CRUX: A Dark Romantic Suspense

by Stella Noir

Wrong.

  His hand finds its way between my legs and pushes them apart like they’re nothing as I cry out desperately, my voice muffled by the rag in my mouth. He pushes inside me and I feel myself breaking, breaking, and breaking.

  “Think you’re his?” Frank’s voice is hot and raspy against my skin. “He’s got enough. He got everything. You … you’re going to be mine. One way or another.”

  I know I’ve reached my breaking point and just when I’m about to stop holding my body up, Frank collapses in front of me.

  He crashes on the floor and I look at him in horror as blood blooms around his head and he gasps for air.

  It takes a few seconds, just a few seconds, before he stops breathing.

  His eyes bore into me, glassy, dead.

  The blood blooms into a large puddle.

  And I look up; look into Dylan’s eyes, standing over the corpse of his brother, holding a jagged bottle in his hands, a crazed look in his eyes.

  “I had to,” he whispers. “I had to …”

  Chapter 17

  7 years ago

  I’m scared.

  My heart beating, fast, irregular.

  What have we done what have we done what have we done?

  I look at the mess we’ve made, look at all the blood splattered around us.

  I look at the man I love, my heart threating to throb right out my chest.

  “I didn’t meant to,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

  “Okay,” I say, nodding slightly, my eyes crazed. “Okay, okay, okay, okay.”

  I repeat the simple word over and over again as if saying it so many times will actually make it all better. But it doesn’t. It just doesn’t.

  The bottle drops out of his hand and he looks at his bloodied palms. I just stand there, useless, helpless. I look at the unmoving heap on the floor and I feel the panic seeping through my pores like a toxic perfume.

  “I need to get out,” I mutter and stumble towards the door that leads up from the basement, almost falling on the stairs until his strong arms catch me. I tremble and shake and whimper, but he helps me get out. Takes me outside where the fresh air hits me like …

  I’d rather not say like what.

  He holds my hair back while I puke on the grass outside the building.

  Then, he wraps me up in his arms, not caring about the fact that I’m all gross and dirty, me not giving a fuck that he has another man’s blood on his fingers.

  “We’ll fix it,” he says softly. “We’ll make it better.”

  “You already did,” I admit, and look up into his wide eyes. His pupils are so dilated I can only see blackness where there’s usually color. His mouth is slightly parted, like he’s waiting for my kiss.

  So I obey. I do what I want to do, what needs to be done.

  I lean forward, pressing my feverish lips against his, crushing him against me as we fold together perfectly, mold, shape, form one perfect soul instead of two desperate, broken ones.

  I kiss him like he’s my lifeline, my tongue playing with his, tormenting him. I bite his lip hard, tasting his blood.

  And then I’m sick again in the grass.

  And he holds me as I cry.

  He holds me when I whimper.

  Always holds me.

  Happy, sad. My sweet boy.

  Then they come for him, like I knew they would.

  They scream and they shout.

  They take him away, literally tearing him from my arms as I scream his name over and over and over again. Our eyes stay connected for as long as they can, and he silently mouths my name.

  “Lola,” his lips say.

  “Killer,” the others scream.

  “Lola,” he silently promises.

  “Murderer!” someone shouts.

  “Lola,” he says goodbye.

  “You’ll die for this!” someone condemns him as he is taken away.

  And then I’m falling, falling, falling.

  We’ve done it.

  We’ve done something so bad, so fucked up. There’s no going back from this, and no one will ever believe me if I tell the truth. They’ll say I’m a filthy liar. Like they said before.

  And he’s gone, stashed in a car, and I’m lying on the grass, someone splashing cold water on my face. It doesn’t help. Doesn’t calm me down.

  And only when my throat feels like it’s bleeding from the inside do I realize that the shrill screams are coming from my mouth.

  And then it’s all over.

  He’s gone.

  The man, dead.

  Me?

  I’m by myself.

  All alone.

