You Own Me (Owned Book 1)

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  I was a dried up starfish on the beach and Dean was the little kid stepping on me.

  As I lay there, trying to get the smallest sips of air into my lungs, I heard my inner voice berate me: You are always so rash and impulsive. A thought pops in your head, and you don’t think it through before acting. If you saw a snow sled barreling out of control down a ski slope, and it seemed like it might be a fun ride, what would you do? You’d hop on for a ride. Why don’t you ever stop to examine consider the repercussions of your actions until after you are bruised, bloody, beat down, grass in your teeth, and dirt in your wounds? Why, Moore? Why?

  Like all the doctors, psychiatrists, psychics, gurus, and crazy homeless people I had ever talked with had said to me, I was going to be the death of me. But now, I finally understood what they’d been saying. This realization was made all the worse by Dean’s dick pressing in to my thigh like a hot poker.

  My eyes popped open.

  I needed to wound Dean. I needed him off me, I needed to call the police, I needed Dean institutionalized. He needed serious, Ted Bundy-level help.

  Dean’s thrashing about had inched us away from where we’d first landed on the floor. The lamp shards were now tantalizingly close.

  Like a zombie rising from the grave, I reached for the broken piece of lamp. In a last ditch effort to save myself, I slowly slid my hand toward the broken lamp pieces. My hand was halfway to the closest shard, when Dean gave a jerk on his arm that was around my neck. I froze, praying that his eyes were closed and he wasn’t seeing what I was doing.

  Once upon a time, Dean had been a decent person. He’d opened doors for me, he’d called to tell me he was going to be late, and he’d even held my hair back when I’d thrown up because of the flu. Then something happened, he’d mentally snapped. It was horrible. He didn’t need to go to prison, he needed help.

  I should know; I’d had enough help myself.

  But right now, I need to get him the fuck off of me.

  Dean continued his gyrations without pause. He must have his eyes closed. I stretched my arm out as far as the ligaments would allow, and then I stretched it even further. I was so close.

  The crowd of spots before my eyes faded away and was replaced by a black curtain being pulled closed. All I could hear was Dean’s raspy, wet breathing.

  I was able to brush the tips of my fingers against the sharp porcelain shard, but no more. All the blood in my body was cut off by Dean’s meaty arm on my neck. The curtain closed.

  I’d failed.

  The last thought I had was of Vic.

  You know when you have a series of dreams, and it’s hard to distinguish between them and reality? Like, you’re not sure if what you’re recalling is a dream or memory? That’s what waking up was like. Images flashed in my head as if I was looking through a classic toy View-Master. I saw men and women, dressed in black clothing, talking fast like they were in an Aaron Sorkin movie rush about my apartment. They all had furious scowls on their faces. Occasionally they would look at me.

  I couldn’t move. I’d had dreams like this before, but they aren’t called dreams—it’s called sleep paralysis. In the past, when I’d had sleep paralysis, I had been terrified. But, this was different; this time I wasn’t afraid. I was watching the dreams as an observer.

  One dream faded to black, and another dream took its place. Vic appeared. He watched over me. He was huge and ethereal, like Zeus or God on the mountain talking to Moses. I knew I was safe under his watch, yet I still couldn’t move.

  I could have sworn I was interacting with people, that I was awake. But I hadn’t been, because when I did wake I was able to feel my body, and boy, did I hurt. I felt like it had been run over by a steamroller and then put through an industrial sized washer.

  When I saw no Men (or Women) in Black in my apartment, I concluded I’d been dreaming their presence.

  I was still on the floor, in the exact spot where Dean had mounted me. Shit! Dean! It was like my finger had been stuck in an electric socket; I became hyper-alert. I couldn’t see him anywhere, but it hurt more to move my head to look for him than being punched in the head (and I actually could compare). For all I knew, he had finished up with me and was cleaning up in the bathroom.

  I promptly threw up. I hadn’t eaten much in a number of hours, so it was mostly stomach bile, a yellow acid that burned my throat as it came up. My body threw in a couple of dry heaves for good measure. Deciding that was over, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, feeling better and slightly more empowered. I rolled on my back and away from the vomit.

