Still A Stranger

by Penny Wynter

  "Ramsey," the display says.

  "I'm not fucking him." My voice is small, and I can barely bring myself to verbalize it. At the same time, I want to tell Dom that I hadn't really tried to have sex since I woke up. It's hard to have sex if you can't stand being touched. So far, I haven't really missed it though.

  Dom stares at the phone that's dancing on the table because of its vibrations. I need my phone to vibrate as I rely on that to notice calls because I rarely hear the ringing. It's only when Ramsey gives up that my supposed husband focuses his attention back to me.

  "Your uncle was one of the producers and brought you with him because you had a great interest in make-up and special effects. I still think that he just wanted you to stop nagging him because you are relentless when you want something. He made you an intern, and the peace lasted all but three days after we were introduced. After that, you decided that you liked me. A lot. I started finding those pictures everywhere. In my bag, under a box of pizza, behind my windshield wipers, and in my trailer, of course. I threw them all away because you were a minor, yet it made you even more persistent."

  Looking through the Polaroids, I have no idea if I can believe him. Was I really the girl he describes?

  I only know Amber, the woman who woke up six years ago and who doesn't like confrontation. Trying to imagine myself that much younger and this brave, almost insane, feels weird.

  "You were trouble from the moment I met you, and the more I tried to avoid you, the more devious you became. You were smart about it, though. You didn't throw fits or publicly declare your love—no, you were too clever for that. No one knew about your obsession or how you fucking stalked me everywhere. My first mistake was telling you that I would never date a minor. That got you off my back. Or so I thought. I found you in my bed the night you turned 18. Completely naked and willing to do everything, anything with me. Walking out on you, that might be the hardest thing I've ever done." Dom chuckles and shakes his head as if to get rid of the memories.

  I envy him, though. Every cell in my being longs for those memories. To me, he has everything, and I have nothing. Even looking at those pictures doesn't help. I see them and know it's clearly me, but it doesn't provoke any emotions, no fuzzy feelings, or blurry thoughts buried in the back of my head. There's just. . . nothing.

  "I slept in a hotel that night, and the next day you were gone. But after that—I'm not going to lie—I started keeping those damn pictures."

  Trying to calm my breathing, I study the Polaroids again and realize there must be at least a bit of truth to what he's telling me. The length and color of my hair varies greatly. In the first picture, my hair is dyed blond and only covers my ears, and in the last picture, it's bright red and touches my shoulders.

  Now, Amber wears a brunette pixie. It's my natural hair color, and I find the short cut practical yet feminine as my face is rather small with big eyes.

  "If you didn't want me, how did we end up married?" I'm curious and, at the same time, afraid of the answer.

  "I never said I didn't want you. You were simply too young."

  "I'm still younger than you. What changed?"

  Dom clicks his tongue. "You pushed me and pushed me and pushed me until I lost my shit. That happened. I managed to evade you for two years until you followed me into a sex club."

  I can barely breathe. "A sex club?"

  "Yes. You see, that was the thing I wanted to protect the younger you from. I'm a sadist, and I love to inflict pain. Yet, I didn't want to corrupt such a young girl who didn't even know what she was getting herself into. I found you attractive and tempting from the minute I met you. Honestly, I deserve a fucking award for not taking your virginity the second you turned 18."

  "Did you?" My chest feels incredibly tight. "Take my virginity?"

  He smiles and now looks even more like a dangerous predator. "Yes, I did. That night in the sex club, I learned that you can't corrupt someone who's even more depraved than yourself."

  "What happened that night?" I want to know really fucking bad. Yet, I'm not sure if I can believe him as he paints this weird picture of me as a tempting vixen and ruthless seductress. That doesn't sound like me—or does it?

  Dom leans back on the couch, extending his arm on the backrest, looking completely at peace. "If you want details, it's going to cost you."

  6

  This is insane. He's insane.

  And I'm probably insane as well for staying.

  My throat is tight, my lips feel dry, and my heart is beating like crazy. I'm afraid because I think I might know the answer. Yet, I have to ask. "It's going to cost me what?"

