Chapter 4
FOUR
KIRA
“You’ve got a fiancé?” he asks as he follows on my heels through the double doors of the Adolphus.
Thirty-sex. Thirty-sex. Thirty-sex. I swear I heard him say thirty-sex.
Shut up , stupid brain!
I stalk to the desk, reaching into my purse for my wallet. It’s almost midnight, and I’m exhausted.
“Yes,” I hiss, “and I’ve got a big engagement party on Friday that I’m supposed to be getting my beauty sleep for all week. Now, hush.”
“Damn, woman,” he says, annoyingly able to keep up with his stupid long legs as I all but sprint toward the concierge. “I’m definitely not as evolved as you. But I do have to say I like your style. This place is great.”
I glance around in irritation at all the gleaming wood paneling on the walls and the heavy carpet. Ugh. This place is awful. It’s meant for the old-school Texans to feel at home when they visit Dallas, so of course Isaak loves it.
I ignore him and address the night concierge. “Hi. I need a room. Two rooms.”
“Adjoining rooms,” Isaak says, coming up beside me and putting an arm around my shoulder. I shrug him off and glare at him, then roll my eyes but acquiesce.
“Adjoining rooms,” I amend to the concierge. “Or a suite.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the middle-aged man says, looking Isaak up and down before smiling genteelly back at me. “The Cowboys-Eagles game is this weekend, so we’ve been booked out for weeks.”
“But it’s only Monday!” I object.
Both the concierge and Isaak look at me like I’ve just said something foolish and of course the hotel is already booked out for Friday’s game.
“It’s a rival game, and there are some other conferences in town.” the concierge deigns to explain. “Everyone’s full. But you’re in luck; I just had a cancellation.”
“We’ll take it,” Isaak says before I can get a word out.
“Excellent,” the concierge says. “I’ll need a card on file for incidentals.”
Isaak stares at me expectantly, and I want to punch him. We don’t even know what kind of room it is. I glare at him, feeling such fury in my chest.
“Sir? A card.”
Of course because this is a backward, good-ole-boy place, the concierge assumes he’ll be the one paying. Story of my life. At least it used to be. It’s only with a small bit of satisfaction that I whip out my credit card and slap it down on the counter.
I’m not letting men rule my future. Yes, I’ve got an understanding with Drew. Because there’s no way I’m entering the kind of marriage my mother has. Carol turned into a little domestic tyrant because it was the only avenue she felt was open to her—obsessing over her children and living through us was the only ambition she was allowed.
Although, theoretically she could’ve done anything she wanted. The inheritance comes through her side of the family. Like me, she inherited when she married and got access to all the money. But then she just, like, decorated her house and bought fancy clothes to go to parties with my dad. I’m not sure if they ever even loved each other or Dad just considered her another good merger. He’s twenty years older than mom and knew marrying into her family would give him more power and access.
Not me. I’m getting the hell out of this fucked up little cycle of control and enforced domesticity.
Yes, I’ll marry who mom says I have to, but only so I can get my inheritance and have my absurdly expensive college paid for. I’ll leave college with my Ph.D. debt-free, and then my life can be my own.
Because I’m never having kids, and I’ll never be the good little housewife she was. I’m going to do something important with my life that actually helps people. Something meaningful like building outreach centers to support mental health in underprivileged North Texas communities.
I’m going to be the opposite of my society-obsessed mother and money-driven father. I want to do good work and I… I want to be happy. I don’t care how na?ve or full send into fantasy land that sounds.
Drew understands. He’s just as determined as me never to turn into his parents. We swore it from the time we were kids after learning they’d already arranged our nuptials.
Family is complex but I’ve found a path through the landmines. I can get everything I want and manage not to piss anyone off too badly. I’m adept at it by now.
And I don’t care if some jarhead with more muscles than sense can’t understand that. He doesn’t know me, my family, or my situation.
“Excellent. So that will be one queen bed on the fifth floor.” The concierge hands Isaak the key cards, only further pissing me off. Didn’t he see that I was the one who paid?
