I Am The Lion: A Riveting Psychological Thriller

by Rachelle Lauro

  So there I was, stuck between staying at my own compromised house, or move into Ben's safe house and expose myself to possible heartbreak.

  "Everything okay in there?" he called from without. I heard him padding across the carpet, then he poked his head into the closet. "Did you get lost in there?"

  I couldn't rouse a single reply.

  "Hey," he said softly, coming to me. "What's the matter?"

  Still I couldn't find the words to tell him how terrified I was. Terrified that he wouldn't love me in the end, that he'd find me tiresome and cast me aside, terrified to stay in my own house with Dickhead on the loose.

  He pulled me into his arms. I loved the way our bodies fit together. I loved his galactic eyes. I loved the way I could look up at him, but still reach his lips. I loved everything about him, but now, I just wanted to rest my head on his chest and try not to cry.

  "You don't have to come to my house if you don’t want to," he said. "Do you want me to take you somewhere else? Like a friend's house?"

  I didn't have any friends, something I’d conveniently forgotten to mention. Virginia was my only friend, but at this point I was beginning to wonder if she was more of a foe.

  "It's just that . . . that I've never lived with anyone else before," I said to his t-shirt. "I don't really know what to expect."

  He kissed me on the forehead. "Well, we do everything we usually do, except I don't have to keep driving over here."

  "You make it sound so easy."

  "It is."

  "It's always easy with you . . ." I said, looking down at me, golden prisms especially bright and mesmerizing. "With us."

  "We can always stay in here if you want . . ." He leaned over and started closing the door.

  "Don't you dare!" I cried.

  "Then c'mon," he said, laughing. "Let's get out of here."

  And then he kissed me, a long melting kiss that made me wonder where my lips ended and his began.

  Ben lived in an area close to downtown called the West End, a historical part of town nestled against the foothills. It was where Beaver Cleaver would have lived, if he hadn't lived at Paramount Studios.

  It had become a popular area for speculators and rehabbers alike, who added their own eclectic charm. There were beautiful Craftsman homes with broad verandas, and four-squares with tidy dormer windows and large front porches. There were monstrosities covered with river rock, sporting a popular color fad that would need updating in about three minutes.

  Ben’s house, however, was a lovely clapboard with blue trim.

  "I never planned on buying a house," Ben was saying as we pulled up into his driveway, which was really just some tire indentations in the side lawn. "That's kind of what old people do, you know? But my dad told me that buying real estate is the best thing you can ever do for yourself." He turned off the car. "My parents gave me the down payment."

  Still nervous about my new living arrangement and preoccupied about Dillon, I didn't reply.

  "It's not much," he continued. "But you know, it's how they say. You either pay your own mortgage, or you pay some else's. Makes sense to pay your own." He looked over at me. "But you already knew all of that."

  I didn't know any of that. All I knew is that Amy Mathews needed a secure home, and we'd fallen in love with a house that was decidedly not for rent.

  He looked at his house. "It's not as fancy as yours, but I hope you’ll be comfortable here." Then he laughed and started fiddling with his key ring. "Anyway. There I am blabbing again. You ought to tell me to shut up one of these days."

  I looked at him in earnest. "I hope you never shut up, Benjamin Walker."

  "That's good," he said, a smile spreading across his face. "My mom tells me I could talk to brick wall. She says I have the 'gift of gab,’ whatever that means." He looked down, a frown traipsing across his brow. "Seems like that's a girly thing to have, but it's true. I hardly ever run out of things to say."

  "That's what I like the most about you." I took his hand. "I can't ever think of a single thing to say."

  He laughed a little sympathetically. "Keep it for your books, okay?" And he leaned over and kissed me.

  Later that night, Virginia finally called me back. She had a call-in appearance scheduled with a morning radio talk show in Columbus, Ohio, and was anxious to get off the phone and get some sleep.

