VOID: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Stella Noir

  Titus and I shared not only the pain of a treatment program that neither of us wanted, but we also decided to deal with it the same way, by gambling.

  While serving, I made more money than I spent because I didn't spend money on anything. I was too occupied and too disinterested with life in general to worry about buying anything. Instead, it piled up in my bank account, and I put it to good use. Before I could drink my money away, Titus persuaded me to join him in his illegal attempts at multiplying his wealth. We started gambling. Usually this turns out to be a guaranteed way to piss all of your money away within a short time, but I was too smart for that. Even in that messed up state I was in back then, I knew there were ways to actually make money instead of losing all of it in a dumb card game.

  And that was the big difference between me and Titus. While he drank during gambling and lost all of his money over time, I kept those two habits separate and always played with a clear head. I would still drink my brain dead afterward, but never during a game.

  My wealth increased, while his diminished. Of course, that killed our friendship over the long run, especially when I opted out of that dark world of misfits and took advantage of another opportunity when it was presented to me. Investing in a small and rising company that had a good idea to sell seemed so much smarter than continuing down the ill-fated road of gambling. After all, I could never know how long my luck would last.

  Also, I felt threatened, and apparently I had every reason to feel that way. Titus had been making snarky remarks from early on. Heck, I heard him badmouthing me in front of others more than once. Talking shit behind my back is bad enough, but doing it in front of a bunch of fucked-up gangsters who are capable of inflicting some serious shit is a whole different story. I had to get out of there; I had to save myself and my money.

  I was smart enough to do it, but I knew Titus wouldn't let me go just like that. He felt as if I had betrayed him by leaving him behind in that mess of a life we shared for a while, even though that's not what happened. I tried to take him with me. Hell, my life would have been so much easier and so much better if he had followed me along this path, if he had acted smarter, learned my tricks and cooled his shit. But he has a temper and a fucking problem with booze that took control of him. He refused to get clean and clear-headed and approach gambling like a smart businessman instead of a drunken idiot.

  Still, even after refusing my help time after time, he thinks I owe him something. He's mad at me for getting out of that hell hole of depression, booze and illegal card games and moving on without him, even if I didn't do that part by choice.

  He stalked and threatened me, and soon our once close friendship turned into a poisonous rivalry. He hates me and his hatred grows with every day. I put a restraining order out on him, I moved and changed my number, and for a while now, I had been free of him. Or so I thought.

  And now he's back. He's back and he's more dangerous than ever because now he's not only threatening me, but someone else, as well.

  Her. Lily.

  The threat was a subtle one, but easy enough for me to understand. Photos, left in a little package for me with the doorman in my building. When I asked him who gave it to him, he just shrugged and said it was a woman. Middle-aged, very common-looking, nothing remarkable about her. She introduced herself as my mother and claimed that she couldn't reach me and so was leaving the package with him to give to me. How that dumb story didn't ring a million alarm bells in his head is beyond me.

  My mother is dead, and she has been for a long time. She was also Mexican and her black eyes and black hair most likely bore little resemblance to the washed-out blond he described to me. I told him to call the police if that woman ever shows up again.

  Titus may not be the smartest guy, but he's not stupid enough to hire the same person to do this type of job twice. Odds are this will be the only package he leaves for me. The only warning.

  My heart almost stopped when I opened the envelope and found the pictures inside. They all showed Lily and had obviously been taken without her knowing it. They were all taken on the same day. I remember seeing Lily in the outfit she's wearing in the pictures: a black pencil skirt topped with a white blouse and a green coat. She looks incredible in that outfit, so fucking innocent, sexy and delicious. Even now, despite the rage and fear I feel for her, my cock throbs and starts to thicken at the sight of my good girl in her chic work outfit. She looked completely different after spending a few hours with me that night. Her hair was a mess, her skirt and tights ripped, and her cheeks glowing. She wasn't even angry at me for destroying her clothes, but I still replaced the items the very next day... if only so I could see her wearing them again. I'm a selfish man.

  As far as I can tell, whoever took the pictures did so right after she left work and was en route to see me. The street and buildings look familiar, but none of the photos include me. For whatever reason, whoever was taking pictures stopped right before she met up with me.

  He knows me too well. He knows that he can't scare me, especially now. I have everything while he has nothing, and above all, I have the money and the power to protect myself against people like him. Not that he'd actually have the means to threaten my life.

  But he knows I have a weak spot, and he knows about my loss. He knows that there is a void in my heart that was created after losing her. However, the most scary part is that he knows about Lily and how she’s the closest person to ever come to potentially filling that void.

  Even I didn't know that until today.

  Now that I'm holding these pictures in my hand – pictures that symbolize a threat against her life – I'm forced to admit something to myself, something I've been afraid to admit for so long.

  I care about Lily. She's mine. I will protect her with my life.

  And if that son of a bitch even lays the tip of a finger on her, I'm going to fucking murder him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lily

  It feels like I'm betraying him, but I just need to know. He won't tell me anything, and if I dare ask, I risk losing him. I don't want him to run away from me or distrust me.