“Elevator is that way.” He points. “There’s late-night dining for about twenty more minutes, but you’ll want to get your order in as soon as you get up to the room. Service starts again at seven a.m., and there’s a variety of other dining and bar options available in the hotel. A booklet on your bedside table will explain everything. Enjoy your stay.”
Wait, did he say one queen bed? I was so busy being pissed off I’m only catching up now.
“Wait—” I start to say, but Isaak interrupts.
“Thanks so much, sir.” Isaak takes the key cards. “Appreciate your service.”
Then Isaak is wheeling the suitcase away from the desk toward the elevator. I chase after him. “What do you think you’re doing?” I squeak as soon as I reach him. “We should try a different hotel. I’m not sleeping in the same room as you.”
“You heard him. Everything’s booked. We can put a pillow wall down the center of the bed.”
A high-pitched noise comes out of my throat. “That’s cute, buddy. You’re sleeping on the floor!”
He laughs in my face as he punches the elevator up button. “I don’t think so, dumplin’. Did enough of that in Afghanistan. I bet they got real nice mattresses here.” He stretches his back. “I’m thirty-six, remember? I’m an old man.”
Thirty-sex. Thirty-sex. Thirty-sex. Thirty-sex. Thirty ? —
He steps on the elevator, and I have no choice but to follow him. “I am not sleeping in a bed with you! And I’m not sleeping on the floor. I’m paying you, remember?”
“Ohh,” he laughs. “That’s what it’s always gonna come back down to, ain’t it? Forget the fact that I spent seven years busting my ass to serve this country. The help sleeps on the floor, is that it?”
“No. The man sleeps on the floor.”
His eyebrows about hit his hairline. “What happened to all your mighty progressive ideals now? I thought you didn’t like traditional cultural values.”
My mouth drops open, and I’ve never felt more like committing violence in my life. Usually, I’m the epitome of calm. I don’t let myself get upset or angry. I mean, for Christ’s sake, I haven’t even shed a single tear in five years.
I surround myself with books. I meditate. I do yoga. The highlight of my day is watching Jeopardy before bed. Sure, lately, there have been the outings to Carnal , but that’s been more excitement than I can generally handle.
I turn my back to him because I can’t stand looking at his stupid, chiseled jaw for another second.
“You gonna throw a tantrum about it?” he chuckles. “Maybe you haven’t changed your mind as much as you think, seeing as you just assumed I’d be the one to drag around this big old suitcase the whole time.”
I’m about to give him a piece of my mind when the elevator pings. Instead I snatch one of the keycards out of his hand and the suitcase handle out of the other. I start forward, slowed from my righteous stomping by the extremely heavy suitcase.
Dammit, I only packed for a week, but this thing is heavy as hell. Are the wheels broken? Normally, I’m not a person who needs to carry around a thousand outfits. It’s just that there’s the engagement dinner on Friday, and I’ll be expected to?—
“Where you headed, Red?”
I look up and realize I’ve stomped right past our room.
I yank the suitcase back a room and shove the key up against the reader. When it unlocks, Isaak just keeps standing there, so I’m the one who has to shove the heavy hotel door open. Trying to push it open at the same time I’m yanking the suitcase is all but impossible, and the door almost shoves me backward and closes.
Then it’s swinging in, and I look up to see Isaak’s big arm holding it open.
“Thanks,” I say acidly and heave the suitcase over the threshold, flicking the light on as I go.
The room is clean and more modern than downstairs. Still, it’s just a basic room: one queen bed and a plush chair off to the side in addition to the office chair by the table. No second bed. No couch.
I manage to wrangle the suitcase to the corner of the room, then I flop down on the chair, hugging my bathroom bag and purse to my chest as the door swings closed behind Isaak.
There’s just the two of us alone in the room.
Suddenly, it’s so quiet, I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Everything’s been happening so fast. We were either fighting, or there was loud country music blasting, or I was fleeing the scene of—of?—
The bloody bed flashes in my mind. What kind of animal even was that? I start to shiver, but it soon becomes more like a full-body shudder. Who is doing this? Why?
“Hey,” comes Isaak’s voice, soft for once. “You doing okay?”
