by Adore Ian
“Told you I wasn’t sick,” I gloat. Addison throws me a sympathetic look before exiting the room.
Gavin says, “Frank’s escalating. He’s never tried to get this close to Marrin before. What’s changed?”
In the two years Frank has been stalking me, he’s never tried to approach me. The closest he gets is sending letters through the mail or sitting in front of my apartment in his truck.
Kiley crosses his arms. “The anniversary of the attack could’ve triggered him. Maybe the fact that Mar’s less accessible in this new apartment?”
I ask the obvious question. “Do you think he got into my building?” I hate how small my voice sounds.
Alice sits next to me and wraps an arm around my shoulders, and while I appreciate the sentiment, the only arms I want wrapped around me are Damian’s.
Oh God—Damian.
A stalker at a distance I can make up a story for, an excuse spun from the pieces of the truth I’m ready to share. But if Frank is escalating, if he has access to my building, that changes the fucking equation, doesn’t it? I can’t keep myself and Damian safe.
I shove the thoughts out of my head. I’ll worry about that later.
“We’ll get the security firm to track him down and put a tail on him,” Alice says. “In the meantime, I’ll have Conor—”
“No,” I say. “I don’t want a bodyguard.”
Her jaw clenches. “Fine. I’ll get a team to watch your building and you—at a distance—until we get eyes on Frank.”
Eventually Alice drives me home in my car because she doesn’t want me passing out behind the wheel. Gavin follows in his SUV. Alice assures me she’ll do everything she can to get proof Frank violated the restraining order so we can throw his ass in jail. She promises to let me know what the security footage shows and when they get a tail on Frank.
I don’t ask about the security team likely already watching me and my apartment complex.
She drops me off and I go upstairs. It’s late. I lock my door and change into comfortable clothes then sink into my couch.
I can’t keep the truth from Damian, can’t keep him safe, not if Frank is this close. Too many variables. Too many things I can’t control—I can’t lose control.
But… I pick up my phone because I can suspend reality for a little longer.
Damian answers on the first ring. “Hey, babe. What’s up?”
Tears hit my face and voice at the same time. “Can you come over?”
“What’s wrong?” There’s a clatter and I think I hear something fall.
“Just a bad day.”
His door slams and I hear it both out in the hallway and through the phone. “I’m here,” he says.
I hang up and open my door.
“Baby,” Damian rushes in, hands on my face, eye scanning me. “What happened?”
I shake my head. “Bad day.”
He wipes my tears and leads me to the couch where he pulls me onto his lap. We sit there for a moment, wrapped in each other. Then he pulls back, brushing hair from my face. “What can I do?”
The worried strain in his voice, the love in his eyes, is enough to bring fresh tears to mine.
I kiss him.
Then I kiss him again.
“Touch me,” I say.
An anguished kind of knowing crosses his face. I see words he promised not to ask form in his mouth—he swallows them. Instead he kisses me like I’m the only woman in the world and a little piece of my heart breaks.
We haven’t been intimate like this since the night at Back Cellar when there was nothing between us. Every time we’ve fooled around since, he’s called me Red and I’ve called him Sir. Our kink doesn’t sit between us like it used to, it no longer mediates who we are to one another because our relationship is more than just sex. We share something deeper.
But still, neither of us has initiated this kind of intimacy yet.
Damian is a good guy. The best. I know it’s killing him not knowing what’s going on with me but he doesn’t ask because he promised he wouldn’t. I’m a monster. No—I’m Irena from Cat People. I’m haunted by the truth of who I am, where I come from. And he’s Oliver, patient and honest and too good for me.
His hands run beneath my shirt to unclasp my bra. “Mar,” he breathes into my neck. “There are things I want to tell you. Things I need you to know about me.”
I silence him with a kiss. Whatever he feels he needs to tell me, I don’t want to know. I know he’s keeping secrets, and if he spills them, it’ll only be worse when I don’t spill mine. And I can’t because the way he’s looking at me right now is how I always want to remember him looking at me.
“Not tonight,” I say. Then I kiss him again and again and again.
Damian’s on his back when we finally come together.
We’re both partly dressed because we couldn’t wait and it doesn’t matter.
There is a desperate kind of rhythm to our bodies when I sink myself down on him. His hands grip my hips and he moves me where he wants, guiding me up and down, a little forward then a little back. I graze my lips over his, willing him to see everything I feel for him in my eyes.
“I love you, Marrin,” he says, lifting a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. He leans up to kiss me and I’m gutted.
I nod my head, close my eyes.
He moves deep inside me.
I don’t want to say anything, but then he kisses me like he knows what’s coming. Like he knows this is our last time and the words tumble from my mouth. “I love you, too.”
I crush my mouth over his as I start to come. I’m sorry, I say without words. Remember me this way. Remember us as we are now.
He finds his release shortly after me and when it’s over neither of us wants to move. He holds me like he’ll never let me go, and I hold him like I don’t ever want to. Because I don’t.
But I know I have to.
“You need space, don’t you?” he says into the darkness.
I close my eyes to keep in the tears as I nod my head against his chest.
16
Damian
I’m a miserable son of a bitch.