  "Answers." He shrugs. "Your body. I miss fucking my pretty wife. I miss hearing you moan and beg and cry."

  Maybe I hit my head even worse than I thought when I almost drowned six years ago. Otherwise, I can't explain the arousal I feel, hearing his words. He wants to hear me cry? That should scare me really badly. Instead, I long to find out what exactly he means. How does he intend to make me cry? He said that he's a sadist and I'm familiar with the concept, but I haven't experienced it myself. Or should I say that Amber hasn't? Because the man in front of me seems to be convinced that I'm some kind of sex-crazed vamp ready to jump his bones as soon as he snaps his fingers.

  My cheeks flush, and I'm weirdly turned on. There's nothing I can do to stop it just as I also can't stop my breath from quickening.

  "The thing is, I still don't trust you. I've seen you play other people far too often to believe you just yet, and I really need answers. Do you have any idea what you did to me when you vanished?"

  I look down, staring at my hand. There was a whole nail missing from my finger when they found me. Now, whenever I'm stressed, that fingertip pulses with some kind of dull phantom pain even though the nail has long since regrown. It's throbbing now as well. "No, I don't. I was busy fighting for my life."

  "Hmm." He clicks his tongue. "I wonder how you ended up in Canada—assuming you're telling the truth."

  "Do you know how many broken bones they had to fix? Everyone was surprised that I hadn't suffered brain damage from the way my attacker reshaped my freaking skull, and yet you don't believe me? If I had any recollection of what happened to me or of who my attacker was—do you really think I wouldn't have at least flinched when I saw your face?"

  "No, my wife wouldn't have flinched. Perks of being married to someone with a mild form of antisocial personality disorder. Like I said, you don't care much about other people unless you want something from them. I can only guess what made Amber Alderwood pursue a career in helping other people. Probably the attention, though. And how thankful the families are when you give them peace."

  I feel like someone's punched me in the gut. That's exactly why I do what I do. A part of me loves the attention, the admiration. I can bathe in the compliments when other people call me smart or clever or intelligent for figuring out yet another mystery.

  "A part of me feels sorry that you've been attacked," Dom continues. "But the rest is still angry because you left me after driving a knife through my chest, barely missing my heart. As much as it's a wonder that you're still alive, it's also a miracle that I'm still here. I couldn't have drowned you somewhere as I was busy dying on the floor of our home in New York."

  New York. Finally, he gave me the first hint. Dominico Fanucci, New York. I can't wait to google that. My phone is still on the table, but I doubt he would let me take it.

  "So, then tell me what happened to you." I motion for him to continue. Maybe it helps if I treat my own past like I would every other mystery as well. Interviewing witnesses, gathering information, observing, analyzing, and finally coming to a conclusion.

  "I woke up in a hospital bed after our maid found me, and the police were very interested in your whereabouts and why our home was covered in both of our blood." He crosses his arms, and I'm relieved to finally see some emotion from him again. With a shake of his head, he says, "It didn't help that I missed you like crazy
and was heartbroken because you actually tried to kill me. You. The person I love the most on this planet."

  My heart skips a beat when I notice how he says "love" instead of "loved." So he still has feelings for me?

  "If you love me so much, then why do you insist on playing this game? Why don't you just tell me what happened? Is this amusing to you?"

  "This is anything but a game." Dom leans forward and starts shuffling through the contents of the shoebox before he pulls out a rather menacing looking knife and another Polaroid. Holding the knife by its blade, he looks at me. "Give me your hand."

  Shit. My pulse picks up speed, and I feel warm. Too warm. Although I want to resist, I can't. Ever so slowly, I extend my shaking arm.

  Dom hands me the knife and pushes the picture over the table in my direction.

  The knife feels heavy and wrong in my grip. Yet, I don't let go. Why would I if he hands me a weapon that I can use to defend myself?

  The knife looks downright vicious with its pointy tip and its jagged teeth on the back of the blade. What are those things called again? Hunting knives?