  I stared at my ceiling. Damn, that water spot was growing. When was Vic going to hire a handyman to fix that? It was unsightly.

  If Dean was still here, then I didn’t have much time to ponder ceiling aesthetics. Shake a leg, Moore.

  I staggered to my feet and made a beeline for the front door. From here on out, I will have no problem letting other people do my dirty work. I’ll even let them do my taxes if they want.

  My hand reached out to grasp the doorknob, when I saw the knob wiggle. My stomach started doing backflips. Someone was trying to come in.

  No. No. No. Not Dean. I can’t take this anymore. I took a couple quick steps backward until I tripped over my own feet, landing on my ass. I stared in horror as the door opened, helpless. So, so helpless.

  Vic stepped through the doorway, looking furious.

  I have never been more relieved to see an angry face in my life. I started to cry right then and there. I’m not a crier. I like to think that there are an allotted number of tears per person, and I had already gone through my allotment during my attempted suicide and after my mother’s. When I saw Vic though, I cried fat, ugly tears.

  God, the amount fear I didn’t even realize I was holding all dissipated upon seeing him. Relief and safety washed over me. All my feelings and fear came tumbling out of my eyes.

  If Vic was someone who was won over by tears, mine didn’t do the trick.

  Vic stomped over to me and grabbed my seriously bruised shoulders, yanking me to my feet. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  Ugh. My brain is crushed, my soul is beaten. Too much pain. I can barely see his face through my blurry, tear-stained eyes. I need windshield wipers for my eyeballs. Vic tightened his grip on me and repeated his question, the fury in his dark eyes drilling into my heart.

  “I was trying to help,” I said feebly.

  Vic let go of me and threw his hands up in the air. “Helping? You’re half-dead. Helping?” He yelled, his tone indignant and more than incredulous. “Do you have any idea what I had to do . . .” He trailed off, nostrils flaring. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone, other than Judd Nelson, flare their nostrils in anger like Vic was. It wasn’t pretty.

  I cried harder. Maybe it was just because I was a weak person—I don’t know. I did know that for the past couple of months, I’d been hunted like a turkey at Thanksgiving. I’d been tormented. I’d been sexualized. And I’d been found. But, I simply couldn’t handle a tongue-lashing from Vic right now. I know what I did was stupid, but I had needed to take control. I failed, obviously. I didn’t need Vic telling me that. The blackout and possible rape was all the reminder I needed.

  I wiped my snot and tears off my face, and stared at the floor.

  “Everything’s okay now,” Vic said.

  I wanted to laugh at that. Everything was certainly not okay now.

  “I . . .” God I didn’t want to tell him this. How stupid was my insecurity? I wish I could be strong like a woman who becomes an anti-rape activist after she survived rape. Instead, I felt small and mousy. “I need to go the hospital,” I muttered.

  Vic frowned. “I have a doctor, you know that.”

  Could he make this more difficult? “I need to get a procedure done, and it’s kind of time sensitive.” Connect the dots, please, just connect the dots. I was looking away but I could feel his stare like black sun on my skin.

  “You weren’t raped, Lenn
ox,” Vic said gravely.

  I bit my lip to keep from scoffing. How the fuck does he know that? I blacked out, no wait, I had been strangled into unconsciousness by a man whose prime intent had been to rape me. I’m bruised everywhere. I’m pretty sure I was raped. If I wasn’t, I'd throw a goddamn party. Still, better safe than sorry.

  Vic gently pulled my chin so I faced him, the way he does when he wants my attention. “Lenny,” Vic said softly, “didn’t I say you were safe with me?”

  I glared at him. That’s a wonderful platitude to believe in when everything is hunky-dory, but it doesn’t mean squat when the shit hits the fan—like now.

  Vic let go of my chin and I was about to point out the falsity of his statement when he spoke:

  “Lenny, where do you think Dean is?”

