4. ROME
Chapter four
ROME
Panic rips me from my sleep, and I sit up in bed, a tightness in my chest as I scan the room.
I spot the chair is still wedged under my door handle, allowing my racing heart to find a less erratic rhythm.
I trail the first sheer curtain to the mounted TV, then the next curtain.
Finally reaching the closed door to my wardrobe, my gaze falls before it meets the bathroom door.
I heard a creak in the floorboard. I swear.
“H-Hello?” No reply. Of course there won’t be. Why would an intruder announce themselves?
I scan the room again. I can feel eyes on me. Maybe I’m paranoid? I live in a gated community with security. It’s been two days, and nothing has happened. Maybe he just wanted to scare the living shit out of someone out of boredom? He seems the type who’s mentally unstable.
I draw a deep breath and throw myself back against the mattress, running my hands down my face.
Get it together, Rome.
My heart jumps, my body following with a jolt when my phone vibrates. Sweat clings to my trembling hand as I remove the charger.
Unknown: Can’t sleep, baby?
I tap the stainless-steel pole of my side lamp. Goosebumps stab my skin, and I hold my breath, staring at the white chess piece on my side table.
King.
I slowly drag my juddering eyes back to my once again lit screen.
Unknown: I can find you wherever you are.
I shakily type a reply.
Me: Leave me alone.
Unknown: But you’re mine.
Nausea crawls up my throat when a picture comes through of me, asleep in my bed, wearing white sleep pants and a black t-shirt. I look down at my clothes and throw back the covers, dialling 999.
“You need a way to protect yourself, Rome,” Grandpa sighs through the speaker of my phone.
I take a second to compose myself before speaking, “I-I have o-one.” Goddamnit.
“How much have you had to drink, son?”
The glass blurs, and I wobble sideways a little, the whiskey pooling on the bench instead. Shit. “Three, f-four. I don’t know.”
“Take yourself to bed.”
“Yeah, I w-will.”
“Good. Let me know if you need my help with this American tool.”
“I will. Thanks, Grandpa.”
“Goodnight, son.”
“Night.”
The red button doubles and I squint, trying to decipher which one I’m supposed to press. He ends the call for me, and my home screen appears again.
“American tool?” That voice echoes in my head. My already pounding heart thrashes as I lift my blurry gaze to the white masked figure descending my stairs off to the left. “I am American, but I don’t perceive myself as a tool.”
The sweat coating my palms smears on the grey bench as my numb legs—try as they might—fail to carry me more than a few steps towards my garage door.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says softly, stepping to the other side of the kitchen island, blocking every exit.
I could jump out of the window above the sink behind me; there’s a bush beneath that will break my fall. I would usually run, but I’m pissed off and feeling uncharacteristically bold. “I c-called the p-police about you,” I slur.
“I know.”
“I have connections.”
“As do I.”
“People who will kill you.”
His head tilts, and the white mask blurs into two. “Call them.” He takes a step around the bench and I sloppily counter it. “Let me take you to bed, baby.”
I raise my finger at him. “I’m not yours.”
He lets out an annoyed sigh. “You’re drunk, Rome. And might I remind you, you already agreed you are.”
Palming my hands on the bench, I lean toward him with narrowed eyes. “Take off your mask.”
“In due time. Right now, I will help you upstairs, and you’ll brush your teeth and get into bed.”
“No.”
“Stop defying me.”
“No.”
I drop my gaze to my phone and reach for it. His gloved hands splay wide on the bench, watching me. Why is he not worried? About the police? Who I’ll call? Why can’t he just bugger off?
My legs tangle, making me sway a little, and he releases another frustrated breath. I search for the number, then dial, putting it on speaker so the bastard can hear who he’s dealing with.
“Hey, mate,” Xander greets.
“S-someone’s in my house,” I slur and release my own frustrated breath. I rarely drink, but we won a tough game tonight, and I earned this reward.
Rustling comes through the speaker, then the clinking of keys. “I’m on my way. Just stay hidden. Where the fuck is security?”
Security. I know why I called Xander. He’s feared within this city, but I’m taking a stupid chance this American prick may actually know who’s on the phone.
Why take such a stupid risk, Rome? Why not call security first?
“I don’t know, but um…” My head swims and I sway again, and this time, the masked wanker flinches. “He’s standing right in front of me.”
“What?” Xander snaps.
“Blade,” the wanker says.
“Did he just say Blade?” Xander asks, a car door slamming.
“I believe you’ve made the acquaintance of my brother.”
“He’s never mentioned a brother.”
“I’d say it’s because he’s rude, but it’s many other combined reasons. I’m just trying to help my boyfriend to bed. No need to make this bloody, Xander.”
“Get out of his house.”
“I will, once he’s asleep.”
“I’m not your fucking boyfriend,” I snap, a little delayed in voicing my opinion.
“I’m on my way,” Xander spits. “Stay on the phone, Rome.”
The wanker retrieves his phone from his pocket, and within seconds, my phone ends the call, returning to the home screen.
My stomach knots as I try to call security this time, but it ends before it even connects.
I lift my eyes to that stupid mask, phone trembling in my fist. “If you could do that, why let me call him?”
“Because I want to have a word with your friend. I like everything about you baby, but your choice of friends is subpar. Now, go sit on the sofa before you fall over.”
“No.”
“I’m beginning to hate that word.”