Chapter Two
Abbie
Present Day. Denver, CO.
“You need to get laid, Abbie.”
I looked up from my laptop to find my best friend of five years standing on the other side of my kitchen island, his arms folded over his chest. Irritation crawled up my spine—-after the day I’d had, talking about my sex life was the last thing on my mind. I was even more irritated that was the first thing he decided to say to me after I told him about my said horrible day. My knee began to bounce underneath the table, my skirt shifting back and forth with the movement.
I didn’t care he had to stay here for a few days because of his reno of his apartment. I also didn’t care he took up a lot of space and brought his dog, Minnie, over—she was at the doggy spa currently because she was nothing short of a princess. I didn’t care that he snored louder than a bear and I could hear it from my bedroom down the hall.
I didn’t care about all that because Dave was my best friend.
However, I did care about the judgment sparkling in his eyes. I didn’t have time for it.
I sat back in my chair at the breakfast table, glaring at him. “First of all, I’m not going there with you. My sex life is none of your business. Second of all—”
“Wrong, sweet lips. I’m your best friend. Of course your sex life is my business,” he said, cutting me off.
Here we go.
He wasn’t the only one of my friends concerned about my personal life. I hadn’t been on a date in two years and I hadn’t had sex in just over six. For the better part of those six years, I was wallowing in a deep depression. I’d let the only man I’d ever love go. Did it still hurt? Yes. Every time I thought about him, my chest ached—which was why I didn’t think about him, dating, relationships, or even sex. I pushed all that crap to the back of my mind so I could focus on the person I needed to be.
“What, you don’t have a snarky comeback for that?” Dave asked, raising a brow. His lips twitched like he was trying to hold back a victorious smile.
I gave him a fake smile in return. “What was the reason you couldn’t stay at your boyfriend’s house during this renovation again?” I asked sweetly.
Dave pushed his Clark Kent glasses up his nose before giving me his back as he opened my fridge. “We aren’t at the stage yet, Abbie,” he returned.
I sat back, my hands slipping into my lap as confusion slammed into me.
What the—what stage did you have to be at?
“Dave, you’ve been with him for almost a year,” I blurted.
“Three hundred sixty five days is not that long in the grand scheme of things,” he noted, turning back to face me—my leftovers from my favorite Italian place in hand. “If I plan on spending the rest of my life with Harris, I’m going to take my fucking time and make sure he isn’t a bad guy.”
I blinked. “You told me you loved him.”
That in and of itself was a huge deal. Dave never told anyone he loved them--not me, not his sister, hell, not even their parents. When I asked him about it, he told me that was just how he was “wired.” Of course, this was said after a night out on the town when we were both roaring drunk, so who knows if he actually meant it.
He opened the to-go box, taking a peek at my lasagna I’d planned on eating for dinner later. “Oh, I do, but I’m taking my time. I’ll be damned if I let my heart get broken again.” His eyes shot up to me, flashing with old, painful memories.
There was no one else in the world who could understand that kind of pain like I did.
“Dave,” I began gently, “Harris isn’t your ex.”
“I know that, but I’m not taking any chances. When the time is right, Harris and I will take the next step, but for now, it isn’t the right time,” he explained, his voice soft. I nodded, thinking the conversation was done and looked down to my keyboard.
“Abbie?” he called.
I guess we weren’t done . I lifted my head again, tipping my chin a bit, giving him the floor.
He sighed and ran a hand through his short brown hair. “I’m sorry for harping on you about your sex life. It’s just—it’s just that me and the others get worried about you when you’re like this.”
I didn’t have to ask him who the others were. I already knew. Since I moved to Denver for college, I’d made four friends in this city. Four friends who’d stuck by me through thick and thin. Four friends I would do anything for if they needed it. Four friends I considered family, since I no longer spoke to anyone blood related. Dave, Hannah, Becca, and Tim. They were my family.
“When I’m like what?” I asked, forcing my knee to stop bouncing. My anxiety could wait until after I finished this conversation.
Dave winced and set down the to-go box. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he tried to assure me.