My eyes flash up at him. “No. No, I am not okay. Some bastard is out there trying to scare me, and it’s working. I always swore I’d never let anyone take my power, but this fucker can take my home away just like that?”
“Lots of people in this world got power over us.”
“Yeah, right. Says a man.” I glare at him. “I’m going to bed.”
I go to the closet and drag the door open. At least the hotel is high-quality enough to have extra pillows and an extra thick blanket in here. I yank them all down and start to build a fort down the center of the bed. I don’t care how big Isaak is. I’m pissed he’s still insisting on taking the bed, equality and feminism be damned.
Drew’s a gentleman who opens doors for me and not a misogynist who orders me around and assumes I can’t do things without his big man wisdom and muscles.
This whole situation infuriates me, needing to have a man around to protect me from another man. I need to look into getting a female bodyguard. That would be much more comfortable. I bet a woman would understand the need for boundaries. I bet she could be professional about things.
Sure, Isaak was great tonight when there was an actual threat. I was so terrified when I heard that crash, but then he was there, so calm and assured about what to do, putting his big body between me and whatever was there… I huff in frustration as I slam the pillows down and smack them into position. But that doesn’t mean I can’t find someone else… Right? I bite my bottom lip and frown.
“You gotta piss, Red? ’Cause I’m gonna hit the shower.”
My mouth drops open, but I slam it shut because there’s probably no point in asking if he could avoid being so vulgar around me. It’s clearly too ingrained in him.
“No,” I say, mouth tight. “I’m fine.” I’ve got hand sanitizer in my bag. Frankly, I’m shocked I haven’t doused myself head to toe in it already, considering that truck ride.
“You should stay hydrated. Heads up.”
“Wha—” But he’s already tossing me a little water bottle from the counter. I barely look up and just manage to catch it before it smacks me in the chest.
“Hey!” I yell at him, but he just smirks as he pulls the bathroom door shut behind him.
“Asshole,” I hiss under my breath. Then I open the water bottle and take a swig. Because, damn him, I am actually thirsty.
I slam the bottle on the bedside table after finishing it, though, and put it on the floor because I don’t want him to see I’ve actually listened to him. I glare at the bathroom door as I hear the shower turn on.
It hits me that he’s probably just taken off all his clothes and is naked on the other side of the door. My dumb cheeks go all hot, and I walk over to my suitcase, unzipping it and throwing it open.
He’s just a door away. My traitorous mind recalls how he talked about Moira. A man’s got needs. He didn’t lock the door. I was listening for it.
What would he do if I stepped in the shower with him? Maybe Moira’s not the only one who could be an enthusiastic fuck.
I squeeze my eyes, horrified as always at my intrusive thoughts.
I storm over to my purse and yank out the sanitizer. I squirt the clear gel into my hands, then scrub my hands and up my wrists and arms furiously.
This is what happens when you’re raised Baptist by an overbearing narcissist mother and a standoffish deacon-in-the-church father.
Moira told me Isaak’s hung like a horse, and without meaning to, I think of the porn I’ve curiously looked at. Is he as big as that Owen Gray porn star guy? Would it even feel good to be fucked by a cock that big? I mean, yeah, I like big vibrators, but?—
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that doesn’t help because now I’m just visualizing?—
I open them again and yank a pair of pajama pants and a shirt out of my suitcase.
Understanding why I am the way I am doesn’t make the thoughts stop. Which is a real bag of dicks, because when you grow up religious, there’s so much you’re not supposed to think about.
Tell somebody not to think about an elephant and see how long they can go without obsessing about an elephant. Life for someone with OCD is that obsession on crack. Intrusive thoughts, spiraling thought loops that never end, occasional cleanliness spikes, and, of course, the unrelenting obsessive drive for perfection…
I all but start to hyperventilate when I see how messy everything in the suitcase is, and I sit down to fold everything in neat, clean lines.
If only I’d been given something as benign as an elephant to not obsess about. Instead, the church said don’t think about sex. Then, helpfully, they talked about it non-stop.
