by Amarie Avant
“He has seen us…” My hesitant voice echoes in my ear.
“I'm sure of it.”
“Every single second of my life, he has watched.” I almost cave at that notion.
“Yes, beautiful. He's heard conversations. He's seen you and me…”
I pant, “I, I can’t take it!”
“You are strong, Siobhan. There is more. Now, later, never. Tell me which you prefer.” Lincoln’s shoulders dip in all honesty.
“What?” God, I cannot carry much more. I will give up the ghost if there's more.
Lincoln removes the remote from beside him on the bed. He presses rewind. “Though we are live streaming, Siobhan, everything is recorded. I jogged over while you were gone, and I just had to see what was going on myself.”
I watch as a dark shadow climbs into my bed.
Pupils stretched wide, I'm unable to look away.
“Turn it up,” I order. Is the stalker able to hear what’s going on? Or did Lincoln already go over that. I'm too afraid to ask.
My voice is muffled, slurred and begging for Hosea. Lincoln stares.
“Yes, I am here, Siobhan.” I can hardly hear the asshole’s response.
Pivoting on the pads of my feet, I turn away. Bile rises in torrents up my stomach, burning my esophagus. I rush to the bathroom. I sink to my knees on the travertine floor, hurling up clear liquid muck into the toilet bowl.
The side of my cheek sinks against the seat of the toilet. God, is there any lower you’d like for me to go?
Lincoln massages my shoulders and back as he kneels. “C’mon, Siobhan, you are a fighter. Don't cry, baby.”
I blubber, tears, snot, and body-wracking sobs. Never mind that my face is planted against a toilet seat, I’ve submerged down to the gutter. Rising is not an option.
“Siobhan, beautiful, I need you to get up,” Lincoln implores.
And it’s as if I can fall no further, as if I have already hit rock bottom and sunk to the deepest pits of hell. Another grimy thought slithers in my mind. I pull myself into a seated position against the toilet.
“Did he?” I pause to breathe. “Did he fuck me?”
“Last night, no. I am not entirely sure about the duration of your stay here. The streaming only extended for the better part of the week. You were at my place. And based on his interaction with you last night, I’d say rape isn’t in his behavior.”
The sobbing once again comes so instantaneously that seconds pass before I realize I'm the one lamenting.
“I am so sorry, Siobhan.” These words of apology seem foreign to him. He is not a man accustomed to such trivial things as an apology. And though he has done no wrong, Lincoln scoops me up off the floor, and sets me onto my feet as reminder that I still have the ability to stand. And then he holds me tighter, in his strong arms.
A few minutes later, I’ve composed myself enough to speak once more. “Lincoln, you said there’s more. Don’t censor anything.” I've endured enough to break down, and didn't. Tell me everything.
He’s reluctant. Then he starts out of the room, holding my hand, guiding me.
Down the stairs we go. I want to leave this fortress. My hell. But Lincoln doesn't start for the towering front doors. He instead ushers us into the downstairs hallway. He stops at one of the closets and opens the door.
“I had the feeling you had less than stellar intentions, Siobhan. In war, it's all about the worst common denominator. Extinguishing your enemy permanently. And that’s something I will not allow you to do.”
My mouth drops. Crap, Lincoln Zager has read me from beginning to end.
He continues, “I spoke with Fitzpatrick, who is on Bernard’s computer tech team. It was the day after you’d argued with me about how ‘unfriendly’ I am. I am the type of man who contemplates on mass quarrels so I figured out then that you had something up your sleeve for your stalker. Fitz has been working night and day for the past week to break through the remote access encryption on your security system. We knew then that something had to be haywire, if a genius like Fitz was unable to crack the system so easily. Now I feel like a fucking wanker, Siobhan. I assumed showing you the truth would help you realize there'll be no you against your tormentor, fully-loaded gun or not.”
Rubbing the back of his neck, Lincoln opens the door to the closet. The Victorian house, though aged with character, has been updated in various aspects as not to subtract from the grandeur. Inside the closet are video panels. I’ve been told that if anyone came onto my property, I’d get a call, and the surveillance videos are all streaming here and at the security office.
