“No?” Vic repeated.
“I’m not having another conversation like this.” I dropped my mat and reached for his laptop that was sitting on the bed next to him.
“Look, I’m just trying to say that—”
“No!” I said. I was feeling like a madwoman, but I wasn’t going to stop now. “Shut up! Stop talking! I know what you’re doing!”
“I’m not doing anything. I get what you’re saying about music and—”
I put my hand in his face.
“Seriously shut up! I’m going to write down our conversation and then you will have no choice but to see what a hypocrite you are!”
I grabbed the laptop and ran out of the bedroom before he could say anything. I sat in the hall outside and began furiously typing the “conversation” we just had.
When I was done, I came back into the bedroom. Vic was sitting on the bed, watching TV as if everything was cool and chill in the world.
This made me even more frustrated.
“Here!” I said pointing at the laptop. “Read.”
With mute amusement, Vic pulled the computer into his lap and began reading:
Me: You can’t always have savory things, IT WILL GET BORING.
Vic: You can eat savory things WITHOUT IT GETTING BORING.
Me: You’re eating a Jolly Rancher right now, (WHICH IS SWEET).
Vic: That’s because if I only ate SAVORY THINGS I WOULD GET BORED.
Lennox has a brain aneurysm because Vic can’t see the blatant contradiction
Side note: This is the reason I murder you.
Vic started laughing.
I stared at him wide-eyed. Does he not see how he’s turning me into Donnie Darko? What’s real anymore?
“I was talking about food. I wouldn’t only want savory food,” Vic said patiently, as if his statement explained everything.
I blinked.
“I know. That’s the whole point. I was comparing food to music.” At this point, I’m about two seconds away from manslaughter.
“I’m not a hypocrite,” Vic said, turning his attention back to the television. “You’re just keeping the metaphor going on too long.”
I think I’m tasting blood, either as a result of brain hemorrhage or biting my tongue too hard. “That’s what a metaphor is! Or analogy or simile or whatever. God! It doesn’t just stop being a simile when it works for you! I’m comparing liking only savory foods to liking only the same music!”
Vic muted the TV and looked at me. “Why would I be eating music?” Vic hissed.
I raked my hands over my face, trying to pull off all the skin. “That’s what an analogy is!”
Vic unmuted the TV, apparently calm again. “You’re wrong. You just don’t get it.”
“You don’t get it!” I nearly screamed.
Vic raised his eyebrows but didn’t look away from the TV.
I took a deep breath, and then sighed. The whole conversation had derailed. The train was supposed to go down the street and somehow we’d ended up sinking it into the ocean. This was more tragic than the Titanic. “Just stop,” I said. “Let’s stop this.”
“You don’t get it,” Vic said again as he flicked through channels on the TV.
What a fucker!
“Stop!” I said, shoving the laptop into his chest.
Vic reached around the laptop and grabbed the hem of my shirt.
“You still haven’t told me what this tattoo means,” Vic said, pulling my shirt up nearly over my head.
“What are you doing?” I said, struggling to get away. I was still frustrated with him. I had a bad habit of not letting things go. I could be angry with someone over spilled milk and stay annoyed with them for a week. I planned on staying upset with Vic over this music thing for about a month. That seems fair, right? Pushing at Vic, I tried to pull my shirt back down but he kept it raised to my chin, exposing me.
“I’m changing the subject,” Vic replied, letting the laptop slide off his lap, allowing him to pull me even further into his grasp. “So, Lenny, why haven’t you told me about this tattoo?”
“You never asked,” I countered.
“I’m asking now,” Vic replied, his gaze hardened into the stare I’ve grown accustomed to. Part of me wanted to look away—part of me always wants to look away. Vic’s stare is so intense and unyielding it’s like constantly being under interrogation. Sometimes, I just want to relax. There is no relaxing with Vic.
I decided to give in. “It’s a reminder,” I said. I stopped struggling and surrendered myself into his gaze and grasp.
“For what?”