  It was a terrible time to bring up the subject. If she got too upset, she could do something unstable, like nip down to the local watering hole, whereby Amy Mathews would be a no-show on the morning talk show, a catastrophic blunder, not to mention the pickling of her liver. I had to be strategic about bringing up the subject of her dangerous interest in stalkers, but I needed some basic facts.

  "M'kay. Well, I gotta get some sleep," she said, yawning, after we'd exchanged some banalities.

  I should have waited until she got home. I should have been diplomatic, but it came out like bile racing up my throat, bile that I couldn't keep down. "I moved out," I blurted. "I'm not staying at home anymore."

  "What?" she asked, her voice clear and immediate. "What are you talking about?"

  "I know about Dillon," I said, heart beginning to race. "I know he was the stalker. I know you dropped the charges."

  Silence.

  "Why would you do something like that?" I asked. Then I couldn't help myself, I had to say it. "What is wrong with you, Jinny! Why would you put me at risk? You, me, Amy—everything—you put it all at risk for that nut job!"

  "He's not a nut job," she said, her voice distant and chilly. There, I'd done it. She'd unbenched the defensive linebacker. But it couldn't be helped, I thought, suddenly angry. Why should I have to tip-toe around her unstable personality, always trying not to upset her, while she goes on and blithely brings a potential serial killer into our house?

  "Yes, he is a fucking nut job," I pressed. "Do you not remember the messages? The letters? The video? The roses?"

  "Roses? Not exactly the stuff of nightmares."

  "What sort of psycho breaks into someone else's house and leafs around in their intimate belongings?"

  "He's not a psycho! He's just . . . I mean, yeah, that was a little weird, but he's really into me. He’s really passionate, okay? Is that okay?"

  "Ben never had to break into the house and peruse my underwear drawer to show his interest."

  "Oh, Ben. Ben is so great, isn't he? Well, you know what? I'm happy for you. I'm happy that you found Mr. Perfect."

  "Virginia, this isn't a—a contest. This is serious. You don't know this guy. You don't know what he's capable of. I mean, we had a glimpse, and that was scary enough, but—"

  "Yes, I do know him. I know him because I took the time to get to know him. And you would too, if you had ever bothered to try. But all you ever do is avoid him and call him 'Dillon the Dickhead' or 'shit for brains' behind his back."

  "He is a dickhead! A totally crazy one too!"

  Cold, hard silence. "I have to go now."

  "Virginia, I just need to know if he has the security code to our house. Did you ever give him a set of the keys?" I couldn't resist. I had to say it. "Is he going to rob us blind? I'm sure he could use the money."

  And she hung up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Ben's house was a cozy two bedroom, one bath bungalow that made me instantly regret moving in. His roommate, Sadie, didn't seem too greatly interested in Ben's activities, but I could see that mine would be open for scrutiny.

  I was a heavy user of the home, and the only place that I could work during the day would be the living room couch that was already cluttered with communal belongings.

  I didn't want to seem rude to Sadie if she sat down during the day for a little chat, but interruptions to my writing flow were usually fatal. Besides, I’d have to think of something to say.

  In truth, I'd already accepted that there would be a significant disruption to my daily word count. I reasoned that if Virginia wanted to bring an almost convicted (if it wasn't for h
er meddling) stalker into our home, then she'd have to understand the inherent problems I might develop with concentration.

  And if she didn't, David surely would. He seemed like a reasonable person, even if we'd never met. Maybe he'd even have a good solution for me, like a group home for writers under existential threat from their relation’s poor choice in love interests.

  Maybe I could write a book about it, called So My Sister Is Dating A Psycho Dickhead. Just for fun I wrote a few exploratory scenes just to see how truly deranged the story turned out to be. That quickly spiraled, so I quit, feeling even more uneasy about Dillon’s unfettered access to our house over the last many months.

  I picked up my phone and texted Virginia again, trying to determine the extent of our problem, but she ignored all of my texts. In frustration, I called Quantum and tried to change the code.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am," the operator said, not sorry at all. "But Virginia Ward is the primary account holder. She's the only one who can authorize a change of the access code."