  My eyes traveled to his, like a monk seeking enlightenment. What a good fucking question. How long had I been out? I scrunched my forehead so hard that it gave me a headache. I thought back to my dreams. Had they been dreams? The air in my apartment felt cooler, not because of air conditioning or because I left the window open, but because something had happened here. I looked around the small apartment, searching for any hint of what had been real and what had been a dream.

  I was looking for ghosts. I was looking for memories. I was looking for something.

  Vic stood stock still; his body language betrayed nothing and everything at the same time.

  I breathed out slowly. Do I answer his question, or do I ask him another? Before I could decide, Vic spoke.

  “Come on, babe, it’s been a long day.”

  —understatement of the year award goes to—

  “Let’s go to bed.” Vic said. He clasped my hand in his, leading my out of the suddenly thick air of my apartment.

  I took one last glance at the empty apartment wondering what or who I was leaving behind.

  I awoke in Vic’s bed. Bright sunlight streamed through the curtains, creating yellow-grey shadows that assaulted my eyes. I glanced at the clock, still not fully awake. It was noon. Last night played in my mind like an old movie, with bits and pieces blurred or completely missing. I remember coming back to Vic’s apartment with him, taking a sleeping pill, and that’s about it.

  I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. It was going to take a lot more than a morning to process what happened. Part of me wanted to stay in bed forever. I just wanted to melt into the bed, drift off into disassociation, and never deal with what happened. It was very tempting.

  Back in the hospital, after my suicide attempt, they told me “one day at a time.” That even seemed too hard right now; I didn’t know how to deal with one minute let alone one day. I got out of bed, deciding to take it one leg at a time.

  Everything still hurt. I could see bruises forming in various places on my body in the shape of grotesque fingers. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to feel nothing. I was in Vic’s bed again, but yet again it was for reasons I’d rather have avoided.

  I slid out of the bed gingerly. Hmmm, the floor is cold. I lifted my toe up and put it back down to floor, attempting to feel the cool pressure. It was a useless exercise.

  I felt things on the periphery now, noticing the feeling rather than actually experiencing it. It was similar to the days after my suicide attempt when I was in a fog of disassociation. When I finally started to feel again, it was hell. The pendulum had swung so far the other way that when I started to feel again it had been painful. It had actually been physically painful to feel anything.

  I wasn’t looking forward to that happening again. If there was some way to jumpstart my emotional grid, I was going to figure it out.

  As I reached the hallway, I was greeted by wafts of delicious food. Someone, presumably Vic, was cooking. I quickened my pace, suddenly aware of how hungry I was. I couldn’t recall the last time I ate. Evidently, being attacked burned a couple calories too.

  Vic was wearing an apron and standing in the middle of his kitchen. He held a spatula like he held a gun.

  “Sleep well?” Vic asked.

  I don’t feel like I slept well; I feel like I’ve been wide awake for a century, but I did sleep until noon. I tugged at my shirt and the fabric felt unfamiliar. Looking down, I saw I was wearing his shirt. I would have been embarrassed, but I didn’t have the will to feel anything. I was drained. The pendulum had swung and now I was numb.

  I shrugged.

  “What happened?” I asked the first question that came to mind.

  Vic raised an eyebrow at me. He was so calm and collected, flipping food with his spatula like everything was ordinary. He acted as if he had spent the night watching movies not hunting down my psychopath ex-boyfriend.

  I rolled my eyes when he didn’t respond. “With Dean. What happened with Dean?”

  Vic nodded, still smiling and working the spatula on whatever he was cooking. “Everything’s taken care of. Breakfast?” Vic gestured to the food. “Or, I guess, lunch. I’m making burritos, but they can be breakfast burritos. I like them spicy, though. So beware.”

  I shook my head, feeling like I was still asleep. “I’m not hungry.” That was a lie. I was starving. However, I craved answers from Vic more than I craved food. But, as if on cue, my stomach growled giving away my lie.

  “There you go,” Vic said, ignoring my protest. He set a plate down on the bar.

  I narrowed my eyes and studied the proffered meal: one burrito, a side of hash browns, and some vegetable I didn’t recognize. To be fair, I can only name three vegetables. My stomach rumbled again.

  “Go on, eat. It’s the ‘Vic Wall special.’”