“That no matter how badly things get, there’s always a way out. I don’t want to end up like my mother,” I said.
Vic released me, and I flopped onto the bed, crawling to the headboard. I leaned against it and hugged my knees to my chest. I probably looked weird, half naked and hugging myself, but I needed all the strength I could summon. Vic and I had touched on the subject of my suicide attempt. We’d touched on the subject of my parents, but we’d never actually gone there. Now we were almost there. I took a deep breath and decided to lay it out. No time like the present, right?
“I got this tattoo after I tried to kill myself. I didn’t want to cover up my scars, because those are probably the best reminders I’ll ever have not to fuck up like that again, but I wanted something more.” I looked up to see if Vic was listening. Of course he was. “So, I got this tattoo. It’s the words written on my mother’s headstone.”
“More than a little morbid,” Vic added.
I nodded.
“Yeah, but, anytime I think about killing myself, I just have to look at the words and I’m reminded how final it is. Death is not poetic, and it’s not a release. I’ll end up like my mother. Just words on a headstone.”
Vic nodded, absorbing.
“Okay, well,” I said, not allowing there to be any silence between us. I didn’t want there to be any quiet time to think about my tattoo or my mother or any of that shit. “I just gave you a boatload of information,” I said, unfurling my body. “Your turn, tell me something I don’t know about you.”
“I don’t have any tattoos,” Vic said.
“I know that, smart ass,” I replied. I’d seen him naked plenty of times, thank you very much.
“Remember when you came over for dinner the first time?” Vic asked.
“Vividly,” I said. He’d thrown dishes, I’d cut up my body, and the next day Vic had given me the best orgasm of my life. Well, that is until he’d given me more orgasms. Vic had the habit of giving me the best orgasm of my life every time.
“My mother called to tell me that my father died,” Vic said. His face was a mixture of emotions: sad, angry, joyous, and at last, nothing.
I crawled to him to offer comfort, but he wanted none of it. He shooed me away as he continued the story. “She wanted me to come to the funeral. She said he would have wanted it.”
I nodded, not really understanding.
“When I told her no, she called me ungrateful. She said their lives would have been better if they had never adopted me.”
I gasped. What a horrible thing to say to a person. I hugged him, and this time he didn’t push me off. He was like a statue underneath my touch, unmoving.
I told him, “She didn’t mean it, Vic, she was wracked with grief.”
“No,” Vic said. “I think she did mean it.” He didn’t elaborate why he felt that way, but underneath his words some horrible explanation lurked. An explanation that I knew would be untrue but, born from his shitty childhood, would always be the truth to him. I wanted to comfort him; I wanted to assure him that he was loved unconditionally.
Vic wouldn’t hear it. Vic was convinced he was unlovable.
It was sweltering.
I walked in to our apartment and felt the heat immediately, like a hot slap to the face. After meeting for lunch with Lissie and Zoe, I expected to come home and find the apartment empty. Vic was usually gone duri
ng the days, doing what army commando guys do I guess.
He never gave me any information about the “threat.” I pressed him and pressed him, usually after sex. It was manipulative, I know, but I don’t mind getting a little dirty to get what I want. It doesn’t matter, though, because Vic lives in dirt. He’s used to it. I never got what I wanted.
I started snooping when he left the house. I have so much free time now and somedays my nightmare memories plague me more than I would like, keeping me locked in Vic’s apartment, afraid to leave. So I snoop. I look for clues as to what Vic is really doing and to what the threat really is. Because, honestly, I don’t believe the little bits and pieces he tells me.
“People are out to get you, Lenny,” he says.
“What people?” I ask.
“Bad people. People in my line of work.” And that’s all he gives me. He closes up, walks away, and leaves me guessing. I examine every corner of the house when he leaves for the day, and it always turns up clean. Not just Vic clean, but “threat” clean.
It was about one in the afternoon, a time when Vic is usually gone, so imagine my surprise when I walked in to the apartment to find the thermostat was set to ninety degrees. I didn’t even know it could go that high. Live and learn, I guess. I turned it down to a reasonable level, seventy, and stomped off to find Vic.