Exams are killing me and I haven’t seen Marrin in almost two weeks. I know she’s busy with exams and that she needs time to think about our relationship. I also know she thinks I won’t understand about the things that have gone wrong in her life.
That hurts the most.
I’d thought the same thing about her at first. But in the last few weeks, I’ve realized that I can tell her about my abuse and she’ll understand. I wish she trusted me enough to feel the same, but I understand if she can’t. I’m not exactly sure what happened to her, but I know from my own experience how terrifying and paralyzing confessing your trauma can be. Especially to someone you care about.
I just wish I could talk to her.
I’ve sent her a few texts letting her know I understand she’s not ready to tell me things. That I’m willing to listen if she wants to talk. I tell her I don’t want to pressure her and that I’m still loyal to her until she tells me we’re not exclusive anymore. I tell her I won’t contact her until our exams are over.
I sound so desperate.
I take my last final on Thursday. It’s the second week of December and tomorrow is the last day of exams. I know I shouldn’t, but I decide to head to the Braxton to see if Mar’s working. When I walk in, I am instantly disappointed when I see only Elle working the bar. Cat People is playing on the projector and a wave of sadness ripples through me.
“Hey, Elle,” I say, taking a seat.
“Hey. Can I get you a drink?”
“I’ll take an IPA. You done with exams?”
“I have one more tomorrow at noon. You?”
“Finished today.”
“Lucky.”
“Don’t you normally work with Marrin Thursday nights?”
“Yeah, but it gets slow here once everyone leaves for winter break, so she picked up some hours at h
er other job when she finished with exams.”
I can’t keep the hurt off my face. I didn’t know she was done with finals.
“Hey, handsome,” Priya says, stepping out of the break room. “You look like someone killed your puppy.”
Certainly feels that way.
“Just wiped from exams.”
She gives me a look like she knows exactly why I’m here, and I immediately regret coming. A few minutes later, she sends Elle home for the night. Then it’s just the two of us.
Priya wipes the bar in front of me. “She’s not here.”
“I’ve noticed.” I gulp my beer. “I told her I loved her.”
“What’d she say?”
“She said it back. Told me she needed space. And now I think she’s avoiding me.”
“Damn,” she exhales. “I thought it was odd she picked up so many hours at the 13th Floor, but I figured it was because her semester was over.”
Marrin’s never told me the name of the other place she works. I keep that knowledge to myself. “Any advice?”
“Have you tried talking to her?”
I deadpan. “No, that hadn’t crossed my mind.” I wipe a hand over my face. “I’ve sent a few texts but she hasn’t responded. I did agree not to contact her until after our exams were over, so expecting her to text back wasn’t exactly fair. But now… Showing up tonight was my attempt to catch her in person. Unless you can get me into the 13th Floor I’m out of options.”
She gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry. Members only. I couldn’t get you in if I tri—” Mischief colors her face. “I can’t get you in, but if I happened to mention we sell trial memberships for the main lounge online and you happened to buy one and show up—say this Wednesday night—then I wouldn’t technically be breaking any rules. The question is, how much are you willing to spend for a chance at talking with Mar?”
Marrin
Backstage is crazy. The club is giving a sneak peek of three dance numbers from the Femme Fatale show tonight and one of them is mine.
I’m supposed to be waitressing but one of the dancers in my routine came down with the flu. Elle just started waitressing here to get some extra money, so she’s going to cover my section while I fill in.
I warm up then hit the hair and makeup room. When I’m done, I slip into costume. It’s little more than a retro bikini—a glittering black halter with matching high-waisted briefs. A trench coat goes over top with black leather gloves and sunglasses.
It’s been almost a week since the semester officially ended, and I haven’t spoken to Damian.
Since the last time we slept together, I’ve been going nonstop. I threw myself into studying for finals, and when I wasn’t doing that, I was driving to the city to waitress or work on the show. I haven’t slept, I’ve barely eaten. I think every shadow, noise, and bump in the night is Frank. He’s like a shark and I’m the bleeding seal struggling in open water. I know he’s lurking out of sight, I just don’t know when he’ll attack.
A constant dose of adrenaline taints my blood, making me jumpy, anxious. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder, can’t stop thinking about what’ll happen when he finds me, if he knows about Damian. So I hyperfocus on the things I can control. I obsess about school, work, the show—anything to avoid dealing with my problems.
Alice hasn’t been able to locate Frank and there isn’t enough evidence to pin the letter on him either. The only good news is that he didn’t get into my building. One of the maintenance guys said a man paid him fifty bucks to put the card on my door.
But that doesn’t mean anything.
Just because Frank hasn’t gotten into the building yet, doesn’t mean he hasn’t tried or that he won’t find a way in eventually. Frank’s a bad man with bad friends. If he wants to get to me, he will. Escaping may not be as easy as me finding a new apartment this time. I live in the most secure complex in the area, there’s nowhere left I can move.
It feels as if my life is spiraling out of control and I hate it.
