Chapter 31
31
M ACKENZIE
Mmm…
What a beautiful dream I just had.
Oh, my.
I can’t even… My body still grapples with the shudders.
Was it a dream?
My lips curl into a smile while my eyes stay closed.
Slowly, I pull the sheets up and cuddle against the pillows.
I’m still sleepy, unwilling to return to a not-so-great reality.
Yet, more and more, I start to remember things.
The awful experience from yesterday afternoon and the amazing dinner we had last night.
The sex we had.
The dream I had.
‘It wasn’t a dream,’ a little voice whispers in my head.
And as I finally open my eyes and look around I can’t not agree with it.
The memory comes back to me.
Him taking me from behind.
Me murmuring words.
I remember everything.
It was good.
It was so good.
Although he was in a rush.
He came. I didn’t.
Rolling to my back, I lift the sheets, the smell of his release drifting to my nostrils.
It wasn’t a dream.
It was him having me one last time before walking out.
My smile fades as my sheets fall over my body, and my eyes shift to the view outside.
Clouds resembling gigantic puffs of smoke wrap around the high risers.It’s a gray day, and everything is wrapped in sheets of ice.
A warm, mellow light glows around the bedroom while a fresh scent of aftershave floats in the air.
Saddened by his absence, I pull upright and glance around.The longer I linger here, the more downcast I’ll become, so I better move.
There’s no point in grieving or feeling bereft.
I need to get home and start to focus on my life.
My problems are still there, patiently awaiting me.
Wrapping a crisp sheet around my chest, I try to locate my clothes. He picked them up and put them on the chair last night.
As moody and eager to leave as I am, I still stroll to the patio doors and peek outside.
More sullen by the second, I spin around and almost topple over the glasses of Champagne perked on the window sill.
My first instinct is to pick them up and take them to the kitchen.
I’d need to find the kitchen first, but then I change my mind and leave them there––the quiet witnesses of a night that has forever pulled away from us.
Refusing to think about him any longer, I exit the bedroom and enter the bathroom.
Fit for a queen, it has large marble floors and a shower booth that stretches from side to side. Mirrors, a pair of sinks, and a vanity on one side.
I notice the bathtub, and normally, that would be my first choice, but there’s no time for that.
No more time spent musing over things that momentarily can’t happen.
No more torturing myself.
I shed the sheet and enter the shower.
The aroma of his aftershave is everywhere.
Cloying the air.
Kissing my lips.
As I let the water stream slide over me, I imagine him standing in the same spot, naked, thinking about me.
Or maybe pondering his schedule.
This must be a special trip if he’s planned it for January 1st.
Perhaps it’s an emergency. I hope not––the thought gives me a shiver.
Later, I walk out of the shower, run a towel over my body, and naked, I go back to the room.
I toss on my clothes, and alldressed up, I enter the bathroom one more time, trying to ignore the marble pattern, the exquisite lighting, and expensive mirror frames.
It takes me a few minutes to brush my hair and put on some lipgloss and mascara.
There is no tour of the house, no nostalgic contemplating of this architectural marvel.
Not even a quick stop at the dining table to grab a bite before finding a cab and heading home.
There is none of that.
I exit his place dressed up in indifference as if it means nothing to me.
My expectations of being greeted in the lobby are dashed as the doorman is no longer there, and no one else crosses paths with me.
Hugging my coat closer, I exit the building and step on the sidewalk. I walk for a good ten minutes before I finally find a cab.
The driver and I exchange a few words as I get settled in my seat, and then all my focus is on what I need to do once I get back.
Tidy up my place, charge my phone, and call Kayla.
Twenty minutes later, the driver pulls the car to a stop, and I settle the fare and walk out.
There’s not a soul in sight.
Not even in the distance.
I check the road one more time, glance up, and eventually enter the building.
My trip up is uneventful.
I unlock the door to my apartment, and the familiar view of my living room enters my line of sight.
It’s like I’ve been gone for a month.
I still like the layout, the Christmas tree, and the velvet pillows on the couch. Although coming from his place, my space looks surreal.
I shed my clothes and heels in the bedroom and slide on some normal clothes––sweatpants and a T-shirt––before heading to the kitchen when something catches my eye.
Two things, actually.
The kitchen towel sits on the counter next to the oven, and I never put it there.
What?
Did I do that last night when I was trying to find something to wear?
No. I wasn’t even in the kitchen.I’d spent most of my time in the closet, looking for clothes.
Then why is the kitchen towel over there?
I pick it up and slide it into the top drawer. That’s where it sits most of the time. I only take it out when I’m cooking.
That hasn’t happened in days.
A strange feeling barrels through me.
So, instead of setting the machine for a cup of coffee, I walk around the kitchen inspecting everything.
All the other stuff seems to be where I left it.
I open the drawers and the cupboards.
Then I check the oven.
Nothing out of the ordinary catches my attention.
I’m getting paranoid for nothing.I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for the misplaced kitchen towel.
Maybe I pulled it out and left it on the counter when I was still shaken up from what had happened in the street.
Who knows?
Sometimes, I need to check the door a couple of times because I can’t snap out of my head and focus on the task at hand.
Still...
I leave the kitchen and walk around my place. I check the bedroom next. The bed is made, and the pillows are where I put them.