When I found Vic, I snapped “You know how I get about heat.” I hated it when it was too hot—inside or out. That’s why I loved Santa Barbara, perfect weather year round.
“Actually, no, I don’t, but I’m quickly discovering,” Vic mumbled.
I eyed him down. Now that the heat was starting to dissipate into cold air blowing from the vents, my brain was returning to normal functioning levels. Vic was lying on the bed, blankets galore covering him. For the first time ever, he looked vulnerable. Something was wrong.
I walked to him, carefully. “Vic, what’s wrong?” I asked, rubbing his head. Sweat drenched his forehead. He had a fever.
“Nothing,” Vic responded, doing his best to sound firm.
I almost laughed. Even sick he tried to take control.
“You’re sick,” I replied matter-of-factly.
“Am not,” Vic snapped.
“So, you’re what? Trying to make weight before the big fight?” I asked.
“I’m—” Vic’s eyes popped wide and, before I could ask what was wrong, he jumped out of bed and sprinted to the restroom.
Like a dunce, I waited for him to come back. When you’ve grown accustomed to the unbreakable, it really catches you off guard when it breaks. The minute I heard the tell-tale signs of vomiting, I dashed into the bathroom.
Vic was slouched over the toilet, expelling days of breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He looked miserable and angry. Between vomiting, he managed to tell me to get out.
Fat chance. I pulled his hair back and rubbed his back gently, like my mother used to do. He swatted me away, trying to get me to stop comforting him.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” He growled between vomiting. I didn’t have anywhere to be. I was still in a job limbo. When Vic realized I wasn’t going to leave, but instead would comfort him, he seemed to relax. He finally finished throwing up and fell back against the wall.
I flushed the toilet and got a wet washcloth. He mumbled something incoherent as I rubbed the cloth over his face.
After I was satisfied with the cleanup job, I dropped the washcloth on the floor.
“I don’t usually get sick,” Vic said.
“You don’t say?” I said sarcastically. “Well, I’m a pro at getting sick.” I glanced at the toilet and winced. It was dirty. “There’s nothing worse than throwing up in a dirty toilet,” I said, gesturing to it. “Actually, strike that. Try throwing up in pee.”
Vic looked horror-struck, which only fueled my fire.
“Yep, I’ve done that. I’ve also thrown up in pee right after I peed. And,” I said continuing, “I’ve thrown up in diarrhea right after—”
Vic put his hand over my mouth. “Stop!”
I mumbled through his hand until he removed it. “I’m just proving how much of a sick pro I am. You have a lot of work to do if you want to be like me, Wall.”
Vic put his face between his knees. His words came out muffled. “I think I’ll pass.”
I rubbed his back and asked, “How are you feeling?”
He lifted his head. “Much better, actually.” Vic stood up and brushed off invisible dirt from his pajama pants. He frowned down at the washcloth on the floor.
“You’re going back to bed,” I said, before he could comment on the washcloth. I don’t care if he felt better. He had just thrown up all the food needed to cure world hunger and his fever could have boiled an egg. He was going back to bed. I stood up, steering him out of the bathroom and towards the bedroom.
“I feel fine now. Really,” Vic said, trying to wiggle away from my hands.
“I will put you to bed myself, if I have to,” I said as I gave his back a gentle push.
Vic smiled a wolfish grin over his shoulder. “Promise?”
I scoffed. Of all the things that turn me on, cleaning up Vic’s vomit was not on the list.
“Ten minutes ago, you had my thermostat set to ninety. You are not magically better. Get your butt back to bed.” I smacked him in the butt, ushering him toward the bed.
I made a mental list of what I would need to get him. He needed a bowl in case he needed to throw up and couldn’t make it to the bathroom. He needed the TV remote close to him. He needed clean clothes and clean sheets. He definitely didn’t need pain killers, because then he would feel even better and probably would think he was cured. No, if he were to get any type of relief, it would come in the form of a sleep aid that knocked his ass out.