  "Yes, but my sister is out of town just now, and her boyfriend is a stalker who quite possibly has access to my house."

  "Mmhm. Well, I can try to call her and ask for permission. Would you like me to do that?"

  I did, and she did, but Virginia didn't pick up. I hung up, frustrated, feeling like a stupid fool for entrusting the entire account to my sister in the first place.

  "How were you supposed to know she'd invite the fox into the hen house?" Ben asked that evening as we sat on the couch, my new base of operations.

  "I should have known . . ." I replied miserably. "I just should have known."

  Throughout the entire court hearing, which I now realized wasn't a hearing at all, Virginia had become unusually cheerful, almost giddy. She'd come home from these "court dates" with her cheeks flushed, humming a soft tune, eyes bright and glowing.

  But when I’d asked about the hearing, she was always short on details. She was the natural choice to go to court and deal with the attorneys. I wasn’t able to do it, and besides, I’d never actually seen the guy. I was just happy to see that the ordeal wasn't weighting too heavily on her.

  Indeed, it seemed the "trial" had a positively transformational quality about it, a quality that I can now only attribute to the progression of their relationship. But how had they met? And how had Dillon persuaded Virginia to drop the charges? Those were unanswered questions that I planned on pursuing once Virginia got back in town, once she started talking to me again.

  In the meantime, with my routine thoroughly disrupted, I stayed close to my characters by reading particularly clever passages that I'd written. Then I moved into the mentally less demanding task of line editing, while I waited for Virginia to come home so we could finally talk, however unpleasant it might end. But that was a whole four days away.

  I tried to put together some semblance of a normal person's routine for Ben to see. I got up when he got up, we ate breakfast together and when he went off to work, I went for a spin around the neighborhood.

  I returned, hoping Sadie had cleared out by then, and I went about my business of procrastinating, reading old passages, composing emails to Virginia, and testing out a few exploratory scenes just to keep Brain warmed up. Even that went badly.

  So with not much else to do, I decided to search online for that K-code bumper emblem that Ben had mentioned and buy more meat for the lion.

  Another day drew to a close. I hadn't moved from the couch all day. I rose when I heard the rumbling of Ben's Mustang in the front. By the time he'd parked, I was already out on the front porch.

  "Hey gorgeous," he called and slammed the car door shut. He had a bag from an auto parts store in one hand.

  "Brought me dinner?" I asked.

  He reached inside and pulled out a can of WD-40. "Even better!"

  "Mmm. Ice cream topping. My favorite."

  He walked up and kissed me. "I aim to please."

  I smiled, and we went inside. I'd already ordered pizza, which was due to arrive in forty minutes, and took care to order his favorite toppings of sausage and mushrooms. As for myself, I bravely ordered my favorite of vegetarian with sardines.

  We ate pizza in front of the television and watched Survivor, whereby I took the opportunity to complain liberally about Jeff Probst's detailed narration style.

  "And Eugenia takes a bite from her slice of pizza . . . and she chews . . . and she swallows her one whole bite of pizza!"

  Ben grabbed the remote and flicked off the television. "C'mon, Jeff, let's go hang out in my room. I want to play you something."

  Being the owner of the house, Ben had the choice of two nearly identical rooms. Both were small, but Ben's room had a nice leafy outlook, while Sadie's room faced the road.

  He had strung up some fairy lights, which he used at night rather than the glaring overhead ceiling light. He had a fish tank that burbled all night long, a soft pleasant sound that helped me sleep better. He'd installed a black light over the tank, which housed some platinum angelfish.

  I lay back on his bed and relaxed in his little oasis, watching the glowing fish dart hither and yon, their delicate fins trailing behind like tiny laces. He sat down on a chair in front of his Randall four-speaker and amplifier setup.

  When he'd mentioned he was in a band, I had envisioned sweaty band members dressed in yesterday's outfit, head thrashing, and unintelligible "singing."

