“I’m not the one who’s in lurve,” she croons, drawing the word out.
“And neither am I. I’m merely mildly obsessed. What exactly do you suggest that I do?”
“Just at least go up and introduce yourself. Say ‘Hi, I’m Tamara.’ That’s it. See what he does.” She grins mischievously. “And that dress you’re holding right now is the one. It is the bomb. He won’t be able to stop staring at your tits.”
I glance down critically at the wraparound cocktail dress. “Well, I do have a halfway decent rack. I don’t know, though. He hasn’t shown the slightest flicker of interest in me since the minute I started working there. I think it’ll take more than my magic boobs to catch his eye. There are plenty of girls in the city with boobs.”
“Free bagels for a week,” she sings out. “With salmon and cream cheese. If you just grow a pair of lady-cojones and say hi to him.” She works in the bagel shop around the corner to pay the bills, and auditions for parts in commercials and sitcoms. And she’s always pushing me to do crazy things.
I laugh ruefully. “Damn you. You know my weakness.”
Of course, she doesn’t know all my weaknesses. Nobody does. Why tell people that I’m a little bit crazy?
I wait until she heads off to the bathroom before I start tapping the mirror with my index finger. Always the index finger.
“Five, four, three, nobody will hurt me. Seven, eight, nine, everything will be—”
“Tamara?” Heather calls out. I didn’t hear her come back out. I start and stifle a shriek, and my heart accelerates to a million beats a minute. She’d interrupted the chant! Nobody can interrupt the chant! The last time someone interrupted the chant… No. I won’t think about that.
“What were you doing?” she demands suspiciously, coming into the room.
I can’t explain it to her. I can’t tell her about the tapping rituals and the chants that keep me safe. First of all, I know her too well. She’s loud, funny, sarcastic, one of those people who feels obligated to mock everything. The reason behind the tapping and the chants…it’s too painful to share.
And secondly, if I tell anyone, the magic will vanish. I don’t know why, but I know it’s true.
I need them. They calm me, uncoiling the tension that twists me up and sends panic flooding through me at random, unpredictable moments.
And they work. They saved me when I was seven. When I did the Bad Thing. Because of the chants, nobody ever found out.
“I’m not doing anything,” I say, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
“Why were you tapping the mirror like that and talking to yourself?” There’s a ring of disgust to her voice that sends me right back to grade school, when a gang of girls trapped me in the bathroom and made fun of me for my DIY haircut until I cried and threw up. I wasn’t the one who’d cut my hair; my stepfather had sat on me on the floor and hacked hunks of my hair off with dull scissors. Why? Because I hadn’t brought him his beer fast enough. The memory of his erection bulging through his boxer shorts is still enough to curdle my stomach.
“I wasn’t,” I lie, like an idiot.
“Yes you were.” She backs away from me as if I smell bad, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “Why are you acting like such a freak?”
I’m shocked. That’s the nastiest tone she’s ever taken with me.
“Why are you being such a bitch?” The words fly from my mouth before I can stop them. Her features contort with utter hatred, sending shock waves through my body. We’ve been friends for three months now, ever since she moved in across the hall. I’m so busy with my multiple jobs, working from morning to night, that I don’t have time to meet a lot of people, but Heather reached out to me right away. She’s loud and self-confident, which I am not, and she supports everything I do. She makes me feel pretty good about myself.
What has happened to that Heather? I have never seen her like this.
She turns and stomps out.
“Heather, wait!” I call after her. She slams the door so hard that a picture falls off the wall.
I don’t understand. Is it because she saw my weird tapping ritual and was disgusted? I should have been more careful. Nobody is supposed to see.
I want to run after her and make things right, somehow, but I don’t have time. I can’t be late. It’s another of my rules for safety. Being late equals bad luck.
I repeat the chant on the mirror, finishing it this time, but since Heather interrupted me, it won’t help.
My hopeful mood fizzles and turns sour. I don’t want to go anymore.
