7. Chapter 7
Chapter seven
J essica
The pounding on my front door blends into the pounding of my feet on pavement in my dream. Dream me is running, chasing something or someone. I can’t make out what lies before me, but I stretch my hand toward it as I race forward.
“Jessica!” slurs a voice loudly, followed by knocking.
I lift my head and blink the bleariness out of my vision. “Wh—what?” My bedside clock says it’s only 10:00 p.m. I must have dozed off while reading my romance book.
“Let me in!” The double chain locks I have installed on my front door clink together.
I recognize the voice now.
It’s Brad.
Drunk and angry from the sound of it.
“Please, I just want to talk to you,” he cajoles.
I throw off my blankets with an annoyed sigh and pad toward the front door. I’ve reached the living room when something slams into the door, making it rattle.
“Let me in, you bitch!”
I freeze at the hatred in those words.
Behind me, back in the bedroom, my phone rings.
Shit!
I rush back to silence it, but it’s too late.
“I know you’re in there, you whore! I hear your phone.” The pounding on my door intensifies like he’s kicking it.
My heart hammers nervously in my chest. Alarm bells chime in my mind.
I can’t let him in. If I do, something terrible is going to happen. I just know it.
In my haste, I barely notice that I’ve picked up my phone and answered it.
“Hello?” A deep voice faintly emanates from the speaker. “Jessica?”
The screen reads Dr. West.
Double shit!
Of course, he would call me now of all times.
I hurry into the bathroom and shut the door, but it’s no use. I can still hear the commotion Brad is making. At this rate, I’ll have to call the police. What a mess that’ll be.
Flashing lights. Filing reports. All the neighbors gossiping behind my back.
“Hello? Are you there?” says my phone.
I put it to my ear and whisper, “Hey, I can’t talk right now.”
Before I hang up, Dr. West interjects, “Listen, if this is about last time, I can explain.”
“No, no. It’s not that,” I whisper, ignoring the creak of wood from my living room. If I don’t hurry, Brad’s going to break down the door.
“What then? Why are you whispering?” he demands. I don’t have to see his face to know he’s scowling.
“Jessica!” Brad bellows so loudly I hear it through the bathroom door.
“What’s that racket?” asks Dr. West. “What’s going on?”
“It’s my neighbor, Brad,” I admit as I peek around the door frame and peer down the hallway. “He’s drunk and trying to get into my place.”
“What!?” Dr. West exclaims.
“I think I need to call the police, but I don’t really want to,” I babble. “What if it causes a big scene, and the school finds out? If they think I’m involved in something unsavory, they might fire me.” Saying it out loud pierces through the denial that was keeping me calm. I’m in trouble, and the reality of it brings a choked sob up my throat. Tears prick the corners of my eyes.
“I’m going to kill you, you stuck-up bitch!” screams Brad, so loudly that even Dr. West must hear it.
In an eerily calm voice, Dr. West says, “Jessica, I want you to go into your bathroom and lock the door. Stay in there, no matter what you hear, until I call you.” There’s rustling sounds, and I can tell he’s on the move. “What apartment does Brad live in? What number?”
“A13. It’s downstairs,” I reply, sniffling. Tears leak from my eyes and race down my cheeks. “I’m scared.”
“I know you are, but don’t worry. I’m on my way. Everything’s going to be just fine.”
I heave a shuddering sob. “Hurry, please.”
“I will. Be my brave girl now and lock the door. Okay?”
I do as he asks and shut myself in the bathroom. After I hang up, I crawl into the cold porcelain bathtub and pull the shower curtain closed. The flimsy fabric wouldn’t stop Brad for a second, but it hides me, gives me a false sense of security.
Brad continues to rant and rave outside. He sounds unhinged, like he’s lost his mind.
Terror claws the pit of my stomach. My imagination supplies every horrific scenario that might happen if Brad reaches me. Throat tight, I bury my face in my crossed arms and cry.
Adam
I floor the gas, the needle climbing past one hundred, but I barely notice. Jessica’s whispered, terror-stricken voice plays on a loop in my mind, each word slicing through me like a blade. Fifteen minutes. That’s all that separates her apartment from my condo, but it feels like an eternity—a torturous stretch of time where anything could happen to her.
A dark, all-consuming need grips me to protect her, shield her, and destroy anyone who dares to harm her. No one will touch her. Not while I’m breathing.
God knows, I’ve been there—cornered, broken, betrayed. I know the hollow ache of fear, the scars it leaves. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she never feels that pain.