They might not look as plump as they were when I left, and there is a crease here and there from sagging, but that happens in time.
The closet seems all right. Although, one of my shoes is toppled over. That can happen, too.
Even though I don’t remember doing that myself.
Again, my focus wasn’t exactly laser sharp last night.
Slightly relieved, I walk out and move to the living room. The door to the balcony slides open under my tense hand.
The snow is intact.
There are no signs of intruders.
If someone from upstairs wanted to break into my apartment, the balcony would be their best bet.
I slide the door closed and return to the living room, searching for the remote.I find it on the couch, where it usually sits.Sigh of relief.
With that being said, suspecting that someone entered my place is not exactly a good sign or speaks positively about my mental health.
But considering that someone wanted to put me out last night, I think I’m doing pretty well.
I wonder if Callan’s men are still outside, keeping an eye on me. I walk to the windows and check the street.
If they’re there, they’re not visible.
Sighing again, I turn the Christmas lights on to enliven the room and push back my crazy thoughts before returning to the kitchen and brewing a fresh pot of coffee.
Hot drink in hand, I return to the living room and slide into an armchair next to the window.
The first sip sends a jolt of awareness through my body, sharpening my focus.
Taking another drink, I stare out the window as if the only thing I need to do today is watch the world go by.
Nothing much happens before I realize I need to charge my phone.
I slide my cup of java onto the sill and walk back to the hallway, grab my bag, and fish my phone out before letting it charge in the kitchen.
I start to turn around and stop as a distant sound travels from outside.
That’s interesting.
I haven’t heard sirens blaring in a while.
My phone comes to life, and I check the time on the screen.
It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.
And today is January 1st.
That’s odd.
I thought everybody was taking it easy today, criminals included.
The piercing sound amplifies and trails closer, so I walk into the other room, move to the window, and look outside.
My pulse quickens, which is not surprising under the circumstances.
Strange thoughts swirl in my head, and a foreboding sensation sweeps through me.
This can’t be about me?
Is it about him?
Is his leaving early connected to this?
What about having sex with me before he left? Did that have a special meaning? I so hope not.
The more I think about it, the stranger my thoughts become and the more sickening the sensation in my body.
The increasingly loud noise inches closer, and I feel ill.
With nowhere to go, I'm getting used to the idea that this might be the twist in our story I didn’t see coming.
I put so much trust in him, but do I really know him?
He’s told me bits and pieces about himself, enough to tether me to him, but who is he in reality?
We all have a dark side we don’t want to reveal out of fear that no one would like us if they knew the truth.
Secrets that can never see the light of day, or they’ll ruin everything.
What was I to him?
Was it only about having fun?
Why not?
People have fun in the most awkward situations, and they often bend reality to make it happen.
What if we are those people?
Breathless, I sag in my chair and wrap my fingers around my still warm coffee, waiting for life to deliver one of the most painful blows. A harsh lesson.
Betrayal by the man I trust.
What if I trusted the wrong man?
Three cars pull up in front of our building. One is unmarked.
The fourth one joins them soon after, and armed men flood the street.
All that for me?
Shouldn’t it be an investigation first? And wasn’t I the victim yesterday afternoon? What about my rights?
I wish I could call someone.
Kayla? Or her parents, perhaps?
Although, frankly, I might need a lawyer.
When I was little, if anything dangerous came my way, I’d shrug my shoulders and close my eyes as if that magically protected me.
I’m tempted to do that now, although I can’t close my eyes or cover my ears as heavy footsteps stomp up the stairs.
I’m fucked.
Goodbye, humble, sweet life.
I won’t see Kayla again.
Forget about getting a job and spending my nights in my apartment.
My thoughts spin waywardly as I barely breathe, counting the moments to the sharp knock on the door that is supposed to come.
The noise reaches my floor, and I finally close my eyes, put a hand to my forehead, and wait.
Facing these things alone and not knowing what to expect is beyond rattling.
As the seconds tick away, I wonder whether they’ve walked onto the wrong floor and are looking for me in the building. And then I hear them knocking on someone else’s door and barking orders.
My eyes snap open, and I glance at my entrance before I see the wall shaking.
Loud voices thunder upstairs.
What??
I rise from my seat and look up.
With a little help from the thin walls that can’t keep a secret, I might catch some words.
There’s no time to do that as some sort of altercation ensues upstairs, and the cops threaten to shoot.
Shit, where do I go?
I shouldn’t just stand just below Carmen’s living room.
A body hits the floor, and another one seems to crash against the wall.
I slowly come into myself, and now I’m more concerned with what happens upstairs and whether Callan should know about it.I might need to search for him or talk to Beverly.
I retreat next to the window and secretly look outside.
The lights flicker red and blue across the snow while a few bystanders have lined up to watch the scene.
I don’t know how long it takes.
To me, it feels like an eternity before the cops exit the building with Carmen, her husband, the tattooed jerk, and the two other men I’ve seen before in shackles.
My mouth falls open as I look at them.
Have they all lived upstairs? What were they doing in Carmen’s apartment?
I’ll be damned. I should consider myself lucky that they’re the ones going away.
I crash into my armchair, watching them vanish in the cops’ cars, and before long, the vehicles move away, and my fear that someone might still come after me finally fades away.