared even. But what am I scared of?
I keep looking around, left and right, scanning the familiar street up and down again. There is nothing unusual going on, as far as I can tell.
What am I scared of?
Why is he not here yet?
Freight and irrational thoughts begin to take a hold of me. I am not usually one to lose my head this easily, but as I am standing at the top of my stairs, unable to let go of the doorknob as if it was a lifeline, unpleasant ideas start to creep up.
What if he tricked me? Maybe he never planned to show up, maybe he is playing a sick little game with me?
He likes to control me, he likes the way he managed to have me wrapped around his finger in so many ways. What if it pleases him to humiliate me, too?
What if someone is taking pictures of me right now?
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I hiss to myself.
But at that exact same moment, I notice something. There is a car parked across the street. Nothing unusual at first sight. Just an average car parked like many others.
Except that, there is someone sitting in it. A middle-aged man. He is not paying any attention to me, but fiddling with something in his lap. From where I am standing, I cannot tell what it is.
My brain is pretty quick at completing the picture, though. A camera. He could be holding a camera.
My breathing accelerates. Please, no. Could I be right?
I keep staring at the man, but whatever he is doing keeps him pretty occupied. I wish I could see what he is doing.
And then he looks up. Not only that - he looks directly at me!
I gasp and turn around, fetching my key as fast as I possibly can to open the door.
I have no idea if he is still looking at me, or if he is even taking pictures. He might.
I don’t want to know.
My heart is racing and I am breathing heavily when I finally manage to open the door and flee back inside.
I run upstairs, chased by a kind of fear that I have never experienced before.
Is this what paranoia feels like? Or did I just do the right thing?
My hand is shaking as I try to unlock our apartment’s door. Yuka is not home, so at least I won’t have any explaining to do to her in regard to my erratic breathing and the suspicious drops of sweat that have been building on my forehead.
“Fuck,” I pant after closing the door behind me.
I am leaning against it as if I was trying to keep it safe and shut. My pulse is still racing and I now feel cold sweat covering my entire body. I peel myself out of the cardigan and throw it aside.
I close my eyes. Calm the fuck down, Nicky.
What is wrong with me?
I feel dizzy, which is not surprising, given the insane rhythm of breathing.
With my back to the door, I feel my knees giving in and I slowly slide downwards, placing myself on the floor, sitting with the back to the door.
Slowly, very slowly, I can feel my body relaxing.
You’re safe. Nothing happened. Nothi
ng is happening. You’re imagining things.
Am I, though?
What reason could anybody have to sit in his car like this? He didn’t appear as if he was waiting for someone. And from what little I could see, he may have been fiddling with a camera lens. And after all, he was looking right at me.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. No matter what happened or didn’t happen, I am safe now.
My breathing slows down. It is completely quiet around me. No voices, no noise from the street, nothing except my faint panting.
Until the door rings.
The sound of the bell is unnaturally loud amidst the quiet and causes me to startle. I even let out a little shriek.
“Geez, Nicky,” I hiss.
The sound echoes in my ears. This could be Evan. It must be. A paparazzi would never ring a doorbell, would they?
I get up on my feet and push the button of the intercom. My knees are still shaking when I ask: “Yes?”
“Nicky!” I hear Evan’s voice. “Are you okay?”
I hesitate.
“I don’t know,” I reply.
I really don’t know.
“I saw you run back inside just as my car pulled up,” he says. “As if you were running away from me.”
“I… forgot something,” I lie.
He pauses for a moment. For seconds, all I can hear is the rustling sound of our old intercom.
“Are you coming down?” he asks.
I gulp. “I’d rather not right now.”
He sighs. “Then let me come up.”
He is not asking. He is telling me to. With that tone in his voice that I can never say no to.
I push the button to open the door for him.
My heart starts racing again as I am waiting for him to come upstairs. His confident and heavy steps are approaching floor by floor. He does not appear to be in a hurry, yet I can sense his tension.
When he finally shows up on my floor he does not look the least exhausted, unlike most people would - including me and Yuka.
He looks fantastic as usual. Rather casual, dressed in a light shirt and dark pants. Everything he wears always seems to be custom-tailored, flattering his perfect body.
His hair looks boyish and undone today. It suits the smile that appears on his face once he is standing before me.
In his hands he is holding two beautiful red roses, decorated with a long and thick silk ribbon in a dark red tone that matches the flowers.
I smirk at him.
“I couldn’t show up with empty hands, could I,” he says, handing me the roses. “You look gorgeous.”
I take them, unable to suppress the sheepish grin that comes with receiving such a romantic gesture. I don’t think anybody has ever given me flowers like these. The roses are dark and strong, in full bloom.
“They are beautiful,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
I look up at him, returning his smile. There is a hint of sadness behind it. Just as I see it on him, I notice that my smile may showcase the same gloom.
“What is wrong?” he asks, stepping forward and as he places his hands on each of my shoulders. “You look shaken.”
I take a step back and beckon him to come inside. He doesn’t take his eyes off of me while he follows me inside and closes the door behind us.
“I should… get some water for these,” I say and flee into the kitchen.
He follows me with calm, wide steps, whereas I move around hectically like a squirrel, fetching a water carafe and filling it with cold water.
I give my best to appear fully occupied with the task of feeding the flowers he gave me. His eyes are on me. I can sense them like hot needles poking into my neck and back.