I thought I was going to hell for sure for the first eighteen years of my life until I stumbled across some Instagram and YouTubers talking about mental health.
Deciding to switch my major from business to psychology was the first rebellious thing I ever did in my little well-behaved, perfectionist life. You would’ve thought I’d committed highway robbery for the stir it caused in my family. Secular therapy is akin to witchcraft to the hardcore church folk. Carol all but threatened to kick me out, which was rich. She wouldn’t know what to do with herself without me to obsess over after Matthew moved halfway across the country to get away from her. But Dad was definitely serious when he threatened to disinherit me. He couldn’t see how I’d make any real money with such a foolish degree—which, let’s be real, was the real sin to him.
It was only by agreeing to certain very strict conditions that they agreed to continue paying my tuition. Live where they wanted me to live—at home during undergrad, and when I finally lobbied to get out of their mausoleum of a house for my combined grad school/Ph.D., it was only to the gated community of their choosing. Downstairs from that narc, Laura Sue. Even then, they only allowed it because I’d gotten engaged to Drew, their best friend’s son, who they always planned for me to marry.
I stay in their good graces as long as I say in the box .
In general, I don’t mind boxes. Boxes have sheltering walls. You can lean against them when you get panicky or need a corner to curl up in. One, two, three, four. Follow the lines of the square and you’re safe. You can breathe again. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
Besides, the layout inside the box is clear. Go to college. Get engaged to my high school friend. Get married. Start my career. Conquer the world in said career. Maybe adopt a cat at some point. Get a cute little house somewhere, white picket fence optional. Go to church at Easter and Christmas and maybe a few other times a year to make Carol and Dad happy.
And that works for me. I’m a single-minded person who likes it inside the cozy box because I’ve learned over the years that routines help me not freak out with crippling anxiety. I’m much better when I know where I’m going and what my goals are and how I’m going to achieve them.
But that’s not to say that sometime my parents’ particular inside-the-box plans for me haven’t chaffed like a straight-jacket. I finally feel strong enough to chart my own path. And if my path doesn’t deviate much from their plans—at least if you’re just looking at it from the outside—well that’s just how I manage my family. How I stay in it but not of it at the same time.
But right when there’s a light at the end of the tunnel—I’m graduating with my Ph.D. next year and marrying Drew in two months at the end of the semester to secure the transfer of my inheritance—I manage to catch a goddamned stalker.
It’s not freaking fair. I’ve been working toward my freedom for so long. Not to mention how mortifying it is that I only get my inheritance once I get married. It’s medieval.
Thank god Drew’s so chill about everything. Or, well, thank the universe since I don’t believe in god anymore. Not that I dare drop that bombshell on my parents. Not until my inheritance is nice and secure in my bank account and they can’t hold me hostage with it anymore, thank you very much.
The loud shower spray in the bathroom shuts off. Shit. I yank my dress off over my head and swap it with a shirt from the suitcase, then wriggle out of my tights.
I’ve barely gotten my pajama pants on when Isaak pushes the door open. He’s shirtless, in just his boxers, scrubbing his wet hair with a towel. God, he’s hairy everywhere. His chest looks like a blond fur mat.
I’m about to snap at him for not giving me a warning, but then I catch sight of his rock-hard abs, cut like they’re carved from marble. And the trail of hair that starts around his belly button, leading down to?—
“Shut your mouth, Red, you’ll catch a fly.”
My eyes shoot up to his face, where he’s smirking at me, very self-satisfied. He came out like this, all but naked, on purpose. To rile me up. Or because he’s got an ego the size of Texas and is the kind of gym rat who keeps abs like that because he likes it when women look.
A man’s got needs .
“You’re insufferable,” I bite out and shove my suitcase closed even though I know I’ll be bothered by the disorder inside all night. I grab the water bottle from the floor and go sit down on the chair. I vehemently unzip my bathroom bag and pull out my medications. One by one, I screw off the tops, shake pills into my hand, and down them.
“Jesus, Red,” Isaak says after I’ve finished and put the bag down. “You swallowing a whole medicine cabinet over there?”
I glare his way. “Please. Go ahead. Shame me for my medical conditions.”