  Left in the darkness.

  Chapter 18

  7 years ago

  They have to physically hold me back after they tear Dylan away from me, away from my arms. What just happened feels like a fresh wound on my skin – that moment when you fall and end up on the floor, but you’re so confused that you don’t quite understand what happened yet.

  All I know right now is pain, so much pain.

  All I can remember is the last frightened look on Dylan’s face, screaming my name over and over again, and , those last few words that will mark my future.

  “I’ll find you,” he whispered in my ear. “You’re mine, Lola Lexington. I’ll come and claim you when the time is right.”

  And then they dragged him away from me and I just stared at the bloody, lifeless heap of Frank Rawlings in front of me.

  He saved me from this monster, yet he was the one to be condemned. He saved me from pain, saved me from years of therapy, yet he will pay the price.

  Five words ring in my head, again, again and again.

  It should have been me …

  *

  The days pass in a blur as a fever consumes my body. I don’t remember much from those few days after the incident, but when I come to, I’m not in my cozy, girly bedroom in the Hamptons. I’m lying in my bed back home, the perfectly renovated bedroom, and the room of a girl who doesn’t know pain or pleasure. Not yet.

  I scream when I wake up, shouting and crying for Dylan.

  My mother appears in the doorway, her lips tight, her arms crossed in front of her body. She does nothing to comfort me. Doesn’t come closer, doesn’t wipe my hot forehead with a cold washcloth. She just stands in the doorway, still as a statue, until my screams turn into whimpers.

  Then, she approaches my bed and sits on the end of it, as far away from me as possible – as if I’m contagious. Which I might be, since I’m sick, but that’s beside the point.

  “How long have I been out?” I ask, my voice hoarse from the days of being quiet.

  My mother inspects her fingernails, picking up invisible dust from behind her nails. The whole action repulses me from some reason and I have to fight my body so I don’t retch.

  “Five days,” she says calmly. “The doctors said it was just shock. You ate a bit, but had a fever. You didn’t seem aware of what was happening,” she explains, cold as ever.

  “So what, you just stashed me in the car and brought me here?” I spit out, anger coursing through my veins like a wicked poison.

  My mother looks at me coolly. “We took a private jet.”

  I fight back the insults I have for her, because there’s only one question to ask, only one thing I want to know now. And I have to be good so she’ll answer me, because I have to know!

  “Where is Dylan?” I ask hoarsely, my voice grinding against my throat with the sound of his name on my lips. It pains me to think of him, but at the same time, I need to know, my need as bad as a bleeding wound.

  Immediately, my mother gets up from the bed and comes closer to me. She slaps me with her ice cold, milky white hand he sound resonating through the walls. I grab my cheek in shock and stare at her, but her expression is incredibly calm and collected.

  “Listen to me, and listen well, Lola,” she says, the threatening tone in her voice obvious. She leans in closer, and when she speaks, drop
s of her spit land on my face. I want to turn away in disgust, but I need to know.

  “You will never say that name again. From now on, that boy does not exist.”

  I stare at her in confusion.

  “What do … What do you mean?” I ask, my voice shaky and unsure.

  “I don’t need to explain twice, do I?” my mother asks coolly.

  I stare at her in amazement. Is she really going to do this? Can she really take him away from me?

  “Mom,” I say softly. “He … He was trying to protect me …”

  Another slap resonates through the room, and my face doesn’t just burn from the fever, but from my mother’s slaps, too. I look up at her, defiant tears in my eyes.

  “You can’t do this!” I yell at her. “You can’t take him away! He’ll always have my heart. You can’t take that away from us.”

  She smiles coldly, her next words cutting through a wound to my heart. “Watch me,” she promises, and I shudder as she shuts my bedroom door on the way out.

  I try to get up when I hear another sound.

  A key turning in the lock.

  And that is to be the soundtrack of my new life.

  *

  I become a caged bird, locked in my pretty, gilded cage, but with no one to sing to.