Too late. My spine was straight, my teeth clenched. I was ready for his assessment, ready for him to tell me all things I was doing wrong in my life, like working too much, not sleeping enough, not eating enough…
I lifted my hand from my lap, palm up, to gesture to the space between us. “Go ahead, Dave. I know you want to. Say your piece,” I told him, keeping my voice level. I wasn’t angry at him. I could never be angry at him for caring, because that was what this was. He cared about me, and I was grateful for it. Sometimes, I needed him to put me in check, but other times, like right now, I didn’t need it. Still, I wasn’t going to stop him from saying what he needed to say.
He looked almost tortured as his eyes dropped down to my laptop, scanning over my supplies scattered across the table before rising them back up to my face. “Are you happy, Abbie?”
I opened my mouth to speak but was cut off. “I’m not talking about right now, in the moment. I’m talking about with your life, sweet lips. You busted your ass in college, sacrificed so much…” He trailed off, letting those words hit me like he knew they would.
I sacrificed everything in college. I kept my face as neutral as I could, waiting for him to continue. I wasn’t going to show any emotion, not now.
If I did, then my week would go to shit.
I couldn’t have that.
Dave cleared his throat. “You got a job at a shitty newspaper and worked three jobs just to make your half of the rent. You did that for years, Abbie. Then, you finally made it. You got your dream job at your dream newspaper, and don’t get me wrong, we are all happy for you. You’re making big moves…but we also never see you laugh anymore—or even smile.”
I opened my mouth to interject, but he cut me off yet again, pointing his finger at me. “I’m not talking about that fake ass smile you put on for the rest of the world. I’m talking about the smile that lights up your face, shows your pretty teeth, and leaves crinkles around your eyes. The smile that made you know who fall to his damn knees every single time he saw it.”
“I thought we weren’t talking about him anymore,” I said, my voice shaking slightly at the end.
“Did I get my point across or not?” he asked pointedly.
“If the point was to make sure I’m happy? Then yes.”
His closed his mouth, staring at me as I gestured to my computer. “I’m on a tight deadline right now, Dave. This week has been the week from hell, and no, it has nothing to do with you or anyone else,” I explained. “I promise you, I’m happy. I have everything I could ever want. I’m making decent money at my dream job and my side business is doing well. I have a beautiful home. I have amazing friends. Trust me: I’m happy, but I am also very stressed.”
“You promise?” he pressed.
He was going to make me repeat my words. I took a deep breath, nodding as I exhaled. “I promise.”
My best friend studied me for a few moments, and once he was satisfied, he nodded. “Alright.” He refocused his attention on my dinner, lifting the box again, and flicking the lid back.
I was silent for a moment, knowing if I didn’t say anything, he would eat it like the bear he is. “Hey, Dave?”
“Yeah?”
“Put my fucking lasagna down or Harris gets to pick out the flowers for your funeral,” I ordered.
Dave grinned and gave me an evil laugh, making a show of it like he was going to run off with my food. I shook my head, trying to keep the fear at bay. I knew he wouldn’t do that. When he was done with his game, he returned my dinner back to the fridge, chuckling a bit as he asked, “What’s your deal with not sharing food, babe?”
He knew the answer to that. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like talking anymore. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option as the shrill sound of my phone filled my ears, reminding me of the dreaded deadline I was on.
Dave glared at my phone vibrating on the table. “That your boss again?”
I nodded, picking it up. “Yeah, do you mind…” I trailed off, looking into the living room and leaving the rest of the suggestion in the air. Dave took the hint and once he was out of earshot, I put the phone to my ear.
“This is Abbie,” I answered evenly, bracing for the verbal beating I was about to receive.
“You’re late,” my boss, Mr. Grimsy, bit off, his words sharp.
“I know that, sir,” I said, not bothering to apologize. He wouldn’t accept it. “It will be in your inbox by midnight.”
“That’s all you got for me, Spears?” he quipped. “No excuses?”
“None that would be good enough for you, sir,” I said, returning my attention to the article I’d been drafting for the last hour. I should have been done with it, but the words weren’t sitting right and I’d scrapped the last four paragraphs. This was one of my many front page news pieces, and I needed to get it right.