He frowns. “What medical conditions?”
I zip the bag tight and stow it in the bottom compartment of the nightstand. “None of your business.”
“Actually, Red, it is my business. I need to know what’s happening if you start having a seizure on me or something.”
I heave out a big breath. “I’m not epileptic. It’s nothing like that.” I glare his way. “Could you put on a shirt?”
He grins at me. “Difficulty concentrating?”
“Do I need to remind you that I’m an engaged woman?”
“I thought you had an understanding.”
“Not so I can sleep with my meathead of a bodyguard.”
“Hey, hey,” he raises his hands. “I’m not like Moira’s personal protection officer. I know how to keep my hands off the merchandise. I’m not the one eyeing you like I want to devour you.”
I shoot up from where I’m sitting. “I am not eyeing you like I want to?—”
He chuckles, and I realize he’s trying to wind me up again. “Plus, you’re barely legal, Red.”
“You are such a bastard.” I grab a pillow and fling it at him with all the force of my frustration. “And I’m twenty-two, not eighteen.”
He easily deflects the pillow, which is even more infuriating.
“You were saying,” he says after a chuckle. “What are the pills for?”
I heave out another breath, trying to calm myself down. “Anxiety,” I finally seethe out through my teeth. “Not that being around you helps because you’re infuriating .”
“I make you anxious?” he asks, surprised.
I suck in another breath and let it out. “Not really. You just piss me off. It’s everything else.” I wave my hands out in generalization. “I’m an anxious person.”
“Are those benzos then?” he asks, suddenly far too alert. Like he’s actually concerned. I don’t like it. It’s better when he’s the simpleton I’ve pinned him as. “I had some buddies hooked on those.”
“No. It’s just—” My jaw clenches, but I hold my head up. I’m done with that church mentality bullshit. I don’t have to be embarrassed about this stuff anymore. “I take antidepressants and beta blockers for my anxiety, some other pills for migraines, and Ambien when I have trouble sleeping. Plus a bunch of other vitamins and natural stuff that’s supposed to help with everything.”
“How often do you get migraines?”
I want to snap that it’s none of his business again but then remind myself it might be. “Around my period, and they pop up other times when I get really stressed. The medicine helps.”
“Any side effects I should know about?”
“No. Just if I don’t have them when I need them.”
“What happens then?”
My breath huffs out. God, I hate being put on the spot like this. I don’t talk to anyone in my real life about this. Just my therapist. In spite of how much work I’ve done about de-stigmatizing my feelings about mental health, I’ve apparently still got hang-ups. “I can get panicky and have trouble breathing. Sometimes, I have full-blown panic attacks. It’s not pretty.”
“What can I do if that happens?” He’s still being totally serious—like he was at the house—and it’s throwing me off.
“Um. I can give you some literature and a website that tells you how to help when someone goes into a panic attack. Mainly, it’s just staying calm and helping them focus on breathing. But you don’t need to worry. I handle them fine by myself. I know what to do.”
“I’m not going to leave you alone if you’re having a panic attack. Give me the stuff to read. I want to learn. I’m good at staying calm in a tense situation.”
He’s looking me in the eye as he says it, and his calm manner cutting through the schoolyard bullshit he usually gives me shows he’s telling the truth.
“You really can just turn it on and off like that, can’t you? God, that’s infuriating.”
He laughs. “What’s that, Red?”
It’s infuriating that he can be so calm when I walk around, driven by this chittering, unwieldy energy that keeps me on pins and needles all the time. Not that I’m going to tell him that.
“Never mind,” I mutter. “Enough with the interrogation. I’m exhausted. It’s time for bed.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” He runs and leaps onto the bed, upsetting the neat wall of pillows I lined down the center. He haphazardly pulls the sheets over himself and puts his hands behind his head, making his gigantic biceps flex. Then he breathes out with a loud, relaxed noise. “That’s what I’m talking about. Much better than my futon at home.”
“Ugh,” is all I can growl in frustration before stomping off to the bathroom. I let the door slam, but I can still hear his chuckles echoing after me.