Triple Major

by Lana Hartley

  So, it’s definitely worse that she's not here now. Every fucking rabbit hole I follow my soul down decimates me to the bone, and there's nothing left of me. I'm too fucking selfish. The bastard beast inside me wouldn't have just let her go. I know this. She had to set herself free, and if I had an ounce of Leah's grace, I'd let her go and keep myself from doing exactly what I'm texting my PI to do. Yes, I'm going to have to keep tabs on her. Because if I can't have her, I'll have to fucking stalk her. I have to know that she's okay. That she’s happy.

  I clench my fists and shove them through several glass pieces of furniture I have, not happy until I've got hands more red than flesh colored.

  She wasn't fucking happy with me. I will never be happy without her.

  Leah's happiness means more to me than anything else. But it hurts like goddamn hell, and I don't have to fuck with it.

  Everything. That's what I text the PI; I want to know everything. I'm still a bastard. At least this bastard let her go.

  What will Leah's life look like when she thinks I'm out of the picture? What does happiness mean to her?

  Other than being away from me? I run my hands under hot water, feeling every stinging sensation like a revelation. I deserve this pain. I need this ache. It is all I feel anymore since she went away.

  It wouldn't even warrant a second thought, which it might be wrong to get my PI on Leah, and now that I'm actually thinking about it, I don't give a shit. My consideration and care for the matter, even as I toss them aside, is all I can manage. I have to know that she's happy. If being away from me does that, well, fucking fantastic, I'll let that rip me open, but it will all be worth it for two reasons. One, because I want Leah to be happy. Two, because I have to fucking see her, and I just won't take goddamn no for an answer. So I won't even let it be a question. I'll just steal my view of her like I stole her in the first place. Is there something to be said about this repeating pattern that ends with my dick in the dirt? Maybe, but I'm pretty fucking stubborn and not listening to that.

  My phone dings with a call. I got sick of that incessant vibrating fast today, turning it off because it just made me think about Leah's sweet pussy on my vibrating cushion. The way her innocent face contorted with need from my every ministration. Fuck, I want my cock inside her so bad. I want her body in my arms so bad. My actual fucking guts could be in front of me, and it couldn't compare to this evisceration.

  Looking at my phone, Davidson, my PI is calling me.

  Why not text?

  Is something wrong with Leah?

  My heart fucking stomps down at the idea, and I answer the phone immediately, a panicked breath escaping my lips before I can hold it back. "Go."

  "Sir, I'm ready to start the surveillance. I just need to know...is this going to be a team mission, or do you want me on the lead?" Davidson is keeping his tone even, but I can tell he's wondering if I want to go full batshit or have him handle something. Even Davidson thinks I've lost my mind, and well, he's probably fucking right. My mind, my heart, my soul, my world fucking evaporated and left with Leah.

  "Just you, Davidson. You're the only one I trust to keep it perfectly discreet," I return in my measured tone.

  I hear him say something in acknowledgment, but I'm already hanging up. If he has anything else to say to me, he can text. But right now, thumbing my temples, I need a drink. I need the kind of drink that involves the whole bottle. Something dark and hard as I feel right now, that burns going down and brings the kind of heat to your stomach that eradicates everything else.

  I have bottles of four-figure brown alcohols that are certain to do the trick. People talk about saving bottles for good times, but past me must have bought this particular scotch I chose with the idea of my utter ruin in mind. I pour myself a decent two fingers and destroy that, then pour another. Destroy it. I drink several more this way until I have one that I'm going to sit with, and I wait for the alcohol to overtake my brain enough that I don't feel like I have to feel, well, anything.

  The pain inside probably isn't going to go numb before I pass out, but either way, I'm getting to the end of this night a little bit out of everything. I can do that now, knowing that Davidson is going to have a report for me in the morning and I'll start what I know is going to be the shell of the rest of my life.