My boss scoffed, and I could practically see him rolling his eyes as he stood up from his desk. “Humor me.”
“I needed another source. The secondary one I interviewed earlier this week didn’t pan out,” I explained, reading over the last paragraph I’d written. The feeling was there now. The words were doing their job.
“What do you mean ‘fell through’?”
“As in, the lead I was given was wrong. If we were to send this to print, it would lead to disaster. A child was murdered, sir. I’m going to make sure the story contains nothing but the truth.” My words came out firmer than I intended, heat rising in my cheeks. I was passionate about my job, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to publish a lie to sell newspapers. I wasn’t that kind of a journalist and I never would be, despite how the news industry as a whole was run.
Mr. Grimsy, a man who’d been at the Denver Tribune for over three decades, had started out just like me. Then, over the course of his career, he was given more money and power. Those two things were his only focus now. He could care less about the truth, but I’d done everything in my power to get the creative freedom he bestowed upon me two years ago.
He grunted, mumbling something under his breath. “Get it done.”
The line went dead, and I felt a bit of tension release from my shoulders. I rolled my neck, desperately wanting to let down my hair, pour myself a glass of wine, and forget this shitty week. Sighing, I got back to work, looking at my notepad as my fingers flew across the keyboard. I didn’t bothering calling for Dave. I needed to get this done.
This was the second article I’d been late on within the last month.
I was slipping.
That couldn’t happen.
It wouldn’t happen.
Thirty minutes flew by, and Dave came back into the kitchen, showered and changed.
“I peeked in your studio the first night I was here,” he admitted, breaking my concentration. My eyes flicked up to meet his over my laptop screen, and he gave me a soft smile. “You working a new piece?”
Aside from being a journalist, I was also a painter. I’d fallen in love with writing when I was young, using the back pages of my school notebooks to create my own world I would get lost in. Then, when I was in middle school, I’d fallen in love with painting when my art teacher, Ms. Carissa, taught me the basics. We never had the money to buy the supplies for painting, though, so until college, I did all my painting in the school art room. It was just a hobby until it wasn’t.
I sell about three to four paintings a year through my online gallery. Despite my pieces’ success, I still focused on journalism. It was my first dream, after all.
Clearing my throat, I answered him. “It’s a commission piece.”
Dave’s brows rose. “A commission piece? Holy shit. That’s big, Abbie.”
I could feel a small sense of pride blooming in my chest, but I shut it down quickly, nodding. “It’s from a previous customer. They wanted a matching piece to go with the first one they bought from me.”
“Which one was it?”
“The customer from Astoria.”
Recognition settled over his features. “Oh, the seagull piece. Yeah, I remember that one,” he said, smiling. “You painted that after our mini vacation three years ago.”
I blinked. “You remember that vacation?” I asked, raising a brow.
He’d gotten roaring drunk and crashed a wedding that trip.
The smile fell from his face, and he raised his hand, giving me the finger. “As a matter of fact, I do remember that trip,” he shot back.
My lips twitched. “Thank God for that,” I deadpanned.
He rolled his eyes and swiped his keys from the island, tucking them into his pocket as he said, “Harris and I are going to grab a bite to eat. Wanna join us?”
I shook my head. “I have leftovers. You two go. Enjoy your night.”
Silence fell between us, and the only thing that could be heard within my old, beautiful home was the clicks of my keyboard. Dave left me then, mumbling a goodbye, and when I heard the front door close behind him, my shoulders sagged.
As I typed out the final sentence of the article, proud of my work, all the things I’d tried shoving down during our conversation came bubbling up to the surface. I bent my head, closing my eyes, letting myself feel the pain for the first time in a long, long time.
All I saw was his face.
Handsome and chiseled with sun kissed skin, golden hair, and the prettiest blue eyes I’d ever seen.
Beau.
