Rubbing my forehead, I take a few more deep breaths to come to terms with what I did. It doesn’t take me long. For some reason, I feel like this wasn’t as bad as I want to make myself believe. For my own sanity, I need to trust him when he says he wants to protect me and not think of all the possible things that can go wrong. Like Greg finding out about this place.
Oh, god … Greg was at my house … He already knows I had sex with Drake … What else does he know?
Shivering, I decide I’m not going to wait and find out.
So I grab whatever I can find of my clothes, which are barely dry at the moment, and put them on. Peeking around the corner, I don’t see him anywhere, and I try my best to sneak out unseen.
However, the moment I pass the kitchen, I’m screwed.
“Good morning.” His voice is unusually chipper.
Fazed, I stare for a moment … His half-naked body looks so appetizing I’m salivating. Or maybe it’s the bacon he’s cooking along with some eggs.
“Okay.” He frowns in confusion.
“Uh … morning,” I reply, clearing my throat, trying not to look like I was just about to skip.
“Hungry?” he asks, flipping the egg and bacon on a plate and continuing to the next. He points at the chair at a small round table, which is suddenly sparkling clean and says, “Sit.”
His voice alone gets me to sit down exactly where he pointed. I don’t know why. He has that effect on me … like an overpowering need to please him rushes over me. Because he gives me so much attention, I don’t want to leave. It’s like a drug. I need more.
He puts the plate down in front of me. I smile and say, “Thank you.”
He smiles back, not replying, but I know he still thinks ‘you’re welcome.’ Drake isn’t a man of many words, I’ve noticed. Or at least, not the spoken ones. And that’s nice for a change. A man who doesn’t yell at me but prefers to write things down and speak only when necessary. When it’s wanted. It makes every single word precious.
I look around the small cabin and notice it’s a lot cleaner. The piles of paper have been stashed aside on a neat stack, the dirty clothes are picked up, and the dusty shelves look shinier.
Did he actually clean because of me? Or does he do it randomly when he feels there’s enough dirt lying around?
“Eat,” he says, as he practically throws down another plate opposite me and sits down himself.
Awkwardly smiling, I pick up the fork and cut off a piece of bacon, putting it in my mouth. He can’t seem to take his eyes off me as I chew, and I feel kind of watched when I swallow.
“And?” he asks.
It takes me a while to understand what he wants from me.
“Oh, it’s good,” I say, nodding. “Really good. Thank you.”
“Good,” he replies, eating too.
In silence, we eat our breakfast; the air between us thick with unanswered questions and unspoken words. I feel like he already knows why I’m here. That I was on the run, desperate for someone to hold me close. Someone to give me love, which is something I haven’t felt in a long time. And he gave that to me, even though I gave him nothing in return.
I keep running, keep questioning everyone and everything around me, and it doesn’t even matter to him. It’s like his default position is always to forgive me. And it humbles me.
I sigh and swallow my eggs. Neither of us dares to talk. Maybe it’s because we already know there’s no need for explanations. Still, we can’t go on like this forever. And I wonder who will open their mouth first.
Surprisingly, we’re both finished before I finally gather the courage.
“I’m sorry for—”
“Sneaking out?” he finishes my sentence.
I’m flabbergasted for a moment before the redness on my cheeks appears. “How did you—”
“I saw you trying to slip past me.”
I put my fork down, not daring to look at him. “Sorry.” I feel so shitty, trying to run away when he’s only been nice to me. I just don’t know what to do about this situation, and it freaks me out. “I just—”
“I know,” he interjects. “You don’t have to explain.”
I nod, still feeling guilty.
“And I agree with your decision,” he says.
“What?” I frown.
He picks up the empty plates and brings them to the kitchen. “I think you should go.” The way he says it, with the nicest voice ever, makes it sound like he doesn’t really want it either yet knows it’s the only option. He stops washing the dishes and looks me in the eye. “I’m a stalker. Not a lover.”
I sigh and look down at the empty table, wishing I could turn back time, so we’re still kissing each other in the shower instead of having this uncomfortable talk.
“Your husba—”
“Don’t say it,” I say. “He doesn’t matter to me anymore.”
“I know,” he says. “But you matter to him.”
“Not in a way that’s healthy.”
“Exactly.” He dries his hands and walks into his bedroom like it’s the end of the conversation.
“I don’t agree,” I mutter.
He steps back into view, waiting for me to finish my sentence.
“With the stalker and lover part,” I add. “I’ve never been loved the way you did me last night.” My cheeks glow again, thinking about it.
“I’m glad you feel that way,” he muses, and then he turns around again.
I quickly get up and look around the corner, holding the doorjamb, wondering what he’s doing, but he’s just searching through his cabinets. “If I leave … will you keep writing me notes?”
He pauses, his body tensing. His lips part, but no sound comes out. Instead, he fishes a cell phone from his cabinet and holds it out to me.