  I looked at him suspiciously and asked, “Why is it so special?”

  “Because I made it for you, Lenny,” Vic responded, grinning like a complete cockhead.

  I frowned, wanting to be stoic, strong, and all the things I wasn’t. I didn’t want to be in pain, I didn’t want to be hungry, I wanted to stand and face Vic and get all the answers I needed. In reality, I was exhausted and my stomach was demanding food.

  Looking away from Vic, I grabbed a fork and dug in.

  Now that I’d eaten, I was feeling loads better. My mind was clearer, and I was starting to process last night. I had a billion and one questions, but for right now I was content to wait for the answers. I was at ease with Vic nearby; I was comfortable in his clothes and eating his food. I reached for a banana, as if to stress the point to myself. I felt like Vic and I were starting fresh.

  “You know, you should feel special, Lennox,” Vic said as he put away our dishes. “I don’t let just anyone into my apartment, much less upstairs.”

  “Oh yeah, I feel so special. You let some random girl up there last night…” Shit. I hadn’t meant to bring it up. It had come out of my mouth like water swallowed incorrectly. Now there it was, hanging in the air like some jealous flying monkey from the Wizard of Oz.

  “That wasn’t some random woman,” Vic said casually. “She’s my wife.”

  I stopped eating the banana mid chew, my mouth hanging open. What the—? Wife? Did he say his wife? And did he really just drop that bomb as casually as one would have mentioned, “Oh, this is my collection of Star Wars memorabilia”?

  “Oh, okay. Okay. Yeah, I see how it is, okay.” I nodded my head, not even close to absorbing what I just heard. I think a bit of banana fell out of my mouth through all of my “okays.” No, strike that, I know it did, because I’m staring at it on the floor.

  “Lennox, let me explain,” Vic said, daring to take a step toward me.

  I shook my head. “No, I get it. Okay, yeah, okay. It’s okay.” I did not get it.

  “It’s not okay. Let me explain,” Vic implored, taking another step closer.

  “Okay, yeah, no. It’s okay. I get it. I see how it is.” The entire time I was talking I still hadn’t finished chewing the bite of banana.

  He had a wife. A wife. That’s why he couldn’t have a relationship—because he had a wife.

  I was th
e other woman.

  I was a hussy.

  I unconsciously chewed the rest of the banana that was still in my mouth. I was losing my mind. I’d lost it before, but this time I wasn’t sure I was going to get it back. I couldn’t believe all of this was happening. First Dean and now this. It was literally too much for me to comprehend. My brain put a sign on the door that said “on vacation.”

  I heard a low buzzing sound. I focused on it, and realized it was Vic’s voice: “Lennox? Hey, Lennox?” Vic caught my eye and pressed forward. “Lennox, I need to explain something to you. She’s not the reason we can’t be together.”

  I took another bite of my banana. The fruit was beginning to feel like my crutch. “I’m not real into bigamy,” I whispered.

  A joke, perfect. I’d made a joke. It’s what I did in any situation that remotely deviated from the norm. Someone’s sad? Joke. Sick? Joke. Funeral? Time to break out the standup routine.

  “Neither am I,” Vic responded. He hadn’t stopped staring at me since he’d dropped the W-bomb.

  “Okay.” I placed the rest of my banana on his immaculate kitchen counter. Oddly enough, I wasn’t hungry anymore.

  “We’ve been separated for nearly eight years,” Vic said, shrugging like that made everything okay. Wait, fuck him, they literally just had sex. Separated for eight years? I think not!

  I rubbed my hands over my face and moaned. “You have a weird definition of separation.”

  “Occasionally we get together,” Vic replied. “The line of work we’re in . . . well, it’s hard to meet people.”

  You met me.

  I eyed my banana, sitting so neatly on his countertop, wondering if I should throw it away. He was a clean-freak, after all. No! Let that be my act of rebellion. He left out the fact that he had a wife, so I’m going to leave out my banana. That’ll teach him. “Thank you for helping me with Dean,” I muttered. “If there’s any way I can repay you, please let me know.”