Tears of mortification welled up in my eyes. I forced myself to continue.
“One night, I had had enough. I grabbed what I could manage with the splint on my arm, and moved to a motel for a few days while I looked for a new place to live. I filed a restraining order, moved into my new apartment, and hoped that was the end of that. It wasn’t. Weird things started to happen at my new place.
“One night after an event, I came home and one of my windows was open. Now, that in itself isn’t weird. Maybe I forgot to close the window before I had left to go to work. But, on the window sill were a bunch of red rose petals. I brushed them out the window and locked it. A couple of nights later, I came home to find my bathroom mirror completely shattered. I called my landlord and had my locks changed, and I filed a police report. Filing the report was a joke, it didn’t do anything; Dean still found ways to get into my apartment, and his machinations were escalating.
“My clothes started disappearing and reappearing with blood and semen on them. I received threatening letters telling me what a whore I was and how I was going to get it.”
Vic motioned to me to wait one minute. He went to the kitchen, got a bottle of water from the fridge, and brought it back to me. I gulped it greedily.
“One night, I woke and saw him sitting in my chair watching me. I didn’t move a muscle. I pretended he was just another night terror. Eventually he left, but I knew that wasn’t the last I’d see of him. Next time, I might not be so lucky. That was the night that I decided to leave Seattle and move to Santa Barbara.
“The next day, I packed up my few belongings and left without a word. I didn’t let anyone know where I was going. Partly because I didn’t want to put them in danger, but mostly because I didn’t want to put myself in danger. It didn’t matter though, somehow he found me. He’s been emailing me, telling me he was going to find me and kill me. Now, he’s finally keeping his word.”
I tossed the empty water bottle to the floor.
“Stay here,” Vic said, as he kneeled down to lace up his boots. Vic had traded in his robe for an all-black ensemble: cargo pants, a cable knit sweater, and combat boots. He looked like he was about to kick someone’s ass. Part of me wished it was mine.
“Stay here?” I said. He wanted me to stay at his apartment alone? Was he losing his mind? I might as well shoot a flare gun for Dean to come and find me. Vic could probably see the cogs working in my mind because he reached out and grabbed my hand. On his knees, our heights were about the same. I looked down at my hand in his, so small in comparison.
Vic caught my chin with his other hand and pulled my concentration to him. There was something about that gesture that drove me wild. It was like he knew how to silence my overactive brain. When he took my chin, all my thoughts vanished, and all I saw were his black eyes locking me into place.
“Lenny,” Vic said.
I gulped. Hearing him say my name—the nickname he’d given me—stirred feelings I believed to be locked away from his reach.
“Do you trust me?” Vic said.
I tried to turn away from his question, but he tightened his grip on my chin. I looked at Vic’s hair, his ears, his mouth—everywhere but his eyes.
Did I trust him? After everything that had happened? Trust wasn’t one size fits all. I might trust someone to watch my cat, but that doesn’t mean I trust them to pull me up from the cliff I’m falling from.
Finally, I let my gaze return to Vic’s onyx eyes, to his level stare.
“Yes,” I said, surprised at my unconscious revelation.
Vic released my chin and stood. “Good.” His tone was clipped, but he appeared satisfied with my response.
I played with the hem of my shirt. Yeah, so I said I trusted him; that didn’t mean I was any less fearful of my circumstance. There was a psycho out there trying to get me!
“Lennox.”
The timber of Vic’s voice cut through the fearful voices in my head. Reluctantly, I looked to him. His business-like demeanor was completely wiped away and had been replaced with something else, something . . . carnal. His eyes burned like coal and all his muscles were tensed.
“Yes?” I asked cautiously.
“As long as you’re with me, you will not be harmed.”
I smiled. I don’t know how someone can keep that promise, but it was a sweet sentiment. And for a moment, it did make me feel better.
“What’s that?”
Vic looked at me like I’d just asked what two plus two equals.
“It’s a gun, Lennox,” He replied, tucking the gun into his waistband.