“Keep this.”
He stuffs it into my hand like it’s mine.
“Why?”
“It’s safe.” He smiles and then turns around again, searching through his clothes for a shirt.
I clear my throat, trying to capture his attention, but he seems agitated. “You mean it’s an untraceable one?”
He nods and takes out a big sweater and throws it at me. “Put this on.”
I feel swallowed whole by the fabric, it’s so large. “Okay …” Reluctantly, I pull it over my head, but it comes all the way down my legs like some sort of complete dress … except, it’s a sweater. His sweater.
“It’ll keep you warm on the way home.”
“Thanks,” I say. It still has his smell, and it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. “What do I do with the phone?”
He puts on a casual white shirt and walks toward me, cupping my hands together with the phone tucked safely inside. “If your husband bothers you, call me.”
I nod gently, not wanting to disagree, even though I feel that’ll only make it more dangerous. If Greg sees him, he might … no, I don’t want to think about it.
But what if they’re really in it together? What if this is all a farce, and the cell phone is a trap?
I can’t think like that. I have to believe in the good in people. Otherwise, my life will never get better. Even though the circumstances surrounding the way we met are anything but normal. I have to trust my own judgment, and he doesn’t feel like a threat anymore.
“This place …” I mumble, wondering if there’s a reason for all of this. “Have you lived here long?”
“No,” he replies, not even looking away as he says it. “Only since you came to live here.”
I swallow, feeling the warmth flow through my body again, electrifying my skin as the corners of his mouth go up.
“But I like it here … nice and quiet.”
“Not a lot of people,” I muse.
“Exactly.”
“I get that. I’m the same.” I smile. “I like my privacy.”
“Privacy … feels good. People don’t.” He looks away. “But I don’t wanna t
alk about it.”
His eyes shimmer, and I feel as though we’re connecting on some weird level.
So I grab his arm and say, “Hey, you can talk to me about it. I’m not just here for sex.” Shame brings the red cheeks back, but I ignore them this time. “I came here because, even though you’re stalking me, I feel like you’re the only one I can trust right now.” I chuckle. “My point is you can trust me too.”
I lower my head to be able to look into his eyes. They seem distant. As if he remembers something he’d rather forget.
He blinks slowly as he looks deeply into my eyes and says, “Been hurt too many times.”
18.
Accompanying Song: “What Have We Done To Each Other” by Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross
Drake
2 years before
Writing has always been my number one passion. Stories filled my head from the day I was born. It was all I ever loved, all I ever could. From the day I picked up a pen, I began penning them down. The words flowed from my pen like a never-ending fountain. I could write for days.
Except … only a select few can write books as a means to make a living, and I was not one of them. No matter how many times I wrote a book and submitted it, no one took the bait. And I realized I couldn’t go on waiting for someone to come along and finally pick me up.
Writing, for me, could never be a job.
And I needed a job.
Many writers become journalists or bloggers or even content writers for big companies. Not me, though. If I wasn’t able to make money with my stories, I would make money from teaching, my other love. The only thing I could think of to do for the rest of my life that I didn’t hate. Teaching was the only great substitute for being a real writer.
So that’s what I did after I got out of college … I teach.
More specifically, I teach others how to write.
Creative writing is my forte, and I love standing in front of the class and helping others realize their passion, even if I know it most likely leads nowhere. I’m the first to admit nothing is worse than lost hope. So I give these people hope. Hope that their stories may one day be read, just like mine.
Most of the students like my classes and almost all of them have good grades.
Except for Anna.
Anna … the girl who only took my class because she needed the extra credit. She spins everyone around her finger, including me.
At times, we sat together after class and went over her homework in private. I normally never did such a thing, but I could tell she needed it. There was something more about this girl; something deeper than that superficial layer of a vixen she wanted everyone to see. Something she kept hidden. And the more time I spent with her, the more I wanted to dive in and find out what it was. That thing … that made her tick.
And so we spent more and more time together until the lines between teacher and student began to blur. It wasn’t long before she kissed me. Before we ended up naked in her room.
I wanted to discover all her deepest, darkest secrets … things no one else knew.
It felt like a story waiting to be read.
But I didn’t find anything I could enjoy.
Like all of her victims, I ended up being used.
Used to score easy credit points.
Because after a fight, she told me straight to my face that she was only fucking me to get better grades so she could pass. And when I didn’t give them to her, she ratted me out as a pervert.
Now, I’m here, listening as the school’s senior administrator scolds me for having inappropriate relations with a student while I’m packing the stuff on my desk and putting it all in a neat little square box. Just like my mistakes.
But not even her betrayal hurts me as much as hearing these words …
“You can never teach again.”
Because what use will I be if I cannot write or teach? The only two things in this world that I love. The only things I want to do in life.
I will become useless.
A vapid memory of the man I once dreamed of being.