But I’ve already committed. I can’t just fail to show up and leave the rest of the waitstaff scrambling to cover me. So I stuff down my impending anxiety attack, brush my thick brown hair back into a bun, and shimmy into the dress. I paint on liquid eyeliner and smudge blush on my lips and cheeks.
And with a sense of dull foreboding, I head out the door.
Chapter Two
Tamara
On my way to the subway, I stop to say hi to Mark, the homeless guy who sleeps in the alleyway on my block. I reach into my purse and pull out the carefully wrapped roast beef sandwich I made for him earlier.
He sits on a stoop huddled in a blanket, despite the damp June heat, and I have to force myself not to wrinkle my nose at the smell of urine that wafts up.
His face is always red and swollen, his eyes bloodshot. I can’t tell his age. He could be twenty or forty. I know he used to work in computer security, until the drinking cost him his job. Also his home and his family.
“You’re the best,” he mumbles. “Where are you going, all dressed up like that?”
“Hot date with my boss tonight,” I say lightly, as if saying it will make it true.
“He’s a lucky man. Be careful—those rich types can be jerks.” Then he looks up at me, his weathered brow creasing with worry. “You all right?”
Oh, great. Just great. The tension twisting my face is so obvious that a homeless man who’s fried his brains with alcohol can see it.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. I glance down at him. “Are you all right?”
He shrugs and lets out a little mumbling laugh. “What do you think?”
I draw a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I say to him gently. “If you ever want me to help you find a rehab…”
He waves his hand at me dismissively, his expression gone sullen.
I’ve gone too far.
I walk away quickly. Heather says I need to stop trying to solve everyone else’s problems. I’ve got enough on my plate, being flat broke and juggling part-time jobs so I can eat and pay rent in the same month. I know she’s right. I just remember growing up and wishing I had someone to offer me a helping hand. Roaming the motel room lobby, hungry, wearing dirty clothes…that’s why I’ve got my sights set on law school. I’m going to get hired by a non-profit and work with battered women and abused children. Maybe if I can help save someone from going through what I did, it will help ease the pain of those memories.
The feeling of uneasiness is still roiling in my stomach when I arrive at the party. When I go to the changing room, I am lucky. There’s no-one else there, so I quickly do my tapping ritual on the mirror before I stash my stuff in a locker and head out.
I’ve never been in the ballroom before. The room, like the rest of the Smith Acquisitions building, is an aggressive display of wealth and power. It was once owned by a nineteenth-century industrialist, and the Fifth Avenue address is a statement in itself. The original Gilded Age décor is intact, with elaborately carved Grecian friezes set into the wall panels and bow-legged furniture upholstered in red velvet. Marble statues rest on fluted columns, staring indifferently with their blind, pupil-less eyes.
There are easily a hundred people here—clients, models, and socialites, all snacking on tiny little canapes and swilling expensive liquor from the open bar.
A gossip columnist snaps a picture of Joshua. A skinny blonde Madison Avenue type in a glittery beaded gown sees the camer
a and hurries over. She flings her arm around Joshua’s waist, and he flashes a dazzling smile as the columnist snaps another picture. I feel the faintest twinge of jealousy.
Then he spins away, his back to the blonde, who flounces off in a sulk. I suppress a tiny burst of spite. I know it’s silly to feel that way, but I’m kind of relieved that I’m not the only one who treats like that.
I wait a few minutes, then I walk over and try to offer him a glass of champagne from my tray, but he waves me away without even looking at me. Discouraged, I skulk in the bathroom for a while, but I finally come back out. Maybe if I say hi to him, I can go home and tell Heather about it, and she won’t be mad at me anymore. I can’t stand the thought of her hating me forever. I know my need to be liked is neurotic, but I can’t stop myself. When people are upset with me, it burns away at my gut like acid.