He is leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of his chest, observing me. Our eyes meet when I turn around, holding the carafe with the roses and a helpless smile on my face.
He returns the smile but doesn’t say anything.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask while I place the roses on our kitchen table.
I sound like a robot. Like someone who has rehearsed her lines for this interaction.
“No, thank you,” he says, mimicking my tone. “I would like to know what made you run upstairs, though.”
I pause. My hands are still wrapped around the carafe that I just placed on the table. I don’t know what to say. Right now, I feel rather stupid for my actions.
Did I really believe that there was a paparazzi waiting for me downstairs? Now, in the safety of my own home and with Evan standing next to me, the thought of someone waiting downstairs in a car to take a picture of me seems quite unlikely. In the end, I didn’t even actually see a camera. I just thought there might be one.
I shake my head.
“Nothing,” I whisper. “It was stupid.”
“Don’t say that,” Evan says. “You looked scared. And very shaken. There must have been something.”
He approaches me. I can feel his hands gently wrapping around my waist from behind. His familiar body warmth, his smell.
I instinctively lean back into him and close my eyes as he starts planting little kisses on the back of my neck.
“Tell me,” he whispers. “Or I’ll punish you for lying to me.”
CHAPTER III
I shake my head.
“No, it’s really not-”
He interrupts me with a strong bite at the left side of my neck. I flinch and try to get away from him, but my struggle only causes him to tighten his grip around my waist - and his bite. His teeth are sinking painfully deep into my skin, just as they did on that day. The day we got caught.
The memory adds to the pain in my neck. I squirm and whimper while he continues to suck and bite on my skin, certain to leave a mark.
“No, huh,” he says when he is done. “Don’t you ever tell me ‘no’ when I ask you to share something like this with me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” I hiss.
“Now tell me,” he orders. “What caused you to run back upstairs? What scared you?”
I roll my eyes, which - luckily - goes unnoticed by him.
“Paranoia,” I say. “I might have had a little… panic attack.”
He turns me around and forces me to look up at him by placing his finger beneath my chin.
“Tell me,” he repeats, looking at me with concern.
His persistent eyes are on mine, not leaving the slightest room for me to flee, to look another way, to hide. His sincere interest breaks the protective walls I created to keep myself safe. Caught and exposed like this, there is no room for anything but honesty.
“I thought I saw someone,” I say. “In a car. A guy. He was just sitting there in a parked car, doing something. It was creepy. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but I thought he might have a… camera.”
Evan lets out a sigh. He lowers his eyes for a moment and shakes his head, looking disappointed. And sad.
“I am sorry,” he says. “You have no idea how sorry I am to put you through this.”
His eyes are back on mine, searching for forgiveness that I am not willing to give yet. I don’t say a word, but the hint of a frown at my brows tells him that this is not enough. He has a lot to apologize for - and it is not all done by enticing me.
“You might not believe this,” he says, letting go of my chin. “But I know how you feel. Very well.”
“Do you?” I ask.
He nods.
“Something very similar happened to me,” he says. “While I was dating Sheila.”
My eyes flicker at the mentioning of her name. It is the first time that I hear him speak of her without me pestering him with questions.
“We wanted to hide our relationship from the spotlight,” he continues. “Which - as you know - didn’t go very well. We were exposed during an outing together. Just a simple dinner. Surprised by paparazzi. Sheila didn’t expect them and was overwhelmed by the whole thing. She didn’t handle it very well.”
He look
s at me, intently observing even the slightest hint of a reaction on my face.
“She failed me,” he proceeds. “Just like I failed you a few days ago. “
“You did,” I agree.
He nods.
“I should have protected you, show my appreciation for you, cover you from those hordes,” he says. “Instead I tried to hide you away. At that moment, I honestly thought I was doing the right thing - for you and me. But I realize now, I didn’t. If anything, I made you feel the same way Sheila made me feel back then.”
He pauses and looks at me with a stern expression.
“I know how you feel,” he repeats. “And I hate myself for making you suffer this way.”
“Why did you do it, then?” I ask.
He sighs. “I can’t tell you, baby girl. I really can’t. It was what came to mind at that moment.”
“I am not only talking about that moment,” I press. “But the days after, too. You didn’t warn me that those pictures might get published. I hardly heard anything from you. And you didn’t pick up your phone…”
He smiles at me, a sad smile, but genuine.
“Yes, you’re absolutely right,” he says. “That was shitty behavior on my part. And I want to make it up to you.”
“How?” I want to know.
“Honesty,” he simply says. “I will tell you everything you want to know. About me. About me and Sheila. You deserve to have your questions answered.”
I raise my eyebrows - a reaction that makes him laugh.
“Did you lose interest?” he asks.
“No,” I hurry to reply. “I just didn’t expect this.”
He smiles. “Good, I like to surprise you.”
I clear my throat. We are still standing somewhat awkward next to my kitchen table. I distance myself from him.
“Let’s go to my room,” I suggest. “I don’t like standing here.”
I make an effort to turn around and leave the kitchen, but to my surprise, he holds me back by grabbing my wrist.
“No,” he says. “I want to talk to you first. If we go into your room, I guarantee you, I will rip your clothes off and fuck you senseless.”
Damn. My heart jumps at his words. I stare up at him, unable - and unwilling - to hide how appealing that sounds to me.
“Would that be so bad?” I ask.