  I'll watch her until I can't hold back anymore. Then I'll take her back, and make sure that she never gets away. That's really why I'm drinking now. It isn't the pain of the loss; it isn't the pain of my future loss of the final shred of my soul when I take her, it is that I actually fucking love Leah enough to want her not to have to be my prisoner. That I could not love her so that I wouldn't do what the bastard fucking beast within me will demand. I will fucking take her, keep her, and soon she'll be as dead inside as I am. I hate myself, but it is what it is. I stand to get another drink and fall back to my seat.

  Leah

  I told myself that now that I couldn't stop what happened, I'd have to accept that Jacob wouldn't want to see me. Inspector Willoughby had insisted that Jacob's trial would be quick. That he'd be locked up within a month. It took my breath away. There was a time when I could have told myself that it would make me feel safe. But I didn't feel safe. I wrapped my arms around myself, staring at the cab I was about to take. I knew I couldn't resist. I had to go to the city. See his home. See where he was. Work up the nerve to visit him even though he wouldn't want to see me. I couldn't stay away.

  It was all a mistake.

  Sitting in the cab, I'm weak. My head is leaning against the glass, and the coldness is how I feel inside. Hollowed out, like all the heat in my body left when I abandoned Jacob.

  When I come to the towering stone marvel where Jacob Renaud once lived, I don't know what I expected to see. I hoped there wouldn't be a for sale sign. Somehow, despite being in prison, I hoped that he wouldn't lose anything. I couldn't bear the thought of someone else living in the only place that had ever felt like home to me. I hadn't even recognized the feeling until it was too late.

  But seeing the house in the exact shape it was before isn't nearly as shocking as Inspector Willoughby outside the home when I arrive. I give the cabby a generous tip, best I can manage now that I don't have unlimited funds. Still, I cried in his cab and made him wait for some time before I could work up the nerve to get out of the car.

  "Inspector?" I ask when I step out.

  "Fucking knew you wouldn't stay away," the inspector grumbled. His words were slurred, and I realized he was wearing jeans. When I’d seen him before, though he wasn’t as smartly dressed as Jacob (no one ever was), he was wearing a suit.

  I'd never seen him in anything casual, much less the tattered old jeans with a few mystery spots on them. Some looked like beer I assumed with the smell and the speech, and some looked like blood. I walked up to him, holding myself with shivers in the cold night air. "Are you okay, Inspector? What are you doing here?"

  "The question," he said with a laugh that chilled me more than the wind and my pain combined, "isn't why you're here. Of course. You want to build the case with me. I tell you not to get too attached. There's better cock than his, you stupid bitch."

  I start to step back. There's a crazy look in his eyes, and that's scarier than anything he's saying.

  "He could have bought and fucked anyone, and that used to bother you, but now you just brought your ass back here because you don't realize anyone else could fuck you so good. Do I need to call you baby girl? Do I need to hit you for you to realize you could have a good man? Why do you want this prick?" He's shouting now.

  Desperately, I look in either direction for anyone. Anyone to be out here and to not mean that I'm out here alone with him. I have to get away, and I know that a few brisk steps backward aren't going to do it. I know I need to run away. I need to scream. Yet, my body doesn't want to leave Jacob's house, even though I know he's not there.

  Why is the inspector here?

  "Calm down," I say, but I'm spinning on my heel and ready to
run.

  Willoughby lunges for me. I hesitated for just a second too long, and he knocks me to the ground. I try to scream, but he crushes my mouth with his beer-soaked lips and roughly kisses me. My stomach roils, not just because of how much he tastes like several beers too many, but because I don't want him to touch me. I only want Jacob to touch me. This is what violation feels like. Even when I was first scared, never did I feel like this when Jacob touched me. Not even when I was afraid of what Jacob would do to me when I first met him, so long ago, in that hallway. No, this is something entirely different. I can't scream, and I can't get his mouth off mine, he's mashing his lips against mine so hard that our teeth clank. I try to hit him, but he captures my wrists and slams them into the ground. I can't kick or escape because his legs pin me down. I'm trapped, immobile, and I feel his cock jabbing into my stomach. I thought the inspector was attracted to me, but he always acted like such a gentlemen.