Never got a call.
But every morning, I always glance inside of this closet to ensure that the videos are working.
He explains that my entire security system has been hacked. The surveillance cameras are all on looping sequence except for two.
“The arsehole didn't walk through the front door, either. Fitz shut down the feed this afternoon, and I came over. You were out. I couldn’t wait. I had to see it myself. For now, Fitz is unable to hack the stalker’s IP address.”
“What about the dog collar?” The seed of hope crashes into my psyche.
“The lab work hadn't yet been returned. Checking for DNA isn't as quick as it appears on crime TV. And there were no fingerprints.”
Fuck it. “It's time I head home. Home to San Antonio.”
“Tomorrow, Siobhan. Consider leaving tomorrow. Tonight, you'll stay at my place.”
I glance up at my savior and nod.
***
In less than ten minutes, I trade bare feet for socks and a pair of Nikes, and I've packed one rollaway. So much for the sugar scrub, and my paper bag from the emporium earlier now has melted ice cream.
Feet planted in a wide-legged stance, Lincoln stands just inside of the double doors to my bedroom, that dark gaze of his never leaving my body.
The sound of my luggage zipping quickly forces me to take a gulp of air. I glance around me. Crown moldings. Wainscot pattern. The fortress I paid just short of my soul to purchase came up short in keeping me safe.
“Ready?” Lincoln asks.
Hooking my hand into the handle, I turn around and nod. Lincoln steps forward, removes the luggage from my hand.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“You're welcome.” His pristine, sharp voice is softened slightly as he attempts a consolation smile.
We walk downstairs and head out the door. I add, “Not just for today. Thank you for the very first moment you saved me from falling on my ass, the encouraging words while running…” Why am I talking? This night must hurry along.
“Shhh,” Lincoln issues, sharply. He places my rollaway in its erect position on the top step of the porch.
Locking the doors, I look over my shoulder in confusion.
“Don't move!” Like a wild animal, Lincoln jumps over the four steps leading up the porch. And into the dark of night he runs.
My gun!
The three strategically placed guns were for a reason. But Lincoln took the gun I had handled from the entrance of my home and placed it on the fireplace mantel in my bedroom. The kitchen is toward the back of my home and probably the same proximity as going upstairs.
I start off in a run, down the windy passageway to the gates. Leaves crunch beneath my tennis shoes as I go.
About forty yards to the gates, I see two figures. One is shorter, thicker than Lincoln, all muscle from the dark silhouette. They're trading punches. Each hit makes my shoulders tense.
Lincoln blocks a punch that would surely knock him on his ass. Then Lincoln pounces. In this instant, I wonder what the fuck was I thinking? I had to have jumped over the cliff of despair when deciding to catch a stalker.
The man falls. Lincoln crouches over him, grabs the lapel of his hoodie with one hand, and pounds away at his face with the other.
I need to see his face… the black hood obstructs most of my view, save for a smashed, boxer type of nose.
Linco
ln grabs the man by his throat, bashing the back of the man's head into the ground.
Something shiny flashes in the moonlight, raised by the stalker’s side.
The blade of a knife.
“Lincoln, watch out!” I scream at the top of my lungs, as the knife slices out against him.
Chapter Sixteen
Siobhan
“I don't know how things transpired before you and me, Siobhan,” Lincoln all but roars in my ear while we stand at the closed gate. The stalker has escaped. “I am not a ninny, issuing frivolous requests! I told you not to move. If I tell you not to move, then goddamn don't bloody make a move.”
He's holding the side of his waist. Blood continues to seep through his fingers, dropping onto the gravel beneath him, and I am still in total, utter shock.
That motherfucker had sliced out at Lincoln, and rolled away. The stalker seemed woozy, hand cradling the back of his cranium, before he jumped to a standing position.
I had my time. I should have finished him off. A kick to the nuts to start, and then beat him like he disrespected my mama!
He was hurt even more than Lincoln due to the bashing of the back of his skull. But he crawled out of the closing gate in the nick of time.