  I long for those long summer days, being on the beach with Dylan. The days when I didn’t know pain or sorrow, didn’t know the meaning of despair. But as the days draw on, it becomes more and more apparent I will never be the same person.

  At first, I fight.

  I scream, yell, shout. I bang on my bedroom door, I try to sneak out of my bathroom window, I try to send e-mails only to find my computer disconnected from the Internet. My phone is nowhere to be seen.

  I think of Dylan every day.

  I think of what would have happened to me if he hadn’t saved me. But inevitably, I always think of the clank when the bottle hit Frank’s head, the wound opening on his head and blooming dark, thick blood on the cream colored carpet as he fell down.

  I know it was all my fault. I know Dylan did it to protect me.

  But that’s not what everyone else thinks.

  I find out from my mother, who wants to poison my mind with these facts, that Dylan was accused of murder in court. I gasp and cry at the news, but I’m desperate to hear more.

  Somehow, it is thought that Dylan found out Frank was his brother, and killed him in a jealous fit, afraid he would inherit his father’s fortune as opposed to Dylan’s himself.

  My part in this is never mentioned. My mother tells me they had it struck off the record to protect me, so it’s as if I wasn’t even there when it happened.

  I know it’s my fault Dylan is facing a penalty. Realize it’s because of me he might end up in jail, just because everyone wanted to protect. What a lousy job they did – without Dylan, I would have been raped, violated …

  My mother comes in my room every day. Like a vicious monster, she tells me stories of Dylan and how she’s always known he was bad for me.

  It is in my room where I learn about his trial.

  I find out, while I’m in my comfy and spacious bed, that he was declared criminally insane and sent to an institution. Due to respect to his father, the whole affair has been very hush-hush – he is a well-known man and he knew exactly which string to pull to keep it all very quiet.

  It is in my room, in the same bed, that I start to question Dylan’s sanity myself.

  Was he really possessive of me, like my mother says?

  Was he jealous of Frank?

  Did he hurt him because he thought he would lose me to him?

  At first, I try to deny all these questions in my head, but they pop in my mind more and more often, until I can’t hold back the answers.

  And my mother is more than happy to supply them, offering reasons for what he did, telling me I was a foolish child, just being naïve and stupid. He used me, and it’s a good thing this all happened, as unfortunate as it was. It’s good that they caught him in time.

  The summer passes, and hesitantly, my mother unlocks the door when I have to go to school.

  My classmates are still there, oblivious to my eventful summer. They joke around, have crushes, go out on dates, and complain about homework. All I do is robotic.

  I try to fit in, but they can tell I’ve changed. I’m not good company.

  Some of my friends stick around, I’m guessing because I’m from such a nice family and they think they can benefit from me, or rather, have been bribed by either mine or their parents. Most of them fade away though, pushing me as far as they can.

  I end up all alone.

  The last year of high school is torture.

  I sit in the cubicle during lunch, having no one to talk to. I don’t cry – I’ve shed all the tears my body had left. Instead I stare at the walls, doing nothing.

  That’s what I am. A big, fat, invisible nothing.

  I apply to the college my family wants me to go to, and they insist I stay at a family friend’s house during studies. I’m torn away from the student life I should have, because Mrs. Becker doesn’t let me out of her sight. It’s classes, studying and sleeping. It’s all I do.

  I have my first real look at myself in the mirror almost two years after that summer.

  Gone is the pretty California girl.

  In her place is a pale, emaciated woman with tortured eyes and limp hair. I am nothing.

  I study, and finish a year early. My art degree is my escape.

  Because even though I’ve stricken Dylan out of my memory, declared him forbidden territory, I will never forgive my parents for what they did to me. For locking me in my room, not getting me help. They condemned me, just like they condemned Dylan.

  So when I turn 21, I transfer my trust fund to a new account. I say goodbye to my apathetic father, who turned a blind eye whenever my mother abuses me. I say a bitter goodbye to my mother, and when she raises her palm to hit me again, I catch it in midair.