  What lurks behind the thoughts of men who always act gently?

  Jacob always said he was a bastard, and the man was downright filthy. Never would he have done this to me. Ever. I didn't think he was capable of an ugly act like what I knew was happening to me. My body wanted to check out, but my mind was on fire. I would not let this happen. I would stop him. I would be upset later, but I would fight now.

  I did the only thing I could, as soon as I realized it was my only opening. I bit his mouth, hard.

  "Fuck!" Willoughby groaned and pulled back for just a second.

  He was still holding my wrists, but his legs shifted for just a second, and that was all I needed. After all, he was drunk off his ass, and I was feeling several surging rushes of adrenaline. I wasn't going to let this happen.

  "I knew you liked it rough, but-"

  I interrupted whatever disgusting thing he was about to say by pushing my knees up hard, to his groin. I pulled my arms as hard as I could, kicking my legs furiously. I hoped I looked like a confusing mess of limbs to him. Maybe he was drunk enough it would make him dizzy. I had to get away from him. Jumping up, my first instinct was to run toward the door of Jacob's house. But he wasn't there. I knew I was losing precious time and I turned, gritting my teeth and running in the opposite direction.

  That's when I ran into the wall of Jacob's chest.

  Willoughby slung curses at Jacob, who I promptly wrapped my arms around. Jacob let one hand free, and I realized he was holding a gun. I heard as he shot Willoughby, and I turned to see the gaping wound in the inspector's stomach. Jacob shot him with one arm wrapped around me.

  I felt my stomach turn, and I wanted to throw up. I held in what was rolling around in my gut because I needed to hold onto Jacob even more. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my head back into his chest. Both his arms wrapped around me. At that moment, I wasn't thinking about how he was here. Why he had a gun. I was just grateful that he was holding me. That Willoughby wasn't going to touch me.

  Jacob pulled me up higher on his body, lifting me off my feet until his lips were on my ear. "Run in the house, now." He said it so firmly that my body shot into action. I knew that I had to do exactly what he said.

  Grimly, my feet hitting the ground when he released me, I ran with the knowledge that it was because Willoughby was shot but not dead. And Jacob was going to finish the job.

  Running for Jacob's door, just like he said, I bolted inside and closed the door behind me, my back sliding against it until I hit the floor. I didn't know by what miracle that Jacob was not in prison, but now he was sure to end up there. I couldn't believe I'd seen him again. That he'd held me again. Only to have him slip out from my fingers again.

  "Fuck!" I screamed out, my stomach burning and my eyes burning and my throat burning and my whole body too hot and yet I felt clammy. Shock. I was in shock.

  I couldn't pull myself from the door. I didn't want to get up until Jacob was walking through this door. And if he wasn't walking through it, I didn't want to get up ever again.

  Jacob

  I'd told myself that my version of staying away was to watch her. But she took a cab to my house.

  Why?

  She thought I was in prison.

  And that fucking Willoughby. He'd been able to loiter drunk around my house because I was thinking about her rather than keeping any watch around the grounds.

  Fuck. Now I'm covered in blood. That fucker touched Leah, hurt her, said fucking disgusting things to her and made her afraid. I shot him, but I made sure it hurt. Made sure he died slowly. I stuck my fingers in his bullet hole in his stomach, twisted, and told him that he was done. Because no one fucking hurts my Leah.

  "You're a sick bastard. She could never really love you," Willoughby sputtered, blood spraying from his mouth as he died. I knew it hurt like hell, but all he really cared about was that I suffered. I had wrecked his career. His life. That was fair. But he hurt Leah and that fucking sealed his fate. I knew by the pictures my PI took, by how he looked at her, that he was lusting after her. But I could never allow her to be hurt by him. I'd questioned myself, thinking maybe she wanted him...but this? He had to fucking die.