“Are we understood?” Lincoln argues.
“Yeah,” I mumble. My glower tears away from the wrought iron fence, my face in utter confusion as to why he is angry with me. Oh, I got him into this mess.
“Siobhan, this was a fucking cock up on my end. You being here, unshielded, ruined my concentration.” His hard voice mellows. “He could have won and took you or…”
Won? I place my hand on my hip, ready to cut him off, until I realize Lincoln is genuinely concerned about my welfare and not some vendetta.
“Or hurt you, Siobhan. If I tell you to stay, you must stay.”
“I'm sorry,” I murmur. In this day and age, post stalker in my life, I've done more apologizing than I ever have in my entire life. But there is one thing I have a problem with— listening to a man, other than my father, telling me what to do. Yet, at this instant, I wish I had learned after all the arguments Hosea and I got into.
“I'm sorry.” I reach a hand out to touch his arm, but Lincoln starts back up the windy driveway.
“I'll get my keys so we can go to the hospital.” I hurry past him to my purse. I hadn't even known I dropped it on the porch when I fumbled with the locks.
“No need.” Lincoln grabs my luggage with his free hand. “Drive us to my place…please.”
The polite request is added almost as an afterthought. He is so pissed off that I am quiet while getting into my car. Southern hospitality would have required me to offer him help with the luggage, but he radiates anger and despite all the blood, seems more hostile than hurt.
Thirty minutes later, I stand before him. He’s traded in towering over me for a seat in the den of his home. A first aid kit and most of the contents are spilled onto the coffee table. Needle in hand, he stitches the gash in his side. It’s about three inches in length, a “superficial, flesh wound” he had said, the second time I mentioned going to the hospital a few minutes ago.
“You need medical attention,” I implore through gritted teeth, glaring at Lincoln. I've had it with the thick tension.
“I am not above the law, Siobhan.” His tone is bereft of emotion.
“What is that supposed to mean? I mention having a doctor sew you up, you bring in the cops?”
Lincoln continues to dig the needle through his broken porcelain flesh. “Don't give me the innocent face. Not now, gorgeous. We go to the hospital,” he gestures, “they ask questions. They alert the bloody authorities. Say for instance, we go straight to the authorities, and alert them of what dodgy shit has transpired tonight, there'll be a trail. If I had killed the bastard, okay, the situation would be over. He was on your property. Then we would’ve called the cops.”
Eyebrows raised, I wait for more.
He finishes his stitches, tosses the needle and string onto the coffee table, then carefully moves back. “You had intentions of pulling the trigger had it been the arsehole waiting for you in your bed. Your intentions are as good as golden in my book. But I'll be the one executing his demise. Not you.”
Hands on hips, I snap, “Have you lost your mind? My intentions were shooting a man in my home which is allowed. You just mentioned something along the lines, but you… You sound like your plan is all out war—hmmm, I distinctly recall that we've argued about this before. There'll be no declaring war or torturing him until his last bre…”
“This is a bloody fucking war, my lovely Siobhan.” Lincoln gives a snarling smile as if I had joked. “Regardless of if he is caught on one of our properties or not, that bastard will be taken care of. His dead body will be either handed over to proper authorities due to self-defense, or he will disappear, Siobhan. Regardless of the dynamics, you will live your life. It’s all in the cards, well except blood on your hands.”
He will disappear… Those words slam through me in high definition. I have placed my trust in nothing for so long. The only truth I know is Hosea Murrell is missing. Hosea Murrell is dead.
Lincoln leans up, grits his teeth to the pain and says, “Your ex is on your mind.”
I nod. It's odd that in all of the discussion about my life with Hosea, Lincoln has never uttered his name.
Once again, Lincoln’s declaration about forcing the nameless, faceless man to disappear echoes in my ear. I start to back away.
Cussing under his breath, Lincoln rises. The blood is beginning to cake against the jagged scar. He towers down in front of me. “Let me do this for you, Siobhan. I am a man with a means.”
I gaze up at his eyes, full of sincerity, and something else. Something that reminds me of those ultra-dark days after being utterly alone. I had promised myself never to build connections. Never to fall in love. “I don't like to feel indebted.”