***
Accompanying Song: “Last Stand” by Kwabs
Hyun
Now
In shock, I stare at him. I don’t know what to say. It sounds horrible. All he wanted was for someone to listen, to read his stories. To be someone. His student used his weakness and turned it against him. Betrayed him in the worst possible way, all for her own gain. And when he was down … nothing was left of him because they kicked him out.
“You … a teacher?” I frown, finding it so hard to believe.
He nods, still a little lost in his own memories, judging by the look on his face. “I needed money. Writing doesn’t earn money,” he mumbles. “At least not books.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe a book you write one day …” I say, licking my lips. I don’t really know what to say.
“I do. I’ve tried, trust me.”
I pull him close and hug him tight. His muscles feel hard against my soft flesh, but soon, he relaxes and lets out a sigh, hugging me back.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know that.”
“I don’t like to talk about it,” he replies.
“You don’t have to. I get it.” I pat his back, and I can feel him lean into me even more.
I can tell he’s yearning for attention. Maybe that’s why he’s been around me so much. He craves being close to someone he could trust. Someone who wouldn’t judge him; someone who’s been in the same position as he has. Someone like me.
He leans back and cocks his head. “You should go.”
“But you …”
“I’ll be okay,” he says. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with your man.”
I cringe at the sound of those words coming from his mouth.
“He’s not my man,” I retort. “And he will never be.”
“But he thinks he is,” Drake replies, raising his brows. “And I won’t have him kill you.”
Kill. The word alone sends shivers up and down my spine.
He places his hands on my shoulder and lowers his head. “You’re safer if he knows you’re not with me. At home. I can keep watch over you.”
I nod slowly, still not coming to terms with the fact that I have to leave and that I may not see him again. Because who knows if he’s telling the truth. For all I know, he could be gone by the evening. Packed his bags and left this place as if he was never here in the first place.
Stop thinking like that, Hyun.
“Right.” I turn and start walking toward his door. Right before I open it, I ask, “Will I see you again?”
His lips quirk up into a smile. “Be safe, Hyun.”
Of course, he doesn’t answer. Just what a stalker would say.
I roll my eyes and smile to myself as I leave the cabin and go back home.
19.
Accompanying Song: “Papi Pacify” by FKA Twigs
Hyun
Of course, he wouldn’t let me go without making sure I was safe.
He followed me all the way back to my house, and I pretended I didn’t notice him for his sake. He likes it when he doesn’t feel caught in the act. I don’t mind. It makes me feel much safer as I go back to my home because if Greg is still there, I’m sure Drake will protect me from him. At least, that’s what I tell myself because it’s the only way I can reason with myself. The only way I can believe Drake when he says he wants me.
As I reach my home, I take a deep breath and look around the corner to see if his car is there, but I don’t see anything unusual. My neighbor is outside in her yard again, sunbathing with a fresh drink, and when she sees me tiptoe around the corner of my own house, she speaks up.
“Hyun? Is that you?”
I stop in my tracks and make a funny face. “Uh … yeah. Hi! How are you?”
“I’m great, thanks. Is everything okay?” There’s a concerned look on her face, and
she hisses, “You look scared. If you need me to help or call the cops, let me know.”
I guess she knows more than I think.
“I don’t know …” I whisper back. “Have you seen Greg anywhere near my house?”
“Today? Not that I can think of,” Lorelei says.
“When did you last see him?” I ask, still clutching the wall of my house like it’ll protect me or something.
“Yesterday. I heard a lot of noise, and when I went to check, you were gone, but he was still banging on your door. I saw you leave through the back door.”
“Oh …” I look down, trying to hide my shame.
“It’s all right, honey. You do whatever you have to to escape getting hurt,” Lorelei says, smiling. “Although, I do think you should get a restraining order if it gets too dangerous.”
“I know,” I reply. “Thanks.” But I feel queasy thinking about it. “So you’re sure no one’s inside?”
“Yup. I’ve been baking here the entire day. Watched the neighborhood like a hawk.” She grins and pulls aside the straps of her bikini. “Look how tan I am!” And just like that, this conversation lost any and all depth.
“Wonderful,” I reply, giving her a forced smile. “Enjoy your day!”
“You too, honey!” she says as I turn around and quickly walk to my house.
There doesn’t seem to be any sign of damage to my front door from a forced entry, so maybe Greg did give up. I breathe a sigh of relief and go inside, locking the door behind me. I hope it was a one-time thing only. Hope. That’s a big thing in my life right now because I know it’s probably in vain. Still, I won’t give up.
The first thing I do when I come home is clean up the mess I made and start some laundry. I want to get back into the rhythm and do all my chores until I can pretend it never happened. So I clean and I cook to forget about Greg, thinking only about Drake and how much he’d probably love this tomato soup I’m preparing.
Dirty Wife Games Page 11