4. Chapter Three #2
“You mean not armed? Or not crazy?”
He shrugs. “Both. Or maybe you’re right. Maybe you would have handled it.” The car moves smoothly through a yellow light, barely slowing. “I just prefer certainty.”
I’m starting to realize that everything with him is about certainty. About eliminating variables.
I look at his profile, the slope of his cheekbones, the planes of his mouth.
He’s hot as fuck with the military cut, but part of me wonders what he’d look like with it grown out.
Up close I can see the tattoos he has, peaking through the parts of his shirt that don’t cover his skin.
He’s muscular, sexy and tall. He’s also very clearly deranged.
Not unlike me, though, I suppose. I wonder how many lives he’s taken. I wonder if he’s keeping count.
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately. The silence draws out until I am tempted to repeat myself, but I hold.
Finally, he says, “You’re not like the others.”
I snort. “Like I haven’t heard that before. It’s lazy. Be more original.”
He glances over. “I’m not in the business of originality. I’m in the business of accuracy.”
“And what have you so accurately deduced about me?”
“That you enjoy the attention.” His tone is gentle, almost patronizing. “That you need someone to witness you.”
“I’m not a fucking exhibitionist,” I say, but the words fall flat.
He cocks his head, like he’s considering a particularly challenging diagnosis. “No, you’re not. Just for me. Somehow you want to be seen, but not as you present yourself to be. But you do crave clarity. You want someone to see you exactly as you are and not flinch. Most people look away.”
He’s not wrong. I hate him for it.
The car slows at a red light. He looks at me directly now, eyes boring through the dark. “Why do you do it?” he asks. “Why surgery? Why hearts?”
“Because it’s the only thing that matters,” I say, without thinking.
He nods, as if that is the answer he expected. “You like the responsibility. The control.”
“So do you.”
The light turns green. He accelerates, the engine purring. “I prefer control to chaos,” he admits. “Chaos is inefficient. It breeds error.”
“And you don’t make errors?” I ask, a little sharper than intended.
He smiles, small and private. “Not if I can help it.”
There is a charge in the air, something heavy and hot, but neither of us acknowledges it. Instead, we talk in circles, each statement a move on an invisible chessboard.
The city outside is empty, glass and steel and neon, a perfect vacuum for all our words to ricochet off.
“I don’t need protection,” I say, softer now.
He parks the car. We’re in an underground garage, different from the one before but essentially the same: concrete, fluorescent lights, the persistent smell of exhaust. He cuts the engine.
He turns to me, expression as unreadable as always.
“Everyone needs protection,” he says. “Some just don’t know it.”
I want to argue. I want to say that he’s wrong, that I have spent my whole life protecting myself, but the words won’t come. Instead, I sit, silent, and let him win the round.
He gets out, walks around to open my door. He offers a hand. I don’t take it, but I do stand.
The space between us is electric. He’s tall and I have to crane my neck to look him in the face with how close he stands to me. The logical part of me says to run, to get him to take me home, but for whatever reason, I’m choosing danger. I want to see what he does.
He intrigues me.
We walk together through a side entrance, up a service elevator that requires two separate print panels Each time, he is careful not to touch me, but I feel his attention under my skin. It’s crawling. Alive.
When we reach his floor, he gestures me out first. I step into a corridor that is all marble and glass, the silence absolute.
At the door to his apartment, he pauses. “I won’t hurt you,” he says, and I almost laugh, because it is such an obvious lie. He will hurt me, but the real question is how. Will he make it hurt so good that my own demons can come out to play? Or will he be just another disappointing fuck.
He unlocks the door, ushers me inside, and closes it behind us.
The apartment is, predictably, immaculate. Everything is squared, leveled, curated. There is no clutter. Not even a trace of human life, except for the faint, persistent scent of citrus and coffee.
He sets his keys on the console, takes off his jacket, and turns to face me. “Drink?”
I shake my head, unwilling to let anything dull my wits. “Why am I here?” I ask.
He leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “I wanted to see if you’d come. If you’d trust me enough to get in the car.”
“And if I hadn’t?”
He shrugs. “I’d have found another way.”
There is a dark amusement in his eyes. I don’t like how much it excites me.
I walk a slow circle around the living room, taking in the space. “You’re not what I expected,” I say.
“And what did you expect?”
“More monster, less man,” I admit.
He tilts his head. “That distinction is overrated. Besides, how do you know they’re not one in the same?”
I don’t answer because he’s right. The way his eyes pin me in place show me his intentions. He wasn’t expecting my own desires to be reflected back.
We are standing on opposite sides of the room, but it feels like we are inches apart. The tension is almost painful, an ache in my chest that refuses to dissipate.
Finally, my legs work, and I sit on the edge of his immaculate sofa, crossing my ankles. I look up at him. “Are you going to try to fuck me?” I ask, blunt.
The chuckle that rumbles out of him would have lesser women on their knees. “Would you like that?”
I shake my head, but the denial feels weak.
He pushes off the counter, walks over, and sits beside me. Not too close, but not far enough.
He looks at me, and I feel the full force of his attention, like a knife pressed against the hollow of my throat.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he says.
I meet his gaze. “No. I think I should be, but I’m not.”
He nods, as if he expected my answer.
“Good,” he says, and leans back, stretching out his long legs.
We sit in silence, the tension settling between us like dust.
I look around the room, at the sleek shelves lined with books, the boring art on the walls, the way every object seems to vibrate with potential energy.
He’s watching me, I know. He is always watching.
“Are you going to let me go home?” I ask.
He looks over, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Do you want to go?”
I consider it. I think about the empty condo, the blinking blue light of the security panel, the endless echo of my own thoughts.
“No,” I say, surprising us both.
He smiles, small and satisfied.
“Then stay.”
And against my better judgement, I do.
He’ll just be watching me if I go home anyway. At least this way…
I can watch him too.