  It's been almost a month, and time isn't exactly on my side when it comes to this damn article. I've started writing it, and I already have something that could pass as a good first draft, but I'm not happy with the thing at all. It's missing something. That something doesn't have to be Jed's story, but I keep coming back to him in my thoughts. For various reasons, obviously.

  Since I know his full name, I tried to investigate on my own and find out as much as possible about him on the internet. However, there's not much to go by. He doesn't exist online, doesn't even have a Facebook profile or seemingly anything else. It’s almost as if he doesn’t exist.

  So it seems as if I have only one option left to get the information I so desperately seek.

  "Hey, Joe, it's me, Lily," I introduce myself when he picks up the phone. "You know, from City Heartbeat."

  "Oh, yes, yes. I remember you," he says on the other end. "How are you? How's that article going?"

  "That's actually why I'm calling," I say, nervously playing with a pen on my desk. I'm not good at making phone calls and kind of wish I could just have written an email, but I'm running out of time and need answers sooner rather than later.

  "The guy you put me in contact with –"

  "Jed, yes."

  "Yes, Jed Lozano," I say. "He's not really.... You know, he wasn't really excited about the idea of giving me an interview. In fact, he ran off during our first meeting."

  "Your first meeting?" he asks, now sounding curious. "So you guys have met more than once?"

  "Uh, yes, like twice."

  My cheeks are burning. I hate to lie, but sometimes it's inevitable. Besides – as I'm just now realizing – I don't have a clue about what Jed might have already told him. As far as I know, these two are some kind of buddies despite the big age difference.

  A shower of shame rolls over me as the idea that Jed might hav
e told Joe every juicy detail about how he laid that silly journalist takes hold of me.

  No, he wouldn't do that.

  Would he?

  "And?" Joe asks. "Did he talk to you on your second meeting?"

  "Not exactly," I reply, casting the shameful thoughts aside. I need to focus now.

  "He is very closed up and unwilling to tell me anything, but I know that there's something there."

  "There always is," Joe agrees, keeping it vague.

  "Yeah, but in his case, I feel like there's something terrible that he's trying to hide," I say. "And I was wondering, if maybe... you could tell me a little more about him?"

  "You know I can't disclose information like that," he points out.

  "Yes, sure, but... I thought you could tell me again when you met him the first time?" I ask. "When did he first show up for counseling? And did he ever tell you why?"

  Joe sighs. At first I believe it's because my questions annoy him, but he proves me wrong when he replies, "Two years ago? Maybe three. It's been a while, and you know, I meet many men like him, every single day."

  "Yes, sure," I say. "And they all have the same problems?"

  "Not exactly," Joe says in a hoarse voice. "They all have similar causes, of course. And similar issues. You see, in the military, they tell you stuff like 'shake it off' or 'rub dirt on it'. That's a very useful warrior mindset when you're at war. But once you're home, back in a safe environment and with your family and friends, that just doesn't work anymore. If you suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, your nervous system is broken and you need to be fixed. Just like a broken arm needs to be fixed."

  He pauses and clears his voice, while I feel kind of bad for taking notes during his explanations. He's not telling me anything new really, but if he lets me, I'd like to use his words verbatim in my article.

  "And you know, here's the thing," he continues. "These guys may have served with other guys who didn't end up with issues. And then they develop this idea that they're weaker than those guys, even though it just means that they have a different nervous system. It has nothing to do with weakness. It’s just plain science, if you ask me. It's trauma. Trauma causes the brain to malfunction. Memories can't be processed correctly during a traumatic experience, which means a person who's suffering with PTSD is still carrying those traumatic experiences around in their body. These experiences were never filed away into the past and the brain continues to operate as if the trauma is still happening in the present. Can you follow me?"

  "Yes," I hurry to say while scribbling away.

  "It's like... like a computer that has a program running constantly in the background. It's fucking exhausting to live like that. So what needs to happen is that these memories have to be revisited and processed. We don't do that here, that happens in therapy. The guys who come here have usually done that or are in the process of working on it with a professional. We just provide support and an environment that makes them realize they are not alone in this – and by no means weak. They're dealing with panic attacks, insomnia, depression – it's no fucking picnic."

  "So, he's gone through all that?" I ask. "Jed, I mean."

  Joe clears his throat again and makes a noise that sounds like an unhappy grunt.

  "He... yes, he has," he says. "But, what I was trying to say. This shit ain't easy, you know? He's been working hard on getting over it, and I think he's come a long ways."

  "Obviously," I agree. "He's doing very well."

  "Yeah, you think so?" Joe asks, his voice weirdly high-pitched and hopeful. "Did he make a good impression on you? Was he nice?"

  I'm confused at his question.

  "Nice?" I ask. "No, I just meant financially. He's making a good living."

  "Oh, that," Joe says. "Yeah, sure."

  There's an awkward pause between us, and this time I'm the one who's clearing my throat uncomfortably.

  "Would you mind if I quote you in my article?" I ask him. "About the things you just told me."

