You Own Me (Owned Book 1)

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  Vic frowned. “You’re changing the subject, Lenny.”

  I picked up and waved the Blu-ray case. “I just never pictured a big army commando guy—”

  “First of all, I’m not an army commando guy,” Vic said.

  I was undeterred. I started again. “I just never pictured a big army commando guy owning Frozen. The deluxe edition too!” I said, bursting into a fit of drunken giggles. I couldn’t remember the last time I was this drunk. I had been surprisingly straitlaced (for me) in college, so high school was probably the last time. That’s when I was still figuring out my limits and experimenting with how far I could go before I passed out and never woke up.

  I was going to feel like shit in the morning.

  “Are you Elsa or Anna?” I asked Vic, laughing. Frozen was an awesome movie, and I didn’t fault Vic for loving it. In fact, it made me love him more. Drunk me just found it hilarious that big, bad, gun-toting Vic watched Disney movies in his downtime.

  “Alright, come on drunk-o. Let’s get you to bed.” Vic snatched the movie case from my hands.

  As Vic walked my drunken ass up the stairs, I heard him whisper quietly in indignation: “There’s a sing-a-long in the deluxe edition.”

  I had no comment to that, but it made me smile. I hoped someday I would get to witness Vic singing along to Frozen. I’m sure he sounded great.

  It’s red. That’s all I can say right now. It’s red. And I’m about to vomit. I rolled over on to something cold and hard. My vision was blurry and I had a stabbing thought that my contacts weren’t in. I tried thinking again, but stopped. Too painful.

  Where was I? It was red and smelled horrible and I was naked. None of these things factored into a good situation.

  I groaned in pain as a wave of nausea threatened to drown me.

  This is it. This is the apocalypse. I knew it. I knew it was coming. It was going to be much worse than the television shows had said.

  My vision started to adjust to the blurry, red light and I made out a toilet. I was in a bathroom. Oh, I was in Vic’s bathroom.

  I got slowly to my feet and made my way to the door. “Vic?” I said cautiously. Oh God, I’m going to vomit. I stopped walking and placed my hand against the wall to steady myself and my rolling stomach. When the waves of nausea crashed and stilled, I called Vic’s name again.

  No answer.

  I walked slowly out of the bathroom and toward our bedroom. “Vic?” I called into the darkness.

  No answer again.

  I stepped into the dark bedroom carefully; every step made my brain ricochet in my skull and my gut do jumping jacks. “Vic?” I asked again. I made my way to the bed, feeling around for Vic.

  No Vic.

  No sheets.

  I felt the mattress itself and . . . was it wet? I yanked my hand back.

  What was going on? Is that blood? Seriously, was there some kind of apocalyptic event and was I the sole survivor?

  “Vic!” I shouted into the house, not caring about the pain it caused in my skull. “Vic, where the hell are you?” I yelled louder.

  “Down here!”

  I followed the voice in a fugue state. Without my contacts, everything was blurry and, on top of that, I felt swirly and sick. Eventually, I made my way down the stairs to see Vic sitting up on the couch, looking grumpy and sleepy.

  “Where were you?” I asked. “I woke up in a red haze and thought the apocalypse had come.” Whoa. Too many words and too fast. I sat down next to Vic, trying to calm the rolling seas that had become my stomach.

  “You’ve been watching too much television, Lenny,” Vic said sleepily. “The red light is a heat lamp. I turned it on so you didn’t get cold.”

  I nodded, and then regretted the action immediately. The smell of vomit invaded my nose and I could feel my stomach revolting. Oh God, was that smell me? As if sensing my question or seeing my expression, Vic spoke.

  “You threw up for hours.”

  I stared at him, baffled.

  He continued, “It’s all in your hair. Your clothes, too. That’s why you’re—” He gestured to my nakedness. “I tried to get you to throw up in the toilet, but you refused. So I aimed your head over the tub, because, well, that’s a much larger target. But, nope, Lenny wasn’t having any of that. You went all Linda Blaire on my ass and vomited anywhere but where I wanted. So, I just stripped you down and let you vomit all over the bathroom.”