  "That's the one you used." Dom sounds calm, but I almost drop the knife like it's hot. My knuckles are white when I—literally—get a grip. I still don't know if a single word that comes from his mouth is true or not.

  He taps on the picture with his index finger. "And that's the mask you wore."

  The Polaroid shows one hell of a creepy mask, perfectly suitable for a horror movie and scaring the shit out of people. It looks like a head wrapped in bandages, with the dirty wraps stapled shut. There's only one eye so deep in its socket that it's barely visible. Sharp and spiky teeth fill the opened mouth that looks like it's screaming bloody murder.

  The mask is awful, clearly designed to provoke discomfort. Yet, I feel something tugging in the back of my head. A familiar feeling that I can't quite hold on to. Like that moment you smell something that reminds you of something you can't grasp, and then the smell is gone too quickly for you to get a second chance. It's just like that.

  "Why would I wear that?"

  "You designed it and were pretty proud after your first test run."

  I sit there, Polaroid in one hand and knife in the other, still with no idea what he's talking about. "I don't understand. What kind of test run? Why would I design such a mask?"

  "It was your job, and you loved it. You're an special effects makeup artist. Remember how we met? With you being the intern on set? That's what you wanted to do, and if you want something, you get it. Whenever you came up with one of your new creations, you would test it by wearing it and scaring the people on set."

  I look at the picture again, trying to figure out if he is telling the truth. It seems cruel to scare people like this, and I can't imagine doing it. Or did I?

  Again, there's the faint pull in the back of my head and I shut my eyes for a second. That feeling, when the word is on the tip of your tongue, but. . . You. Just. Can't.

  It's fucking frustrating, and I put the picture down.

  "What's my name?"

  He doesn't miss a beat. "Amber Alderwood."

  "Fuck you, Dom. What's my real name?"

  "What are you willing to give me for that answer?" He cocks his eyebrows, looking smugger than ever. He knows that he has his claws in me.

  "I'm sick of your damn games. Just tell me what you want."

  "For starters—a kiss."

  I'm about to tell him that he's insane when I realize I'm still holding the knife. What harm will one kiss do if it gets me a bit more peace of mind? If he tries anything funny, I'll just stab him. I shouldn't forget that he's a sadist and that he's probably getting a kick out of cruelly torturing me like this. Surely, it's less fun for him if I play by his rules.

  A part of me is well aware that this is crazy as I get up to cross the distance between us. I wonder if I've ever kissed someone before while holding a knife in my hand.

  Dom's eyes gleam as he stands up. Since he's taller than me, he looks down at me as he cups my cheek. He leans in, and I close my eyes. His breath is warm, but his lips are even warmer.

  He doesn't kiss me like it's the first time he's ever done it.

  Gripping my cheek with one hand, he puts the other on my back and pulls me close, as his tongue plunges into my mouth. He makes me forget that I don't like being touched.

  My last attempt at having sex ended in disaster when I started puking halfway through foreplay. To say that the guy was irritated would be a huge understatement. After that experience, I gave up. Until now.

  I can't resist and put my arms around his neck, still holding the knife, although I find it harder and harder to focus on keeping the weapon in my hand.

  The kiss ignites a feeling inside me that I didn't think I was capable of anymore. Desire. Dom is to me what gasoline is to fire.

  Within seconds, my pussy's wet, and I cling to him like I'm drowning. His strong hands feel good on my body, and I can't get enough of the sensation of being kissed and held like this.

  I hear a faint clinking sound. It takes a moment to sink in that stupid me has dropped the knife. Wanting to pull away, I put my hands on Dom's muscular chest to push him off.

  He doesn't let me. And he really is every bit as strong as I imagined him to be. Panic fights with arousal as I notice his erection pressing against my body.

  His kiss is rough and ends too soon. Dom looks at me, still holding me close. "I want to fuck you."

  It's not a question and within two heartbeats he has me turned around and bent over the arm of the couch.

  "I don't think that's a good idea," I say, but my voice is weak. The knife is lying on the ground, just out of reach, and Dom's hands on my hips make it obvious that I'm going to stay right where he wants me.