Knuckles white, I clench the steering wheel and fly through the last red light, narrowly avoiding a honking truck. My wheels squeal on the pavement as I slide into a parking space in Jessica’s lot.
Brad’s hollering penetrates my car before I even have a chance to step out of it. Rage colors my vision red when I see him angrily hammering on her door with both fists. I check for security cameras as I walk up. Of course, there aren’t any. In my neighborhood, if something like this happened, the perpetrator would be filmed from five different angles and the police would arrive within minutes.
Not here, though. This asshole has been making a ruckus for over twenty minutes and not a single person has stuck their head out to see what’s going on. No one’s offered to help. There’s fear here. People cowering behind closed doors, just glad it’s not happening to them.
I hate it.
Hate that this is where she lives.
The lack of cameras is in my favor now. No one to watch how I’m going to deal with this guy.
A grim smile touches my lips.
Brad’s so focused on reaching Jessica that he doesn’t hear me come up behind him. I grab him by the back of his collar and haul him away, like an errant schoolboy about to be taken to the principal’s office. He sputters, swiping behind him with ineffectual punches that I dodge easily.
I drag him down the stairs, not caring when he trips over his own feet and falls on the last two steps, scraping his knees. His door is easy to find. A13. It stands wide open like he was in such a rush that he forgot to close it. My nose wrinkles when I enter his living room and slam the door closed behind us. The source of the rotten smell is obvious. There are old half-eaten take-out containers and empty vodka bottles everywhere.
Looks like Brad went on quite the bender.
I toss him onto his couch, where he slumps to the side and stares at me with red-rimmed eyes. Bending, I crouch in front of him. I keep my hands loose and balanced on my knees, ready to grab if he makes a run for it. He’s got frat-boy good looks, but the kind that’re fading. Hair going thin at his temples. Stomach bulging from one too many keggers.
This close I notice his dilated pupils and the erratic way he breathes. I frown, leaning forward for a better look, but the signs are unmistakable. This man isn’t just drunk. He’s high and not from weed. He’s hopped up, cocaine or methamphetamine or maybe both.
Jesus .
He’s even more dangerous than I thought. The idea that this lunatic might have broken into Jessica’s apartment makes me furious. I have no illusions about what he would have done to her.
“Who’re you?” he slurs, eyes shifting from side to side like he can’t focus on one thing at a time. “Do ya know Jessica? That whore. Thinks she’s so great. Are you fucking that slut? She—”
Whatever he was about to say is lost to the crunch of his nose as I break it. My fist slams into his face quicker than a lightning strike. Blood gushes down his chin, staining his shirt and the dirty couch cushions.
I grin wickedly at the gruesome sight. I used to get into fights all the time, back when I was a kid and a teenager. I miss it sometimes.
The copper smell of blood. The grunts of pain. The tears.
“Gah!” he exclaims and raises his hands to ward me off, but there’s no stopping me now.
I punch him again, holding nothing back. “Do you like it?” I rain blows down on his upper body, thrilling with each thud and gasp. “Hurting women?” Another crack. This time a rib buckles under my fist. “Does it make you feel like more of a man? Messing with people smaller than you? Weaker?” His head rockets to the left when I hit him in the temple. I follow up with a punch from the right.
In a distant part of my memory, there’s the echo of mocking laughter. The flush of the toilet. Water flooding into my lungs. I’m dying. Drowning. Fury grips me. My vision tunnels down to the sight of my hands hitting his bloodied and battered face. Over and over. Another bone breaks, and it feels so fucking good. Like salvation. Vindication.
This goes on for so long that Brad passes out. I get a glass of cold water from the kitchen and pour it over him. He wakes up and gapes at me, blinking stupidly.
“Oh no,” I tell him with a grin. “I’m not done with you.” His head lolls forward. I grab him by the hair and hold him up so I can stare into his rolling eyes.
“I bring life into this world every day, and I can take it out just as easily.” I give his head a shake. “What do you know about potassium, Brad?”
“Huh?” he mumbles, incoherent.
“Potassium,” I repeat pleasantly. I’m calming down now. A plan is forming, rearranging its pieces as I think through each step. “It’s a very important nutrient,” I inform him, nodding wisely. “The heart in particular needs potassium to function properly. Too much or too little and it stops beating.”
“Glurb,” he mumbles.
I might have broken his jaw.
“ I have access to potassium.” I jerk his head back, making his teeth rattle. “Someday I’ll inject you with a small dose. It won’t take much to kill you.” I sing out the last part, cheery at the thought of ending his miserable life. “I’d do it now, but the police would blame Jessica. Everyone heard you out there.”