“Your thermostat?” Vic asked, cutting into my list-making. “This is my place.”
“It’s was set at ninety degrees!” I backtracked, realizing what he had said. “Your place? Well, until you let me live in my place, your apartment is mine.”
Fuckin’ crazy train. This was my house until he said I could go back to my house.
“Normally, I prefer it at eighty-five,” Vic stated.
I stared at him like he was an alien. Eighty-five degrees? I blinked twice, slowly. “Eighty-five degrees? You are so lucky you have me.”
I helped him into the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. Yep, he was very lucky.
I wrapped Vic up in all the blankets we owned, and cut the TV to a comedy show. Vic, for all his posturing, had fallen dead asleep after only a few minutes. How cute, he was even snoring lightly. I took mental pictures; I was sure this would be the only time I’d see Vic vulnerable. I turned off the TV, not wanting it to wake him.
Now it was just me and my thoughts.
I was officially unemployed. My last paycheck was deposited two weeks ago and, because nothing was deposited today, I’m assuming I’ve been completely written off. I expected to feel more powerful, or excited. Something.
I hadn’t shown up to work since Dean’s attack. Vic was paying for everything right now. That didn’t sit right with me, but I didn’t really have a choice. I was going to need to get a new job eventually as I was definitely not comfortable with someone else paying my way. Be it my parents, boyfriends, girlfriends, or eccentric uncles, it didn’t matter—I paid my own way.
Yeah, I realized I’d inadvertently left two jobs without notice. That won’t help my job prospects much.
I didn’t call and quit my job, because the idea of speaking with Bethany was too complicated. If Dean had been telling the truth, then that meant Bethany had it out for me as well. How could I call and act like everything was normal, knowing that she had plotted such horrible things for me? On the other hand, she might just be a casualty in Dean’s war. I really didn’t like to think about it. So, I did what I usually do when things get complicated: I ignored it. I ignored it until it went away.
Lissie had been my inside source into what was s
till going on at Simply Santa. However, she’d quit on her own accord a few weeks after our drunken rent-a-cop debacle; she found a job suitable to her major.
The only other connection I had to Simply Santa Barbara were my paychecks, and the last one came two weeks ago.
My last connection to Dean stopped coming two weeks ago.
I was officially unemployed.
I stroked Vic’s hair absentmindedly. He was sweating again, probably going through another fever. The man ran a serious fever. Sighing, I brought my hand back to my lap.
Since F&F had gone under, Simply Santa was the only legitimate event planning company in Santa Barbara. This left me with about, oh, zero options for a new job. I either had to switch careers or start my own company. I liked the idea of starting my own company and answering only to myself and my clients, but I had absolutely no experience or know-how in running a business.
Vic had alluded to taking care of me. Like I said, I take care of myself. I will never be dependent on anyone, even someone as beautiful and mesmerizing as Vic.
Vic curled up in his blanket, still looking badass, even with a fever. Sweat glistened on his forehead and his long, dark hair stuck to his face. He was sleeping off the fever, no doubt he’d be perfectly fine by the morning. Completely back to normal.
Whatever normal was for us.
I brought my thumb to my mouth, thinking. Vic was gone when I left for lunch with Lissie and Zoe, meaning he’d come home sick. Come home from wherever he worked during the day. I’ve said it before, but secrets were like the oil in our car. They kept us running.
I wanted to break that car now.
Vic refused to tell me anything substantial about his job or the supposed “threat” after me and I’d yet to turn up anything on my own. He was too good. As I watched him lying in bed, shivering, I knew he was vulnerable. I don’t think it’s normal for someone in a relationship to look at their significant other and think of ways to use their sickness to their advantage.
Then again… Nothing about Vic and me is normal.
I slowly got out of bed, not wanting to disturb Vic. If he came home from “work” then maybe he brought something home with him.
You Own Me (Owned Book 1) Page 22