  I hadn't expected the delicate, otherworldly sounds that he enticed from his guitar. It was a Paul Reed Smith, he’d explained to me, birds soaring down the fretboard in mother of pearl.

  He'd saved up for four months to buy the guitar. This was a special tool that he didn't take to gigs. This was a stay at home instrument that he used to channel higher levels of music that seemed to have no bounds.

  There was a row of pedals down by his feet that he had fastened onto a homemade chipboard box. There was a loop petal, distortion, one I called "rock and roll" and a few others that he tapped occasionally, doing what sounded like nothing to my untrained ear.

  He sat down and picked up his guitar, cradling it in his lap. I watched him in the shadows as a driving sound filled with bird and whale song and delicate minor notes brought forth my deep admiration. A surreal, dreamy sensation came over me. That Pewgenia lay on her boyfriend’s bed, listening to him play guitar, seemed impossible.

  Certainly these were incredible circumstances for Piss Drinker. Maybe that part of me really was dying, taking Amy along with it. Even Amy seemed like a foreign person to me now, writing dispatches from the land of the long since dead.

  I was listening to him conjure up soundscapes from his guitar, feeling like I was floating under the sea, when I heard the lyrics, "She's my one / my all / my evening twirl / my blue almond girl . . ."

  A chill raced over my skin. Was he singing about me? No, I thought, chopping that hope off at the knees. Not a chance. Boys write songs about beautiful ethereal women or pneumatic blonds with big fake fun bags. Boys did not write songs about Pewgenia, the Piss Drinker.

  When the song came to an end, about five minutes later, he flipped a few switches, killing an ambient buzzing sound, and turned to me. "So what did you think?"

  "I thought it was amazing," I replied, rousing from my reverie, feeling like I'd been put in a trance.

  "I wrote it for you."

  Did I hear that correctly? I got up on my elbows and looked at his shadowed figure. "What?"

  I'd heard all those songs on the radio, songs that were so clearly written for a special someone who had enchanted (or cursed) the singer into paroxysms of inspired song writing. But those were mythical girls, the Monica Schaffers of the world, not plain girls like me. Nobody sang songs about us.

  "Do you know of any other blue almond girls?" he asked, putting down his guitar, walking over, and sitting down next to me. My heart thumped unevenly. "Cuz I don't."

  "You mean it?" I asked, feeling like the luckiest girl on the planet. "You wrote it for me?"


  He laughed, teeth glowing bright in the black light. "I promise I wrote it for you."

  And then he bent and kissed me, carrying me off into the deep blue sea.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A few days later, I was sitting on Ben's couch, not writing, when my phone rang. Virginia. After what seemed like hundreds of unreturned phone calls, she finally decided to call me back.

  "Hey," I said.

  "How's life?" she asked.

  "Could be better."

  "So . . . where you are staying?"

  "With Ben," I replied, thankful that she didn't know where he lived.

  I expected a sharp comment about shacking up together, but she seemed subdued on that front. "Are you ready to move home yet? I'm sure you miss your office."

  Aha. The ole pretend it never happened trick—a Virginia special. Unfortunately, this was far too important to ignore.

  I sighed. "I do miss my office, and I miss being at home." And away from the prying eyes of your stalker boyfriend, I wanted to add, but didn’t. I loved spending time with Ben, but between evening conversations and impromptu chats with Sadie my reserves were drawing low.

  "Why don't you come home then?" she asked, as if her relationship with Dillon didn’t matter.

  "I think you know why," I said. Though I was not comfortable at Ben's house, I was even less comfortable at my house with Dickhead at large. "Are you and Dillon still together?"

  There was a long moment of silence, followed by an offer to meet up for coffee so we could talk about it. Apparently her fatal attraction was not fodder for phone conversations.

  I sighed. "Okay, can you meet at Beansters in about an hour?"

  "Beansters it is. See ya there." And she hung up.

  Beansters was only a few blocks away on the corner of Chesapeake and Higuera Street. My tolerance for public places had gone up some since moving in with Ben, a lucky upside to recent events.