  I gaped at him in horror. This was beyond embarrassing. This was mortifying.

  I buried my head in my hands.

  “When you finished, or at least, settled down, I cleaned up the bathroom and washed the sheets. I did as much with the mattress as I could, but I think it’s a goner. There wasn’t anything I could do about washing you up, though. I did try, but you started fighting me about it, so . . .” Vic shrugged.

  I peeked through my fingers. This couldn’t be happening.

  “What’s wrong with the mattress?” I asked, my voice small.

  Vic gave me a level look. “You don’t think you started off in the bathroom, do you? Do you remember anything?”

  I shook my head carefully. “The last thing I remember is you taking me upstairs.”

  Vic grimaced. “Let’s see. We walked upstairs. You started getting a little—uh—frisky. Which I’m perfectly okay with, babe.” Vic winked. “But your words were slurred and you couldn’t walk, so I didn’t take you up on your offer. I tried to get you to tell me how much you had to drink, but you didn’t understand me. You passed out on the bed. I placed a trash can next to you thinking if you needed to vomit, you could vomit into that.”

  The grave way Vic spoke I could tell the story wasn’t as simple as a trash can on my side of the bed. I couldn’t look at him. I stared at my knees, trying not to smell the vomit in my hair and really trying not to vomit again.

  “I woke up,” Vic continued, “to the sound of you choking on your own vomit.”

  I looked up at that. Vic was staring at me intensely. He looked pissed. Furious, even. I turned my attention away, ashamed.

  “What the hell, Lenny?”

  “I don’t know,” I responded meekly.

  “How could you drink that much?” Vic demanded. “If I wasn’t there, you would have died.”

  “I know.” My voice was barely above a whisper. I felt like shit, not just because of the alcohol, but because of my actions. I hadn’t been this irresponsible since high school.

  “So what?”

  I shrugged. “I’m really sorry.” And I was. I was ashamed and embarrassed and so sorry. He’d cleaned up after me and taken care of me like I was an infant. I felt horrible. He’d saved my life more than once now. How do you make that up to someone? Indentured servitude came to mind.

  “That doesn’t cut it,” Vic said flatly. He wasn’t yelling at me, which would have been better than the way he was talking to me. This Vic was cold and distant; I felt like he was slipping away.

  “Are you angry?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What can I do?” I pleaded. I hated the idea of him being angry with me. More than that, I hated that he was angry with me and acting like he didn’t care. I was worried I’d pushed it too far.

  Vic shrugged. “Nothing, babe. You scared me last night. I’m angry. It’s a trust you’ll have to regain. It’s not going to happen in a day.”

  I could feel tears forming in my eyes. Just my luck—my tear allotment had been replenished.

  I felt like shit. There was a year’s worth of vomit coating my hair. I felt like I had to do something to make this situation better.

  “I love you,” I said lamely. Then I burst into tears. It wasn’t fair to Vic that I was crying now. Not after everything he’d done last night. I was exhausted and spent, though; I couldn’t restrain the onslaught of tears.

  Vic picked up my hand and held it gently in his. “Hey,” he said, “I know you do. That doesn’t change what happened though. I’m angry, yes. But you and me? We’re good.�
� He pulled me into him with his black and never-ending eyes.

  I was acutely aware that he was the only person who could make me feel beautiful even when I was hungover and covered in vomit.

  “Do you understand?” Vic pressed.

  Sheepishly, I nodded. “Yes. We’re good,”

  “Good,” Vic said, relaxing back into the couch. He stared into space for a few beats before saying, “I’m gonna go back to sleep. Deep cleaning vomit is exhausting.”

  I couldn’t tell if it was meant as a joke or not, but it still cut. As it should. I nodded, acknowledging I was going to give him the space to sleep. After a quick detour to the kitchen pantry, I walked back up the stairs and headed straight to the bathroom. It took two shampoos complete with multiple rinses with apple cider vinegar to get the smell of vomit out of my hair.

  Dean was alive, only he wasn’t alive. He was undead. I was back in Seattle, living with my mom and dad. I was a child, only I wasn’t. I was my normal, adult self, but I was wearing toddler clothing: a cute little dress with bows.