Damian is the one thing I can control. So I am. He’s always respected my boundaries and my privacy. He’s fucking perfect and I know I’m a coward for not just telling him, but the less he knows the better. The less I’m with him, the better. If Frank’s escalating, then who knows what he’s going to do. I can’t risk Damian getting caught up in this. I want to protect him from Frank as much as I want to protect him from finding out that the Marrin he thought he knew doesn’t exist. She was just a shiny, unattainable ideal that drew him in. A projection of what he wanted and the result of him letting his emotions cloud his judgment.
I’m the goddamn femme fatale.
Someone yells a three-minute warning. I close my trench coat and slip on my stilettos.
Damian
Wednesday night, I park on the street and make my way to a fancy high rise in the city. I was instructed to go around the building and enter from the back. I’m wearing a designer suit and shoes. I look casually edgy, but classy. I push through an easily missed door and find myself in a strangely professional lobby with three elevators and a pleasant, but forgettable, looking receptionist.
It’s almost eleven o’clock. There’s no reason for a receptionist to be working.
“Hello, how may I help you?” she says.
I glance around the lobby. It’s just us. I approach, giving her my best smile. “Good evening. I have an appointment on the 13th Floor.”
“Do you have your confirmation number or card?”
Cards, I assume, are for official members. I got a trial membership. It cost about as much as my tuition does a semester.
I recite the number from memory. She fiddles on her computer then hands me a black key card and directs me to an elevator on the left side of the lobby. I swipe the card and the doors open, revealing a black leather interior and dim lighting. I step inside and again swipe the card before pressing the button with the number “13” on it. It’s the only button available.
The doors close, and up I go.
I step out into a stylish black room similar to the elevator. It’s modern and elegant, but there’s an edge to it. A beautiful woman in a black dress stands behind a tall desk.
“Good evening, Mr. Wane.”
I’m not surprised she knows my name. “Good evening miss…?”
“You may call me Clarissa.” She holds out her palm and I pass her the key card. She scans it then types into her computer. “I see you’ve already agreed to our terms and conditions, passed the background check and signed the non-disclosure agreement. Is there anything you’d like to ask before going in, Mr. Wane?”
“No, thank you.”
It took over an hour to print off, read, sign and then scan and upload all the trial membership paperwork. It was three days before I heard back about whether I was approved or not.
Clarissa pulls out a small black box. “Cell phone and any electronics, please.”
I expected this. I hand over my phone and she locks it in the box. She slides it into a slot on the wall behind her and it locks into place next to several others.
She hands me my key card. “Follow me, Mr. Wane.”
Not gonna lie. At this point, I feel like Batman. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve gotten a kick out of being called Mr. Wane. But right now, in this weird, secret club, I actually feel like Bruce Wayne (who—fun fact—has a son named Damian Wayne. Who, sadly, I was not named after). I’m dressed to impress and a beautiful, mysterious woman is escorting me. My inner preteen is geeking the fuck out.
Clarissa walks me down an underlit hallway. We stop at the end and she knocks once on the door. “Enjoy your evening.” She leaves.
The door opens and a beautiful blonde wearing blood-red lipstick and a classy, yet intimate black dress greets me. “Good evening, Mr. Wane. I’m Taylor. Do you have a section preference this evening?”
“A booth would be preferable,” I answer smoothly. “In Marrin’s section.”
She smiles like we’ve shared an in
timate secret. “They’re all her sections tonight.” She winks, and I’m not sure what exactly she means.
Her hand finds the crook of my elbow and we walk as if I’m the one escorting her. The hallway opens into a large lounge where every booth and table has a view of the stage. It’s darkly elegant and dim, underlit by neon lights. The upholstery is all fine black leather and velvet. I know there are people in some of the booths lining the walls, but they’re hidden in shadow—or by curtains, which all the booths seem to have.
Am I in a sex club? Does Marrin work in a sex club?
Unease heightens my awareness, but I give no outward hint I’m uncomfortable. I need to play it cool.
I’m Bruce fucking Wayne.
Taylor leads me to a booth near the side of the stage. I slide in and she passes me a drink menu, saying my waitress will be here shortly.
Red lights turn on, illuminating the stage. The air is slightly murky like maybe there’s a fog machine or something somewhere. Seven poles rise out of the stage floor and I’m trying not to have a fucking heart attack. Jesus, I need a drink. The website said nothing about what actually happens in the club, and I have no goddamn clue what I expected.
But this? This was definitely not it.
The place goes dark and music starts. A single grey spotlight illuminates a retro-looking blonde sitting in a chair at center stage. Behind her, cast in shadow, six other glittering women sit in chairs. From what I can tell, they’re all wearing trench coats and stilettos.
“Oh shit.”
I peel my eyes from the stage and look at the waitress. It’s not Marrin.
It’s Elle.
She’s staring at me—eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.
“You need to leave. Right now.”
“I asked to sit in Marrin’s section.”
“She’s…” her eyes dart to the stage, “off tonight.”
I follow her line of sight.
The lighting is as much a part of the performance as the dancing. Lights and projections pop on and off, revealing and hiding the dancers on stage. They’re all wearing wigs and similar outfits. They strip off their coats and gloves, tossing them to the floor. The woman in the center strips off her dress and shoes, too. They all remove their sunglasses at the same moment.