I’ve done a Bad Thing, and I will spend all my life seeking reassurance that I’m not a bad person because of it. Every stroke of bad luck I’ve had since then seems like punishment for my one terrible sin.
My eyes wander the room until they settle on Joshua. He’s standing toward the back of the room, his gaze roving over the crowd. He hasn’t noticed me. Well, I’ll make him notice me. I’ve been told I have a pretty smile. I’ll smile brightly, and stand right in front of him, and get him to at least look at me.
Boldly, I walk right up to him. He stands angled away from me, holding a glass of seltzer water.
“Hi, I’m Tamara,” I say with forced cheer.
And then suddenly I realize he’s talking to someone else, a silver-haired man in a suit, and the man looks down his nose at me before stalking off with a sniff of disdain.
I’m the help. The help doesn’t talk. The help is furniture whose job is to glide on oiled wheels, anticipating needs, quickly serving those needs, then vanishing into the shadows. My face instantly flames red with humiliation; I’m a terrible blusher. “I’m so sorry,” I choke out, and start to back up.
Joshua focuses his gaze on me. The blue of his eyes seems to darken and turn stormy, and I could swear the black flecks are swirling like flotsam in a cyclone. Something subtle changes, and his expression goes from cold and remote to laser-focused and terrifying. I’m caught in his sights, and I try to back up but my feet stay rooted to the carpet.
He leans in, and I could swear I feel the temperature drop several degrees. “You’re fired,” he says, his voice low and vicious.
I can’t possibly have heard that right.
My heart jackhammers in my chest, and my throat closes in panic.
“Excuse me? I’m sorry?”
But he’s already turned away from me and is gesturing at Jorge, one of the security guards. “Escort her from the building.”
A wave of panic floods me.
I’m fired? For saying hi? He’s acting as if I really did grab his dick, like Heather joked about hours ago.
Jorge barrels through the crowd and is on me in seconds. I’m hyperventilating with panic as his fingers close on my upper arm. He drags me through the crowd, gripping my upper arm painfully tight.
I have my waitress apron on; he doesn’t even give me time to take it off. The men in their tailored suits, the women in their updos and silky gowns, stare at me as if from a great height, whispering scornfully among themselves. The way Jorge is acting, they must think I was caught lifting someone’s wallet.
Self-loathing and humiliation curl in my stomach. I don’t even try to hide the tears streaming down my face.
Jorge rushes me down the stairs, and I struggle not to trip in my heels. “Slow down!” I cry out, but he ignores me, glaring straight ahead.
My arm’s going to have a huge bruise on it where his hand is crushing my flesh. Why is he being so rough? It’s completely unnecessary; it’s not like I’m fighting him. For some reason, I’m starting to get really scared. But he’s a security guard—his job is to protect people. He wouldn’t hurt me, would he?
When we get to the first floor, I shout, “Let go of me!” I struggle to wrench my arm from his grasp. “I’m leaving already. I can walk by myself!” My voice echoes down the hallway, magnifying my fear. We’re all alone down here.
His grip tightens. He doesn’t answer. He isn’t even looking at me. Instead of moving me toward the front lobby, he forces me toward the back hallway. The air conditioning vent overhead blasts us with freezing air, and goose pimples pop up on my skin.
“Stop!” I scream. “Help!” My voice bounces back at me mockingly. My heart pounds in my throat, and tears spring to my eyes. I claw at his arm with my free hand, but he doesn’t seem to notice. What does he have planned for me?
He flings open a door and drags me into the break room. When he shoves me up against a wall, I see the hideous lust gleaming in his eyes.
“Get away from me!” I scream at the top of my lungs, but I’m too far away from the party for anyone to hear me.
“Or what?” he sneers. “I don’t think Mr. Smith cares too much about what happens to you.”