  I had never worn this type of clothing, even as a toddler. Why was I wearing it now?

  We were all eating breakfast together: me in my dress with bows, my mom, my dad, and undead Dean. Mom was beautiful and healthy; her bipolar depression hadn’t taken her yet.

  “Have some more juice, little Lennox,” my father said, pouring some orange juice. But the juice wasn’t orange, it was black. I gulped it down anyway. It tasted like nothing.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I said. My voice was small like a child’s; it sounded way too creepy coming from my big, adult body.

  Everything became perverted: The table grew long and oblong, and my parents grew bigger and bigger until they were skyscrapers above me. Dean became the sky above me, his rotting skin falling on me like rain.

  “I think it’s time for you to leave,” my mom’s warped voice was barely intelligible. I looked toward her. She was a decayed, caricature of her open-casket self.

  I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. I took a deep hitching breath to fill my lungs, but no air was entering. I clutched my throat. I was suffocating.

  “Hey, does my face smell?”

  “What? Mom?” I shifted around, feeling trapped. It was so bright. I couldn’t see anything. Where was my mom? Was Dean still above me? I kicked at the thing trapping me. I couldn’t get out!

  “Lenny? What’s wrong?”

  Was that Vic? What’s happening to me? Panic had set in and I was thrashing to get free.

  “Mom!” I screamed. I finally saw her: she was hanging from the ceiling. She needed my help!

  “Lenny! Lenny, it’s Vic.”

  Vic’s voice punctuated my panic. It was calm and in control. I stopped struggling and took time to gather my wits. I was in bed. It was morning. I had tangled myself in the sheets. Vic was with me. Vic would always be with me.

  It had been a nightmare. A heart poundingly disturbing one, but still just a nightmare. As my eyes adjusted to the bright, morning light I could see Vic’s concerned face hovering inches above mine.

  “Howdy,” I said, letting out a breath that felt like a million years’ worth of suffering and fear.

  It was a very important breath.

  Vic eyed me wryly. “What were you dreaming about?”

  I sat up in bed. It didn’t feel like a nightmare so much as it felt like a fucked up memory. I scrunched my face, trying to figure out a way to get out of talking about it.

  “What were you talking about?” I asked, remembering his voice in my dream.

  “I thought you were awake,” Vic said, his voice laced with apology. “You were talking. In your sleep, I guess.”

  I scooted back against the headboard, looking for support.

  Vic leaned in close to me and gave me his I’m-getting-what-I-want glare.

  The black caverns of his eyes were sucking me in and if I didn’t change the subject soon, I was going to tell him. I was powerless to those eyes. They were infinite space; full of light and dark, up and down, right and wrong. They held the secrets to everything that made me.

  “Did you ask me if your face smelled?” I asked, perking up as I suddenly remembered what brought me out of my nightmare. Vic backed off a bit, giving me room to breathe. I took the space greedily, sucking in the oxygen like it was . . . well, like it was life.

  “I washed my face this morning,” Vic said hesitantly, “and used a towel that was gross. Now every time I breathe, I smell something gross. I think it’s my face.”

  I stared at Vic, trying not to laugh. “Why don’t you wash your face again?”

  “That’s the problem, Lenny,” Vic said, exasperated. He narrowed his eyes, “Have you been using the towels more than once?”

  Yes. “No.” Like I was going to admit I broke rule numero uno in Casa de Wall?

  “Smell my face,” Vic pressed, pushing his face into mine.

  “You’re such a weirdo.” I leaned into smell his face. Yikes, it did smell. “Oh. Yeah, you smell like mildew. Go wash your face.” I pushed him away in mock disgust.

  Vic moved back and folded his arms. I tried not to eye his biceps. You’d think I’d be used to his sex god status by now.

  “How hard is it to change the towels, Lenny?” Vic asked.

  It’s hard. “I do change the towels!” I said defending the lies I’d built.