A deep sigh left me as I tilted my head back, the hot water hitting my aching scalp as the steam from the shower wrapped around me. The article was submitted, my eyes were red and puffy from my tears, but I was looking forward to finally getting some sleep tonight. Once I got back on my normal sleep schedule, the anxiety would weaken and the pain would fade.
I just had to get back into my routine. This week threw me off course.
Then, everything would be okay.
As I was shampooing my hair for the second time, I heard the front door open and shut.
I waited for Dave to call out for me, but he didn’t. He usually did.
Once I was done with the shower, I shut the water off and reached for my towel, expecting to hear him barge into my room like he had the last few nights. He didn’t.
Had he and Harris gotten into a fight or something? Did dinner not go well?
After I dried off, I pushed the glass door open, stepped out, and walked over to my sink. One of the many perks I enjoyed about this house was how big the master bath was. It was almost as big as the bedroom, and the walk-in shower was tiled with beautiful emerald green hexagons from the floor to the ceiling. I could live in that shower if I wanted to, and some days, I heavily contemplated it.
I let the towel fall from my body and reached over, grabbing my robe off the hook as I called out for him. “Dave? You home?”
Silence.
I chewed my bottom lip, waiting as the water from my hair soaked into the back of my robe.
This was weird—even for Dave.
So, I picked up my phone and sent him a quick text.
Me: Hey, are you okay? I heard you come in, but you didn’t say anything.
I waited for text bubbles to pop up on his side of the conversation thread, but they didn’t.
“Maybe he had a bad night,” I muttered, setting the phone down and resuming my routine.
It wouldn’t be until ten minutes later, after I’d done my skincare and begun blow drying my hair, that the realization hit me. And when it finally did, it was too late.
The heat of the blow dryer was on the side of my face as I hummed a soft tune. Suddenly, goosebumps scattered along the left side of my body, and I felt a chill in the room. Movement caught my eye to the left—in the doorway of the bathroom. I twisted my neck, eye wide as fear took over.
Nothing was there.
I fumbled with the hair dryer, shutting it off and placing it back on the counter. “Dave? Is that you?” I called out, not liking the silence of my house. I swiped up my phone, clutching it to my chest.
No answer.
The house was too quiet.
I sucked in a gasp.
Dave was supposed to pick up Minnie on his way home. When that dog gets in my house, she immediately comes looking for me. My chest began to heave as I stumbled back, staring at the darkened doorway of the bathroom, cursing myself for not turning on my bedside lamp before hopping in the shower.
My phone dinged in my hand, and then I was trembling as I turned it over, Dave’s text popping up in front of the group photo I’d set as my screen-saver months ago.
Dave: Abbie, I’m not home. Harris and I are still on the other side of town .
I heard a sound from somewhere in the house, and I whimpered, backing up against the wall as a secondary text popped up.
Dave: IS SOMEONE IN THE HOUSE WITH YOU?
Oh, God.
Oh, God.
Oh, G od.
He was here .
I heard another noise—this time on the inside of my bedroom, the familiar creak of the floor boards that only occurred when I walked around to my side of the bed.
He was by my bed.
My phone began ringing—it was Dave’s ring tone. I was paralyzed with fear, short pants coming from me now. I couldn’t even answer the phone. I couldn’t even run.
There was nothing I could do, because even if I did, he would find me. He always managed to find me when I was out in public. He’d even found my old, shitty apartment, but I’d thought—I’d hoped—-he would never find my house. I’d done all I could to keep my address private, away from my articles, from my job.
I’d gone so far as to get a digital address for my blog and my online gallery.
Another text came from Dave.
Dave: ABBIE?? Answer my call!
I heard my closet door open and close, followed by heavy, slow footsteps leading out of my room and down the hall before they pounded down the stairs. Seconds later, there was a loud bang—my front door slamming shut. A chilled quiet followed, and that’s when I broke.
My knees gave out, and I slid down the door, my body shaking as sobs left me. I pulled my knees up to my chest and buried my head in my arms, tears running freely down my cheeks now. Fear hovered over me like a vulture, waiting to feast on the pathetic mess I was.
My stalker was back, and this time, I knew he wouldn’t let me escape.