“Why do you need it?” I replied, my voice getting higher. I was definitely worried, but for whom, I don’t know. Dean was an asshole who was stalking me, who wanted to rape and kill me, but that didn’t mean that I wanted Vic to murder him.
If I really thought about it, really admitted the origins of my feelings, I hated the idea of Vic going out somewhere with a gun. He cared about me and I him. Also, he refused to let me help. I wasn’t some woman who put candles in the window and waited for the man to return home.
Instead of replying, Vic gave me a look as if to say “don’t ask,” and stuffed another gun into a shoulder holster.
“Two guns?” I gasped. Dean didn’t warrant a two-gun showdown! He was Dean. The most harm he did was to my spam box. Well, and punch my lights out, threaten to rape and kill me, and . . . well, hmmm. “Look, Vic, maybe I blew this a bit out of proportion. This guy, like I said, he’s just a psycho ex. I’ve been toying with the idea that he’s actually mentally unstable . . .” I trailed off, unsure of where I was going with this. “I mean, he used to be really sweet. You don’t need guns, is all I’m saying. He’s just...arg!” I didn’t know how to explain it: He’s not an angsty teenager, but he’s not Osama Bin Laden either. He’s somewhere in between.
“I always come prepared,” Vic replied gruffly.
“For what? Armageddon?” I said, eyeing the bowing knife Vic was strapping above his ankle. “I should have called the police. I just didn’t know what to do. Never mind.”
I reached for the gun in his holster. I assumed it had the safety on, or at least that’s what I told myself because otherwise reaching for a gun and trying to pull it out would just be totally stupid. And I don’t want to be totally stupid.
“Lennox!” Vic growled, his voice a warning.
Instead of it stopping me, though, his snarl fueled me to continue. I grappled at the gun in his holster, frantically trying to pull it loose.
I know it was dumb, I do, but at that moment it was the only thing I could think of to regain control of the situation. I had already lost too much control of my life to Dean; I didn’t want to lose more to Vic.
Finally fed up, Vic grabbed my wrists to stop me. I twisted in his hold, elbowing his chest. He smiled and even seemed to be enjoying my fighting, which just infuriated me more. I fought to get free, and, finally, I kicked him in his right knee. His eyes clouded with something I hadn’t seen before in Vic: fury.
I froze.
Vic shoved me backward. As we crashed onto the couch, he pushed my wrists above my head and used them to brace himself above me. There was a good amount of space between us, but he was still on top of me.
Vic enveloped me. His usually neat bun had come loose and strands of his black hair fell down across his chiseled, olive chin. He clenched his jaw, and eyed me with those midnight eyes. In any other situation, I would have found this unbelievably sexy, but right now, I was focused on getting what I wanted.
“Are you going to listen to me now?” I asked, my chest heaving.
“I was just going to ask you the same thing, Lennox,” Vic replied, gripping my wrists harder.
I hurt everywhere—my ribs, my head, my wrists. I didn’t let him know; I didn’t want him to know how badly Dean had hurt me. Instead, I smiled and gave Vic a wink.
Vic smiled back, the fury gone and replaced by mischievousness. He let go of my wrists at once, and rolled off the c
ouch.
I was so surprised at the suddenness of being free, that I forgot to feign toughness: I rubbed my wrists. He raised an eyebrow at me, so instead of trying to hide my pain, I continued to rub. Fuck it, right? I sat up, settled into the leather couch, and proceeded to make a show of rubbing my wrists.
I was thankful that Dean had kicked my ribs, and not my face. I was thankful that the punch on my head wasn’t showing. Vic probably would have brought out a bazooka if he’d seen any bruises on me. I best keep my shirt on.
“I know what I’m doing, Lennox,” Vic said, a hint of weariness playing at the syllables.
I didn’t say anything; I needed a moment to think. I knew I’d have trouble thinking if I looked at Vic right now, so I settled my eyes on a piece of art I hadn’t seen on my first visit here: a blown glass woman. Focused on the art piece, I let my thoughts swirl: I’d already gone to the police and filed a report. There wasn’t much they could do. Basically, they don’t help until I’m in the ground. Here was this sexy Asian god ready to help and I was getting cold feet. I realized I had been scratching the back of my hand, something I do when I’m nervous.