  "Don't make me force you." He sounds way too excited. "Because I will."

  A wave of sheer panic washes over me, and I struggle to get back up. Our deal included a kiss and nothing more. This is too fast. Dom moves too fast.

  Since he's holding me down, there's not much I can do. I try to slap him, my hand flapping uselessly through the air behind me.

  Dom grabs my wrist and twists my arm behind my back. As I groan with pain, he shoves my face down into the cushions. I can barely breathe and absolutely don't understand why I find all of this weirdly . . . exciting.

  My heart is racing, and my pulse is thumping. I can't think straight. Yet, I feel intoxicated by this and alive for the first time in forever.

  "Did you miss me, Amber?" Dom rasps next to my ear while he rips my pants open and pulls them down.

  "I don't know." It's the truth, although a part of me wants to say "yes." Somehow my body seems to remember this kind of treatment, and I'm not as scared as I should be.

  My panties give in to his rough fingers, and the scraps fall to the ground.

  "Why don't you spread your legs for me, my pretty wife?"

  I want to remind him that he promised to tell me my real name, yet there's something in his voice that makes me shut up. My instincts suggest just letting him do what he wants.

  That's why I do what I'm told. Air brushes over my wet pussy. I can't believe that Dom has managed to get me wet and wanting. This has never happened before. Without him.

  The tip of his cock nudges against my labia, and the man insisting that he's my husband, shoves his hips forward. He thrusts deep, filling me with his thick shaft.

  It's too much, too quickly and I hiss.

  Dom's hand comes around my throat from behind, and he squeezes. "Don't worry. You're going to survive. Somehow you always do."

  I have a vague idea of what to say but the words that come out of my mouth surprise the hell out of me. "Harder," I hear myself beg. "Please, harder."

  Dom laughs, and the pressure on my throat increases. "Oh, how I missed my dirty little slut."

  He fucks me with hard strokes, pushing deeper with each one, his weight pressing me into the couch. The lack of oxygen makes my head dizzy—in th
e best possible way. It's delicious. Everything about this is perfect.

  Skilled fingers find my clit and rub it until I see stars. Fuck! I moan his name, bucking my hips, and curling my toes. I cum so hard that I almost lose consciousness.

  He lets go of my throat to grip my hips with both hands, and I suck in desperate gasps of air. That was close, but I guess Dom knows that.

  He's not holding back anymore, pounding into me with his teeth clenched, groaning. I can feel his dick twitching as he reaches his climax, filling me with his cum.

  Bliss penetrates every cell in my body while my brain tries to convince me that this was a stupid mistake.

  I clear my throat. "You wanted to tell me my name."

  "No." Dom pulls back, leaving me feeling empty and confused. He grips my chin and makes me look at him. "I said that I want at least a kiss for starters. Guess what. That kiss made me hungry for more, so you will have to play along if you want to know what I have to offer, Amber."

  Spoken like a true sadist.

  Fuck.

  7

  "That's not fair." I get up and turn around, trying to figure out what to do now. I can feel his cum dripping out of me as my underwear lies on the ground, torn to shreds.

  He smiles dryly as he puts his dick away. "I know. But tell me, what are you going to do about it?"

  Since I don't have another option, I just pull my pants back up with a frown. This is not what I imagined what a weekend in Minnesota would be like. Looking to the window, it's dark outside, but I can see the snowflakes dancing in front of the window.

  "Don't even think about going out there. I just got you back. There's no fucking way I'm going to let you leave me ever again." He bends down to pick up the knife and hands it back to me.

  I stare at the handle, not knowing if I even need it. What good will it do me if I drop it again the first chance I get?

  "What's wrong with you?" I ask, instead. "If you're so fucking sure that I tried to kill you, why would you even want me here in our home? You want revenge? Slit my throat and get it over with." I turn away, refusing to take the knife again, although it makes me feel silly. But then again, he's clearly stronger than me and probably knows how to defend himself against me—knife or no knife.