  "Not about Jed, though?" he wants to know. "You can't say anything of this in connection to Jed."

  "Of course not," I assure him. "You haven't really told me anything about him, really. You were speaking generally."

  He sighs with relief.

  "Yeah, I guess I was," he says. "But still, don't tell Jed you've talked to me about this, all right? Just remember why I told you all of this."

  "So I'd understand why it's tough for him to talk about it," I say. "I got that. And I won't mention our conversation to him tonight."

  "Tonight?" Joe asks.

  I bite my stupid tongue. Why did I have to mention that?

  "Uh, no, I meant, whenever I might see him again," I stutter. "If I do."

  Awkward silence follows my pathetic attempt at making Joe think there's no reason why I'd see Jed again in the near future. I don't even know why I care so much, but somehow it seems to be of utmost importance for our non-relationship to remain a secret. I'm just as keen on that as Jed is.

  "Listen," Joe finally says. "For what it's worth, let me tell you that Jed has been through some shit. His trauma is deeper and different from that of other guys."

  "What do you mean?"

  My heartbeat speeds up immediately and I straighten up in attention, expecting Joe to spill the beans on whatever Jed's been trying so hard to conceal.

  But of course, he doesn't.

  "Nothing. Uh, I shouldn't have said anything," he says, spitting out the words. "Just... keep that in mind."

  He ends the call and hangs up without saying goodbye. I stare at my phone for a few moments before I set it down and continue my staring by shifting my gaze out the window of my cramped office.

  Joe used a lot of words to explain to me that talking about issues like these is tough, especially for men like Jed. None of that was completely new to me, and I don't know what exactly I was hoping to achieve with this call. Of course, he wouldn't tell me anything Jed wasn't willing to share with me. What was I thinking?

  But what was that last part about? Why would he say something like that?

  "What a tease," I whisper absentmindedly.

  I check my watch and realize that it's already time to go. Jed is waiting for me.

  I quickly freshen up my makeup, throw on my scarf and coat, and head out the door.

  It's a crisp fall evening, the streets are bathed in the warm light of a setting sun and it's cold enough for breath to appear as foggy clouds in front of people's faces. I love this time of year and this time of the day. Fall sunsets are among the most beautiful sights nature has to offer.

  Despite the confusing and slightly troubling conversation with Joe, I feel lighthearted and am looking forward to my evening with Jed. It's been four days since we saw each other, which is quite a lot of time considering that we usually see each other almost every other day.

  My mind is spinning as I fantasize about all the things that will happen tonight. They're mostly mixed images of what has already happened between us.

  I feel close to him, and we've developed a kind of intimancy that doesn't need many words. His touch and the way he looks at me while I talk tell me so much more than he knows. I know we're not calling it that, but we are in a relationship and this is much, much more than just two people having insanely great sex.

  My steps are brisk, fast-paced and elated as I approach the bar with a dreamy smile on my face.

  That's when I hear his voice.

  "Meeting someone special?"

  I freeze as a cold press closes around my heart. Peter is standing not 10 feet away from me, close to the entrance of the bar, glaring at me with so much hatred flashing in his eyes that it's hard to believe we were once in love.

  "Peter," I gasp with disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

  "You ignored me," he says, slowly walking closer to me. "What am I supposed to do if you keep ignoring my messages?"

  I instinctively move a few inches away from him, stepping back, clutching my purse as if I was a
fraid that he's going to rob me.

  He's wearing a coat that I remember us buying together, his hands resting in its deep pockets as he walks toward me.

  He looks good, there's no doubt about that. His blond hair has grown a lot since we last saw each other, and it is falling in his face as the wind plays with it. He looks tired. Dark bags beneath his eyes speak of many sleepless nights – and I sure as hell hope that I'm not to blame for that.

  "Why are you here?" I repeat my question. "Did it ever occur to you that I'm ignoring you because I don't want to talk to you?"

  He furls his brows. "Why would you not want to talk to me? You don't even know what I have to say!"

  I growl with anger. Peter is making me furious. He's acting as if nothing has happened, as if we were still friends, a couple even, as if none of his intrusive and pathetic attempts to convince me that I've made a huge mistake never happened. As if he never called me the names he did, the shitty insults that escaped his mouth when he realized that I was serious.

  "Peter," I say, trying to calm myself. "You know very well why I wouldn't talk to you. We broke up. We tried being friends, you couldn't handle it, you behaved like an ass, and –"

  "Like an ass?!" he interrupts me, darting forward in such an abrupt movement that I don't even manage to jump out of his reach in time.

  He grabs me by the arm in a painful grip. "Listen to me, you little bit –"

  His hateful spitting is interrupted by a black shadow that launches itself between us and pushes him aside in such a violent move that other pedestrians around us jump away with gaping expressions.

  Peter tumbles and barely manages to catch himself before falling to the ground. His face is red with fury and shame as he glares up at the man in front if him.

  Jed positions himself between us, holding a protective arm in front of me while he quickly turns around to check whether I'm okay. Our eyes meet just for a split second, but it's enough for him to know.