  “Never again,” I say simply, and her hand drops to her side, shaking.

  I pack my things, pack my money, and move. I leave for the South, for a new life.

  As I stand in front of my new apartment, the deliverymen carrying my suitcases up the stairs, I know this is a new life. A new, fresh start.

  And it’s my chance to make it right.

  I’ve erased that summer. Gone is Dylan, gone is Frank. Gone are my parents.

  I walk up to my apartment and I flip a new page.

  I have moved on.

  Chapter 19

  2 years ago

  Life moves on, surprisingly.

  I love my job, and it’s a great solace from the outside world. To my surprise, I even make a few friends, or perhaps more acquaintances. But they often invite me out for drinks, and we go to trendy bars, gossiping and dancing.

  It makes me feel less alone.

  On one particular night, we’re all invited to a new art gallery opening, and our boss urges us to go and check out the competition. It’s an incredibly upscale event, and I’m giddy just thinking about it. Somehow, the thought of shopping for a pretty new dress and sky-high heels has become the highlight of my month.

  I end up settling on a simple black dress, which goes out at the waist and has a bow around it. I choose a silver sequin jacket to go with it along with hot pink strappy heels.

  My hair, now far from its limp state, which I observed all that time, ago, is perfectly coiffed and highlighted in a half-up, half-down hairstyle. I’m wearing simple makeup, too – a classic cat eye and a hot pink lip to match my shoes.

  I’m giddy with excitement when we arrive at the venue, and quickly realize I might’ve made a mistake with my outfit. Aside from my friends whom I arrived with, everyone is in black tie. I blush when I walk in and the condescending glances hit me, feeling inadequate.

  The evening is horrific apart from the art. My friends proceed to get mind-blowingly drunk and eat all the entrées the waiters are carrying a
round on silver platters. I have a glass or two myself, but my throat is so constricted I can’t force another glass of bubbly down.

  Finally, and thankfully, the lights dim out and a spotlight appears on stage, where the hostess announces the benefactor of the gallery, a Mr. So-and-so.

  I don’t pay too much attention until he walks up on stage.

  He is perfection in a million dollar suit. All coiffed dark hair, dark eyes, tanned complexion, charming smile. I actually feel myself go weak at the knees. What a cliché.

  “Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, his voice booming and deep. Yum. “My name is Matthew Roberts and I’d like to cordially welcome you to today’s beautiful opening.”

  His eyes roam the crowd in front of him. “We will be showcasing many works of art … Beauty in all its forms.”

  Then, suddenly, his gaze lands on me and I blush furiously because of my stupid outfit, my stupid friends, and my general stupidity. But I can’t quite look away.

  “Such exquisite beauty,” he continues, his breath catching slightly as he clears his throat. “It will take your breath away.” He’s still looking at me and I’m still red as a beet.

  Abruptly, he finishes his speech and pushes the microphone into the hostess’ hands as the crowd claps, confused but ecstatic. I have a feeling they would forgive this man for anything.

  But before I can have another thought, the man makes his way across the room and I realize, my heart beating wildly, he’s headed for no one else but me.

  He stops a few steps away, picking up two flutes of champagne, and then advancing towards me, offering me a glass. I stare at it for a second.

  “Go ahead,” he says, that charming smile lighting up his face. Oh, my god …

  I take the glass and try to hide the fact my hands are shaking by taking a big gulp.

  “I have to know your name,” he says in a rushed tone, and I look up in surprise. A frown has creased his brow, making him even more handsome. I shake lightly.

  “Why?” I ask softly. “So you can tell the press who the worst dressed was?”

  He laughs, the sound booming and caressing to my ears. “Clothes won’t hide your beauty,” he promises me, and I flush. He takes my empty glass and places it on a table, stepping closer. I look up, and I can see his eyelashes, every single one long and perfectly black.