He pins my hands above my head. Revulsion floods me as he presses his body against mine, and I feel his erection straining against his polyester pants. He’s wearing a sickly-sweet cologne, and his sour coffee breath curdles my stomach.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening… There’s a party full of people only two flights up from me, and I’m trapped in a room with a rapist…
With his free hand, he squeezes my breast so hard that I cry out in pain. I’m about to be raped. He’s going to force his dick inside me.
“Help!” I scream at the top of my lungs. The word cuts off abruptly when he slaps my face so hard my ears ring. Then he shoves his hand between my legs and squeezes my crotch, rubbing it and grinning obscenely. My skin crawls at his touch, and my dinner rises into my throat, almost making me vomit. He’s squeezing my wrists so hard I feel my bones creak.
Panic floods my body. There is no help coming. If I don’t fight my way out of this, he will rape me right here in the break room.
“Stop!” I cry, making my voice small and wavery. “Please stop! I’ll do anything you want! Just stop hurting me!”
“Now we’re talking.” He grins and releases my hands. “On your knees, puta.”
This is my only chance.
Summoning up memories from a women’s self-defense class, I knee him in the crotch so hard he doubles over. He wheezes and vomits on the floor.
Frantic with fear, I stumble away from him and run out the door and down the hallway.
I stop there and tap the front door five times.
I have to do that before I leave work at the end of the day. Have to.
It’s insane, stupid for me to take the time to do it, but I can’t stop myself.
One of these days, my OCD is literally going to kill me.
I hurry out of the door.
It isn’t until I get outside that I remember I’ve left my purse behind.
I actually have my wallet in my waitress apron, because I’m too paranoid to leave it in the changing room locker. And I have enough money in tips to pay for a cab ride home. I also have the card key that gains me entrance to the building. There’s no chance I’m returning now to get it. Instead, I’ll go back tomorrow night, late, when nobody will be there, and get my purse back. I’m sure as hell not going to go back inside and walk past Jorge to head up the stairwell.
When I get home, I’m emotionally wrung out. I shut the door behind me and stand there, swaying.
How could my day have gone so horribly wrong?
I start crying, shoulders heaving, and I just can’t stop. I pissed off my only friend, lost my job, and almost got raped. And if that’s not enough, my head still hurts from being slapped.
The Bad Thing. That little voice from my past taunts me. Bad people do bad things. Bad things happen to bad people.
Should I call the police on Jorge? Would they even believe me, though? God only knows what Joshua would tell them about me—and I know
whose side they’d take.
Utterly alone and miserable, I don’t even take my dress off. I just kick off my heels, collapse into bed, and cry for hours. I finally fall into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
When I wake up, my heart is pounding with anxiety, but that’s how I always wake up. I don’t know why. I wake up in a panic every day of my life and spend the next few hours slowly getting myself calmed down. I have learned to live with it. It could be much worse. I’m young, I’m physically healthy; I have nothing to complain about.
After I make myself coffee, I send Heather a text message apologizing to her for being such a bitch the day before. I don’t really think the fight was my fault, but I already feel rotten enough about myself after what had happened. I don’t want to lose my only friend in New York.
And then I shuffle miserably to the shower to wash my shame off me. I scrub and scrub, but it clings to me, filthy and poisonous.
After a while, I’m sick of feeling like garbage.
There are two voices that whisper in my head. One of them is nameless and cruel, but it lives in a dark, swirling cloud. It blames every stroke of bad luck on my one terrible sin. It makes me tap on the door and on mirrors over and over again, quietly chanting those silly little rhymes in a desperate attempt to protect myself. Tapping and chanting makes the voice go away for a little while.
But one of them belongs to Sarah, my guidance counselor in high school. She was only my counselor for a few months, before I was moved to another group home in another city, but she was the best. I’d always gotten excellent grades, and never stopped to think about what that could mean for my future. Sarah told me my mind was remarkable. She dragged me out of my funk of self-pity and spun me toward the bright, pretty future she promised was waiting for me.
Sarah would say that none of what happened to me yesterday was my fault.
Tamara, Taken Page 2