Finally, I looked up at Vic silently asking him what he would do.
Instead of flashing a cocksure smile or patronizing me, he did something unexpected; he sat down next to me. He held my hand and made me stop scratching.
I looked at him and then back at the blown glass sculpture that was so easily broken. Maybe I didn’t want to know.
After Vic left, I realized I was alone. Like, really alone. In Vic’s apartment. All alone in Vic’s apartment. A giddy schoolgirl smile spread across my face. I mean, he was going to be gone for hours and I was too amped up, scared, and freaked out to watch TV. So, what’s a girl to do? I started with the kitchen.
I’m not one for sneaking through other people’s things. I’m not. I’ve been in plenty of guys’ houses and when they leave for the morning coffee, I always just stay put. Something about Vic, however, made me want to snoop. Maybe it’s his aloofness. I’ve been “getting to know him” now for months, yet I still havn’t learned anything of substance about him.
His kitchen was clean, pretty much sterile. Everything had a place, from the pots and pans to the dish rags. Unlike my kitchen, it was very modern. Come to think of it, the entire apartment was unlike the rest of the building: whereas the building was historic and old, his apartment was modern and newly renovated.
The kitchen counters were white marble, and the walls were tiled in shades of gray and white. Black cabinets and stainless steel appliances gave the space a sophisticated air. It was beautiful and intimidating, just like Vic. I wonder what it would be like to cook simple things in this kitchen, things like tomato soup or macaroni and cheese. What about children? I can’t even imagine kids pulling out the pots and pans and banging them in a kitchen like this.
Shit. Why am I thinking about children right now? I should be thinking about tomorrow. I should be thinking about what Vic’s doing tonight. I should be worrying about waking up in the morning and whether or not Vic comes back. That sobered me up.
I don’t know what I’d do if Vic didn’t exist. Even if he doesn’t exist in my reality, he still needs to be in the world.
I saw Vic’s glass plate collection on the countertop, and paused when I saw the space left by two missing pieces—the two he’d thrown at me. I bit my lip, remembering the morning that had followed that incident: the bliss and then the heartache. Hugging myself, I walked out of the kitchen.
I wandered around the living room aimlessly, and found myself slowly climbing the stairs to the second floor. I realized I was entering foreign territory; Vic had never let me upstairs before.
Then I remembered Mia Farrow. The fact that he had let some random girl go where I had never been pissed me the fuck off. I ran up the rest of the steps two by two, determined to have been everywhere in Vic’s apartment. Like a dog marking its territory.
I saw two doors: an open bedroom and a closed mystery room. Guess which one I went for? I opened the mystery door quietly, as if Vic could have heard me.
What was in the room surprised me. I expected to find . . . well, I don’t know what I expected to find. Vic was always so mysterious. I guess I expected to find something that explained his aloofness. Maybe heads in jars, or just a room that contained another room and then another room in that room, like the Russian nesting dolls of rooms.
An old-fashioned yet new-looking record player took center stage in the room. It had a turntable for spinning vinyl records, but it was electronic. Opposite the player was an overstuffed recliner.
I entered and walked over to one of the vinyl-lined walls and started pulling out records out at random.
The Beatles, The Cure, The Black Angels, The Black Keys, The White Stripes, Nine Inch Nails, The White Stripes again. There were hundreds of albums, seemingly randomly shelved.
I came across one that looked pretty cool: Never Mind the Bollocks, Here Comes the Sex Pistols. I carefully took the vinyl out of its dayglo yellow sleeve and put it on the player, gently setting the needle in place. The music thrummed and sped around the room; as I swayed in place, I realized I was getting angry.
Strike that—I wasn’t getting angry, I was angry. I was stuck here while some dude took care of my dirty business. I had been stuck for months while a psycho had stalked and terrorized me. It was all such bullshit.
I dropped into Vic’s chair and listened to The Sex Pistols get angry. The music swam around my head; the hurried crashes of the drum like waves against the beach. It was all compelling me to do something—anything else but sit here.
