Chapter 38 Getting Lucky #2
He lowers his lips to mine, his mouth warm and Champagne-scented.
He slips a hand between my legs again and I break the kiss with a moan of pleasure.
My need for him is now desperate and all-consuming.
I give in to it, to him, as he leans over me, blood rushing to my cheeks, to my extremities, as his fingers find my wetness, my breath coming fast and hard until I dissolve into the pleasure, nothing left but him and me and need.
He makes me come three times, my breath snagging, heart thundering, before he fucks me hard on the floor, my hands grasping him closer.
We fuck until we can’t anymore, and still then, I want more of him, as if he and he alone can keep me safe. Even as I slip into sleep, I want more of him, his scent, his touch, his warmth.
—
I wake an hour or two later, needing the bathroom. We are wrapped in soft blankets on the floor, our warm bodies entwined.
My back and hips ache, and the heat of my subsequent bruises already evident. My back must be covered in them.
I stretch, letting myself luxuriate in the throb of them.
I look over at him sleeping beside me. He looks so peaceful.
I see my dress discarded across the floor, and my coat slightly closer. It might be a long, cold trek to find a toilet in this renovation.
I manage to hook the coat with my foot, and drag it over, before I shuffle out from under his heavy arm. He sleeps on, as I slide back the blanket covering me, the cool air of the house hitting me instantly.
I wrestle on my coat, trying not to knock over the glasses beside the picnic blanket, then head toward the darkened doorway on tiptoes, the floor gritty with building debris underfoot.
When I reach the dark hallway landing, I fish out my phone torch and train its fluorescent beam first up into the plastic-covered ascending staircase and then down the descending one.
The kitchen, I decide, must have a small guest toilet near it. I take a breath and head downstairs.
There is only one door off the main room. I open it hopefully but am met by a bespoke pantry with a tea-making nook. I close the door softly and continue my search.
Outside, there is a scream in the darkness. I freeze. I do not breathe.
I tell myself it can’t be a person. It can’t.
There is not a woman in the basement.
The scream comes again, and I am right. It is almost human but not. A fox shrieking into the night. Sometimes they can sound so real.
They say those screams, the ones that sound like humans’, are actually the foxes’ mating calls. I shiver off my misplaced fear and continue my search.
But Anna is back in my mind, and I cannot shake her and the thought that terrible things happen every day, and nearly every house around here has a basement. Even mine, with its washer, dryer, and storage shelves.
My thoughts stutter to a stop as I reach the staircase and see the steps leading down to Matt’s basement. There is a door at the bottom of the stairs with a key, ready and waiting, in its lock.
I’ve already been in Arabella’s basement, I argue with myself. What harm is one more?
I listen up the staircase for sounds of him waking. It can’t hurt to check. Then at least I can stop half thinking it.
There are no sounds from the mezzanine. I shine my phone torch down into the stairwell and start to descend.
At the bottom, I press my ear to the door, but there is no sound beyond.
I look at the key; it definitely wouldn’t have been left in the lock if there was something terrible behind this door.
I turn the key and lower the handle, carefully opening up the door.
Darkness stares back. I shine my torch in and am met by more stretches of plastic sheeting, the breeze from the open door rustling them like ghosts floating in the blackness.
I step into the basement and shine my torch in. The room flares into vision.
It’s a cinema room, with red velvet seating vacuum-sealed in plastic, small, mirrored tables between each seat, for drinks and popcorn.
The carpet is blood red and covered in a tight, sealed, protective plastic film.
All the chairs angle toward the screen wall, where a projector at the back of the room is lined up to show films.
There is no bunker, no basement of horrors, no Anna.
But it’s clear for the first time exactly how much money Matt must make, how all of his architectural projects, all those sculptural buildings lighting up his grid on Instagram, must have paid for all this.
I can’t help but realize that if our relationship goes anywhere, I might end up living in this house with him. The thought is terrifying in its unbridled optimism.
I swing my torch toward another doorway I notice on the left-hand wall. I pad over to it. My bare feet squeak on the taut, plastic floor covering.
I reach out a hand to the door handle and turn. It creaks open. I snatch a breath and pull it wide, shining my torch light directly into it.
It is a narrow restroom.
I stare at it for a second, pulse lowering, breath normalizing. But at least I’ve found a toilet.
When I exit the toilet, I make it as far as the first row of cinema seats before all the lights in the room burst on.
I squint through the bright glare, and make out Matt’s form filling the doorway. He’s just in his boxers, his muscular frame blocking the door. He holds my gaze, the smallest of frowns pinching his brows.
“What are you doing down here?” he asks.
“Bathroom,” I admit sheepishly, and it’s not a lie, exactly.
He studies me a moment, then nods, the sound of the toilet cistern filling behind me evidence enough.
“Oh. You know, there’s a toilet upstairs, too,” he says, turning back to the stairs and ascending, leaving me behind. “Come back to bed when you’re done—I’ll warm you up,” he yawns, the easy familiarity between us deeply reassuring.
He doesn’t seem concerned I’m snooping around. And why should he; there’s nothing concerning down here at all.
I follow Matt out, flicking off the lights as I pass, leaving the deep darkness behind me.
I wake a few hours later to find him looking at me drowsily, his face across from mine, his arm draped heavily over me, and I feel more warm and secure than I have felt in years.
He gives me a sleepy smile and pulls me close, kissing my forehead with gentle intimacy.
“Thank you for last night,” he whispers, his voice so close and soft that it makes me shiver.
—
My house feels cold and empty when I return, in spite of the warm morning sun outside.
A mournful meow echoes from the kitchen.
I straighten. It’s Blue, waiting to be fed and let out, and the sooner I do that, the sooner we can find Anna.
I fasten on his collar, check that the note is still there, and open the door.
He didn’t even wait for breakfast. Which means he’ll be heading somewhere he knows has good food.