“Bollocks. That wanker stabbed me. I'll do it for me then.”
“You won't,” I argue, much like we did before Lincoln banged me against the wall and fucked me stupid. Yet, I’m so angry I’m livid at the thought of him being hurt anywhere near the extent Hosea had been by the stalker.
“Do not confuse my statement for a request, Siobhan.”
“I'm not confusing anything! Yes, I wanted to pull the fucking trigger. I've been tormented by the stalker for so long. If I don't take him out, he deserves to rot in jail. So allow me to thank you for your help. But the interference from you stops now. I don’t want you involved in my sordid life story.”
He places a hand to my cheek, rubbing it softly. I'm almost captivated by how instantaneously he is able to get over himself and realize this is my fight, not his.
Then I hear his voice in a steely whisper. “This subject is not up for debate. It was my error for participating in an argument with you. Your stalker has precious few moments left, Siobhan. His demise will be my gift to you whether you're willing or not.” Lincoln backs away. Much of his face masked by the weak lighting and it only punctuates the horror to come. His tone softens somewhat. “I'm taking a shower. Join me.”
I stand in the center of a room, embellished with canvas paintings and million dollars’ worth of trinkets, and then I glance at the needle, thread, and a bloodied towel. This is all my fault.
Lincoln stops at the steps of the back stairwell in his home. “Join me.” His eyes are black with lust. So dark. So unyielding.
I surrender.
***
In the shower, the ebb and flow of us doesn't exist, or rather, Lincoln hasn't placed me at the center of his universe. He's no longer the ocean. I am no longer the sand, compelled to do whatever he wishes of me.
He turns sideways in the large shower room, careful not to get much water on his wound.
“Can I?” I gesture toward his sponge.
There's a sparkle in his gaze, almost that of bewilderment at the thought of relinquishing his power.
“Thanks,”
I mumble as he hands it over. I take the sudsy sponge and work it across his left shoulder, since he's cradling his right side. Lather and bubbles massage against his broad muscles.
As the water rushes down my back coming from the rain spouts on the opposite side of the shower, my entire body heats with need. A need only he can quench. Lincoln is like a lion, aloof and lethal. And damn if I'm not the prey, waiting for him to strike. To kiss me rough and fuck me hard.
After we’re both clean, Lincoln turns the knob and the numerous showerheads slow to a leak and then a stop. A plumb of perspiration follows once he opens the glass doors. God, I beg of you to take this never-ending day and erase it from my mind, I pray as I step out of the shower.
He hands me a towel so plush that my fingers sink deeply into it. Lincoln grabs a towel of his own and begins to pat dry.
Fog masks my disappointment. Did I piss him off so much? I never really allowed Hosea to take the reins. This is all new.
“Lincoln, must we play the silent game?”
“I can't recollect on the last day I played a game, Siobhan. Feel free to talk.”
“All right, it's not your way or the highway, but I'll talk,” I snap, wrapping the towel around my frame. “I just didn't want to get you into this, Lincoln. I knew the second I handed you that psycho dog’s collar that this obsessed wacko is out of his mind. I don’t understand. I'm not drop-dead gorgeous, but hell I wish I had the features of a horse’s ass, swarming with flies, shit and all. Somehow I think that wouldn't be ugly enough.”
He says nothing. Damn it, he won't argue with me. Debate, or say shit!
“I'm angry with myself for placing you in this situation. How does that sound, Lincoln? I care about you enough to keep you out of it.”
His dick, although flaccid, is magnificent. I just want him to touch my body, stroke my core and clear my mind.
Lincoln runs the plush towel over his masculine thigh, and I assume he stops because stretching further down would put too much strain on his midsection.
He finally speaks. “We seem to be back at square one, Siobhan. Let me assure you once and for good, this is the end of our discussing that deranged wanker.” He places his hands on the sides of my face. “Nothing short of the devil himself is able to dissuade me once I've made up my mind. And once more—the last fucking time—I assure you the stalker’s days are marked.”