I stood up too quickly and nearly fell back into the chair. My head hurt, my ribs were either bruised or broken, but my mind demanded justice. I turned off the player and left the vinyl on the turntable to get scratched or dusty. I would feel like a dick about that later.
Now was the time for action.
Okay, so I didn’t really have a plan. I rushed down the apartment stairs in a flurry of determination to do . . . to do, what? Did it matter as long as it was something, anything? Nope.
I slowed my steps long enough grab a knife out of a kitchen drawer—I’m not a total idiot—and then I headed out the door.
The air was colder outside of Vic’s apartment; my skin rippled with goose bumps. I was expecting Dean to pop out any minute and say “Here’s Johnny!” or something equally insane. That didn’t happen. It was just me in the overly air-conditioned hallway, several fluorescent lights flickering in an imitation of a low-budget horror movie. Only this wasn’t a horror movie—the failing lights were just another example of Vic’s shitty landlord skills.
I pressed the down button for the elevator, and rubbed my chilled arms. Waiting for the elevator was such a banal thing to do that I wanted to laugh at the absurdity. Here I was, in the midst of a deadly game of hide-and-seek, waiting for the elevator like it was any other day. The elevator arrived and the last moment before the doors opened, I jumped out of sight, pressing myself flat against the wall. When no one stepped out, I cautiously peered in the box—empty.
I stepped in just as the doors closed. The dichotomy of the everyday elevator ride mingled with the fear of what was waiting for me when I reached my floor set my mind reeling.
I held my breath the whole trip down, expecting Dean to be waiting for me when the doors opened. I held the knife tip out and chest high, ready to bury it in his chest if need be. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.
There was no one on the other side of the elevator, despite what my imagination wanted me to believe. I nearly passed out from the pent-up adrenaline.
When I reached my apartment, Zoe was missing and the door was open. I grimaced and prayed to every deity and celebrity I could think of that Dean didn’t have her. That Vic had gotten her to safety.
Timidly, I walked into my apartment. It felt odd approaching it this way, like a spectator instead of a participant. I saw the shattered the lamp
and the out of place nightstand as clues to what events had taken place here, rather than as memories.
Carefully so I didn’t disturb anything (or anyone), I moved around the room. It appeared empty. If not for the mess and personal things strewn around (and the fact that I was here less than a few hours ago), I would think no one had lived here in a while. The room was unnaturally still and void of energy.
Is this the part where someone says “it’s too quiet”? Answer: yes.
I let out a bloodcurdling scream of shock and pain as something (someone?) landed on my back like a spider monkey. I fell face first onto the floor. My forehead hit the ground, and the floor snapped my head back causing it to hit the weight that now had me pinned. This second hit to my head dazed me, but through the fog I heard a growl emit from whatever my head had hit, correction whomever my head had hit.
I laid my cheek against the cool floor, and squeezed my eyes closed dreading what I knew I would hear next: Dean’s voice.
“You came back to me,” he whisper-breathed into my ear.
I shuddered. His voice made my skin crawl; a million nasty little spiders were scurrying down my spine.
“Where’s Zoe?” I asked. I was wheezing for air; my chest was being pushed deep into the hardwood by his weight and he’d wrapped one arm around my neck.
No response.
His dick pushed against my thigh. I held back the urge to vomit and focused on looking for anything to use against him. The knife I’d brought with me flew out of my hand and across the apartment when he’d jumped on my back. The shards of broken lamp were too far away to reach.
I had to do something. My body was turning into mush beneath his weight. If I didn’t get him off of me soon, I’d become Lennox Pudding.
Dean was frantically rubbing himself against me. I could hear him grunting and panting. He was getting off on this!
The more I struggled to get out from under his weight, the faster Dean moved against me. I wasn’t getting enough air into my lungs, and my vision began to blur. I stopped trying to buck him off of me in the hopes that he’d loosen his grip around my throat so I could just take a full breath of air. It didn’t work; I started seeing spots before my eyes.
You Own Me (Owned Book 1) Page 14