  Vic jumped off the bed. He eyed me warily; I’m not sure if it was because I was amassing gross towels or because only a minute ago we’d been discussing my nightmare. Either way, he walked away without another word, presumably to go wash his face again.

  After Dean and, well, everything else, I really wanted to put an emphasis on my physical health. I wasn’t even close to morbidly obese or weak as a kitten, but the fact that it had been so easy for Dean to overpower me really was an eye-opener. I mean, I had thought about the possibility of an altercation with Dean even before it happened, and I figured that if I couldn’t beat him, I could outsmart him. That hadn’t happened, because he’d overpowered me before I had had the chance to outthink him.

  It had been like, “Oh, hey Lennox,” and bam, punch to the face, lights out.

  Plus, the nightmare this morning had really freaked me out. I was expecting Zombie Dean to come stumbling out of the closet at any time now.

  So… Exercise.

  That’s how people get in shape, and that’s how I’m going to get in shape. Then, the next time a mentally unstable person targets me, I will be prepared.

  But, let’s take baby steps first before I try to run.

  In researching beginner exercises, I’d read that ten roll ups equal fifty crunches. I don’t know how true that statement is, but since I found it on the Internet, it must be true, right? I mean, it’s a statistic that exists in the world, so it’s true somewhere. Anyway, I’m doing roll ups.

  I was mid-roll up when Vic walked in. With as much disdain as a Manhattan wasp walking in on a mixed-class mating, he said, “What the hell is this song?”

  I finished my roll up and eyed him warily.

  “A pop song to get my blood pumping.”

  “It’s horrible. I’m turning it off before I get a pop-induced migraine.” Vic headed over to my mp3 player, which was conveniently connected via Bluetooth to his speakers.

  “Hey!” I said jumping up to stop him. “No one asked you! Get out if you don’t like it!” I swatted his hand away from my mp3 player, since I wasn’t allowed smartphones anymore, and went back to my roll ups.

  He had a really extensive music collection, sure, but you wouldn’t find any Katy Perry, Britney Spears, or Backstreet Boys on his playlist. And sometimes you just need some Kesha.

  With all things Vic Wall, it’s always his way or the highway. So, naturally I was shocked when he stopped trying to change the music. Instead, he sat down on the bed and watched me do my workout. With any other person I would have been weirded out, but that was just Vic being Vic: always watching.

 
When I finished, I rolled up my mat. I tucked it under my arm, put my hands on my hips, and turned to face him.

  “I just don’t understand how you can only listen to one type of music.” I bit my lip, contemplating how to explain my stance. “It’s like eating only savory foods for the rest of your life. Like . . .” I reached for a stray Jolly Rancher candy on the bedside table. What? I get cravings. There has to be a sweet within a two-foot distance of me at all times or I’m liable to go Hulk on someone’s ass.

  I continued my explanation: “I know that steak is super delicious, but every now and then I want a Jolly Rancher.” I handed him the candy to prove my point.

  Vic unwrapped and popped the sweet treat into his mouth. “I’m trying, but I’m finding it really hard to listen to you with this shit playing.” He waved at the speakers.

  I glared at him but turned off the music nonetheless. Seriously, how does this music not make him happy? I understand not listening to it all the time. It pisses me off to hear pop tracks all the time too, but, like sweets, I want one every now and then. I shared this nugget of insight with him.

  He shrugged.

  “You can’t just eat savory foods all the time. It would get boring!” I said, getting frustrated.

  Vic shrugged again. “I guess I can.” His indifference was really starting to piss me off.

  “But you’re eating a Jolly Rancher right now!” I said wildly gesticulating to his cheek where the candy was nestled in his mouth.

  Vic raised an eyebrow and contemplated me. “Yeah, well, if I ate only steak all the time, that would be boring,” he finally said.

  I swear to God, when he said that I nearly had an aneurysm. This was a classic Vic argument. He would have made an excellent lawyer. He took what you said and turned it on top of its head. He made you think that you weren’t arguing about what you thought you were. Not this time, though. I wasn’t going to put up with it.

  Mainly because, if this conversation kept going this route, I was going to murder him in his sleep.

  “No,” I said.