I rub my chin, musing if there’s any way I can kill him now. I’ve never murdered anyone before, but I’m not opposed to it. Not when it comes to this piece of shit. Finally, I drop my hand with a sigh and tell him, “It’s okay, though. I’m a patient man. I’ll wait until you least expect it.”
Getting beaten has sobered him. Brad’s eyes go wide with understanding.
I lean closer and wince at his putrid breath.
Deadly serious, I say, “You’ll never see me coming.”
Jessica
I’m not sure how long I sit in the cold, hard bathtub and bawl, but I’ve just stopped crying when my phone rings next to me. I’ve put it down, and it stutters across the porcelain as it vibrates, chiming loudly.
“Let me in,” Dr. West says when I pick up.
Silence outside. I open the front door a crack and peek out. He stands on my doorstep with his hands in his pockets, like it’s a normal night and he’s here to pick me up for a date.
Except he’s not normal…and he doesn’t date.
He gives me a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. Brad’s gone.”
I let Dr. West into my apartment. The room is dark. It’s midnight now. With a click, I turn on the small lamp on my end table. It lights with a soft, golden glow. Cautious, my nerves still jangling, I return to him.
“What happened?”
Dr. West doesn’t answer. He pushes past me and heads to my bedroom. Once there, he opens the top drawer in my dresser and pulls out stacks of my underwear, bras, and socks, flinging them onto the bed.
“Get your suitcase,” he tells me. “Pack as much as you can.”
“Wh—what?”
“Start packing. Bring what we can carry. I’ll send for the rest later.”
I stare, mortified at my lingerie in his hands. He’s looking at me with impatience, waiting for me to follow his instructions.
“What are you talking about?” I sputter. “What happened?” I hurry after him. Taking my panties from him, I shove them back into the drawer.
Immediately, he gets them out again and adds them to the growing pile on the bed. “You’re leaving this hellhole.”
“I can’t leave. I don’t have anywhere to go. My parents are gone, my family’s too far away, and my friends—” My voice breaks. “They have their own lives.” I snatch the underwear from the bed. My movements frantic, I cram it into the drawer, not caring that it’s a wrinkled jumble now.
I’m frightened, angry, and overwhelmed. It crashes into me like a tidal wave, how close I came to disaster with Brad. My shoulders hitch with a sob. Embarrassed, I bury my face in my hands to hide my tears. Strong hands grip my arms and pull me forward until I stumble into Dr. West’s arms. He cushions my head on his chest and rocks slightly, making soothing noises as I cry big, shuddering sobs.
“You can’t stay here.” His breath is warm against my hair. “There’s nothing stopping Brad from coming back tomorrow or the day after that. You’re not safe.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” I repeat in a whisper, my voice breaking.
“Yes, you do,” he says, his voice firm. “With me.”
I stiffen, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I barely know you.”
“You know me better than you think,” he counters. His gaze is steady, unwavering. “At least come for one night—or two. Just until we figure something else out. I won’t let anything happen to you. You’ll be safe with me. I promise.”
I search his face for any sign of hesitation, any hint that this is a mistake, but all I see is certainty.
And yet, I pause. “I don’t know…”
“It’s late,” he says gently but firmly. “You’re exhausted, and you’ve been through hell. Let me take care of you, just for now.”
I exhale shakily, the weight of his words sinking in. He’s right. I can’t stay here. Not after what happened. But going with him feels terrifying in a completely different way.
“Okay,” I murmur, the word barely audible.
“Good,” he says, stepping back. He resumes his methodical packing.
My shoulders slump in defeat. I fetch my dusty suitcase from under the bed. It belonged to my parents. They loved to travel, mostly road trips around the United States since we didn’t have a lot of money. We’d pack up the car and go, sometimes without a clear destination. Just roamed around, wherever the wind took us.
We had a tradition of getting a sticker from every place we visited. At the end of the trip, we’d slap the stickers onto the suitcase until its sides were covered in them. I run my finger over an image of a colorful beach, the sun setting into the ocean like a flame about to be extinguished. I haven’t gone anywhere since they died. Too busy and too poor. It’s ironic that this is the first time I’ve left home in years. Not to travel the world but to run away. To escape.
We work together in silence. Dr. West hands me items, which I neatly fold and pack. Soon, the suitcase and another bag bulge with my things. He takes one in each hand and asks, “Are you ready?”
No , I think. I’m not.
I swallow hard, forcing air into my lungs and reach for a strength I’m not sure I have. “Yes,” I whisper at last, my voice steadier than I feel.
And with that, I follow him out the door.