Chapter Three
Ryker
Ryker was running as fast as he could.
He couldn’t see his attacker, but he could
hear their heavy breathing and pounding footsteps behind him.
Suddenly, a large hand grabbed his arm. Ryker couldn’t get loose—he
was caught, trapped—
No, not again, let go! Stop!
He opened his eyes to find his dog, Spock,
by the side of his bed, his wet nose nuzzling Ryker’s palm. It’s
okay. I’m okay, he said to himself. It was just another
nightmare.
Would he ever stop having them? How many
years would it take?
These thoughts sent his body into a total
spiral. Sweat covered his skin. His heart pounded. His ears filled
with a high-pitched buzzing noise, and his airway felt constricted.
Pain radiated from his chest into his back. He reared up out of his
king-sized bed, threw off the navy duvet, and turned on the bedside
lamp, reaching for his glasses. He glanced at his phone: two
forty-six AM.
Get up. Get up, he repeated to
himself. Get moving. It’s not a heart attack. It’s just
anxiety. Move. Don’t think, move.
Throwing on black lounge pants, he rushed
into his living room and turned on every light, his fear slowly
ebbing. He made his way over to the large oak desk by the window,
the one that looked out over Central Park, and logged onto his
laptop. Spock quietly followed him and lay down on top of his feet,
offering comfort to his human.
Ryker then did the only thing that kept him
sane and grounded no matter what happened in his life—he wrote.
In the middle of the night, it didn’t really
matter if the words were novel-worthy. Getting lost in his
imagination helped exorcise his thoughts. Invested in his
characters and their stories, he forgot about his own problems for
a little while.
He stopped momentarily and rubbed the lava
rock bracelets on his left wrist, counting each bead to distract
his mind and bring his heart back to a normal rhythm. People often
told him the bracelets were a cool fashion statement, and he didn’t
care to correct them. Counting items was one of several coping
mechanisms Ryker had learned during therapy to help bring calm.
Anything to bring calm.
A short while later, he could feel his body
slowly normalizing, his heart rate now at an easy pace and his
breathing slower and deeper. Ryker continued to work, getting lost
in his creativity, letting the story take him wherever it needed to
go. Time passed quickly when he got caught up in his writing, and
when he next glanced at his phone, it was four thirty-four AM.
“Okay, Spock, time to close up shop and try
to go back to sleep.” He closed his laptop and motioned to his dog,
and they sauntered off down the hallway. Snuggling back under the
covers in his bed, Ryker rubbed his tired eyes and turned on his
sleep app. Twenty minutes later, the room was filled with human
snores and animal rumbles.
****
It seemed like he had fallen asleep only a
second ago when the sound of his phone ringing woke him at eleven
AM. Cal.
Mac, Cal, and Ryker had been friends for
almost two decades. Ryker was the moody introvert, Mac the
persuasive dealmaker, and Cal was the life of the party. He was a
successful artist and one of the kindest people Ryker had ever met,
and his unfiltered mouth was hilarious and sometimes frightening in
its honesty. You were always in for an interesting time with
Cal.
“Hey, trouble. What’s up?” Ryker asked in
his sleepy voice.
“My dick, for a good four hours. Man, those
erectile medications aren’t kidding! ‘Don’t take more than the
recommended dose’—good advice for you, my friend. Thought
I’d have to head over to the ER if I didn’t calm down soon.” He
laughed.
Ryker rolled his eyes and sat up in bed.
“Very funny, like you need sex meds. So, what’s going on? How are
you?”
“I’m good. Busy finishing up a commissioned
piece, then I have another one to get started. And I’ll be working
on a new series for the exhibit in December. Other than that, the
usual antics. A hot man here, a gorgeous woman there, a threesome
if they ask nicely. Oh, and I’m looking forward to Mac’s party
Saturday night. Hopefully, there’ll be some pretty people for me to
have some sexy fun with.” Cal paused, and the lighthearted tone of
his voice suddenly changed. “Anyway, besides saying hi, there was a
specific reason that I called you.”
“Sure, what’s on your mind?”
“Hmm, so,” Cal continued, “I’ve received
these text messages over the past month that are kinda creepy, and
I wanted your opinion.”
“What do you mean?” Ryker asked, his body
tensing. “Creepy as in weird texts from someone you know, or creepy
from an unknown number?”
Cal paused before he answered. “The latter.
The messages tell me that I’m behaving like a whore. I’m cheating
on ‘my soulmate,’ and I should be punished for my sins. Shit like
that. It’s crazy talk, obviously, given that I’m not married or in
a relationship and the very idea of having a soulmate gives me a
rash. I thought the first one was a sick joke. I blocked the
number, but similar messages keep appearing from two different
numbers. They all repeat the same story: I’m cheating and I’m going
to be punished. I assume this is just a weird joke, but I’m getting
a bit freaked out. What should I do, Ry?”
Ryker’s short stint covering the crime beat
in New York City had led him to several horrible scenes he would
rather forget, but it had also given him insight and made him
particularly aware of personal safety.
“Things like this can escalate quickly if
you don’t take them seriously,” he said. “If you receive another
weird text, tempted as you may be to delete it, don’t. A phone call
from an unknown number, record it. If a physical threat is made, go
to the police. Log everything.” Ryker paused. “And make sure the
security settings on your devices and at your home are updated.
Don’t treat this as a prank until it’s proven otherwise. It could
be a sick joke, and let’s hope it’s just that, but you need to be
proactive.”
Ryker heard Cal’s sudden intake of breath on
the other end of the line and sought to reassure his friend.
“Hey, Mac and I are here, and we’d do
anything for you. You know that, right? Just keep us in the loop.”
Ryker got up and stared out his window. “Maybe you can join me at
my Krav Maga class on Friday. It never hurts to brush up on
self-defense in this city.”
“Thanks, Ry, I appreciate your advice. I
hope I didn’t upset you, but I didn’t know who else to ask, and I
didn’t want to tell Mac. Not yet. You know how protective he gets.
I’m sure it’s just a prank, but the last text kinda freaked me out
a bit.”
Cal was such a happy, carefree person so for
him to admit he was scared was something.
“You can tell me anything. You know that,”
Ryker said. “Say, do you want to meet up for lunch or
something?”
“Thanks, but I’m not leaving my place until
I finish this piece, and then I have to contact the gallery. Let’s
share a ride to Mac’s tomorrow, okay? I’ll arrange it and text you
the info in the aft.”
“Sounds good. You sure you’re okay?” Ryker
asked again.
“I’m fine, bud. I feel better now that we’ve
talked. Later, gator.” Cal ended the call on a lighter note.
Ryker sent a quick text to Mac, letting him
know they needed to talk privately Saturday night. His nervousness
about the party vanished, replaced with a very deep and real
concern over Cal’s safety. He hoped the texts were a prank, but
Ryker didn’t want Cal to take any chances.
Ryker’s phone buzzed with notifications from
his editor, and he focused on work, pushing everything else out of
his mind. Writing kept him grounded, no matter what.
He tried to imagine what a partner might do
to his routine, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.