  I texted a guy, gave him the code. I didn't like to kill men, but I didn't mind doing it, either. I was well aware of how to have this taken care of.

  Right now, my only concern was Leah. Fuck, if she didn't want me before, killing a man in front of her would definitely make her hate me even more. I was probably more disgusting to her than this prick Willoughby. Fuck. His hands. His mouth. His cock. He was all over my Leah and I may not enjoy killing but I would enjoy killing him again and again. I wanted to rip his cock off and shove it down his throat for forcing himself on Leah.

  What did that make me? She didn't see me as anything different. I just had more money, more power than Willoughby.

  Walking in that door, it was the hardest thing I'd ever do. Well, really, it would be watching her walk out of the door.

  First, I was going to have to ask her. Why.

  Why was she here?

  I couldn't bear to ask her why she left, why she turned me in. I mean, it spoke for itself.

  Fuck. Maybe she was afraid. Maybe she came here to confirm I was gone. Maybe she felt like she hadn't gotten rid of me, wasn't safe from me...and when she came to check, I'd killed the man that she thought was going to protect her. A man who was raping her, or rather about to.

  Fuck.

  I couldn't stand out here like some pussy. I was going to walk in this door and give Leah whatever she wanted. Fuck. I suck in a breath, and I knock on the door. "Leah, it's me. Jacob."

  Slowly, the door opens. When her eyes lock with mine, she swings it open and bolts through it and jumps into my arms. I could have fallen over with the force of how she came to me, but I was more than ready to hold her, even though I wasn't expecting it.

  "Is he..." Leah starts to ask, and I pry one of my arms away from her to close the door.

  "Cleanup crew is taking care of him," I say, swallowing. I know this is the end. She's going to run from me. She's just relieved that he's not attacking her. "He's very painfully dead." I'm a bastard. I can't resist. I'm glad that fucker is dead.

  "Good." I hear her words, and I'm shocked. "He was going to rape me, Jacob."

  "I know, that's why I killed that fucker," I say.

  "Thank you," she says. She's still squeezing my body so tightly I can feel my heart ripping apart that I'm going to have to let go of her any second. Let her go when she lets go of me.

  I don't know what to say to her thanks. I remember that I wanted to ask her why she came, but it is like I'm underwater and thoughts are too difficult to form. I remember that I'm covered in blood, and now it is all over her, and I recoil. I don't want this asshole's blood on my perfect girl. I have to erase every moment of this from her mind, clean every inch of it from her body and soul.

  "Let me get you something clean. Get you in the shower."

  Fuck.

  Well, of course, I want her in the shower, but now she's gone from one cage to
another. One asshole who was raping her, to another. I want her, and I want to take her. Her arms are around me now as I'm carrying her to the master bathroom, and I could get so caught up in this. Fuck. I walk out of the master bedroom and head to another room, a guest room, so she doesn't feel like I'm just taking her all over again. I set her on the bed.

  Leah looks worried she'll get blood on the bedspread, and she jumps up and pulls off her shirt, drops her pants quickly and gathers them into her arms.

  "I don't care about it staining," I say, more gruffly than I meant to.

  I can't look at her eyes now. I just want time to stop. I want her with me, and I don't want to lose her.

  "Leah, I'm sorry-"

  "Don't." She interrupts my shitty apology.

  I'm sorry hardly seems like an adequate thing to say to someone when you are talking about killing someone. I care about what Leah feels. I want to apologize for that. But of course, she interrupts this bullshit.

  "Leah," I say, quietly. I know she stopped me, but I have to say something to her. I know I shot Willoughby but my guts are the ones exposed. Every second, I'm tearing my own fingers through the holes and twisting every darkness inside of me into more pain.

  Leah walks toward me, dropping her clothes to the side of the bed and standing close enough to me that her bare nipples are pressed into the fabric of my bloodied shirt. I can feel her heat through my clothes, her presence a maddening necessity for my breathing. "Don't say anything. Don't apologize. I can't bear it," Leah says, her voice constricted with pain.