Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
With the events of tonight, sleep will never find me.
I envision myself spending the night awake and alert, hiding from the monsters that I now know really do go bump in the night.
Surely, I'll spend every minute scouring the dark corners of my home for creeping shadows until the sun banishes them away.
Shit. My home. My former sanctuary. It feels tainted now, like it’s filled with ghosts.
I’ve never been one to believe in the restless spirits of the dead, but tonight, my mind reels and spirals away from me.
Will James haunt me? Will he blame me for his death?
Will his soul hunt for me from beyond the grave?
Oh, God. Does he even have a grave? Will his family have a body to grieve over?
The tangled web of my thoughts winds and curls against my skull. The throbbing headache they leave in their wake threatens to burst through my eye sockets. As my thoughts rage out of control, my stomach clenches, promising a renewed bout of dry heaving.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe, some small voice in the back of my head chants. On a shaky inhale, I try to dispel the dread that’s pooled in my stomach. Ignoring the bile that’s creeping up my throat, I turn on the shower.
My clothes are soaked with disinfectant and vomit when I finally strip them off. Being entirely unable to see myself ever wearing them again, I toss them into the trash bin instead of the laundry basket. Like my home, they too, feel tainted.
Stepping into the shower, I revel in the burn of the scalding water against my skin.
I scrub every inch of it until it’s irritated, pink, and blotchy.
With a hard-bristled brush, I scour my fingernails, refusing to allow a single speck of grime underneath them.
In my determination to wash away this day, I barely notice as the water begins to cool.
It isn’t until I’m hit with the frigid spray of late autumn well water that I register how long I’ve been washing.
Cursing that stupid, old water heater, I step out and dress myself in my warmest pajamas.
I shiver against the fleece-lined lounge set and wrap my arms around myself.
It’s more in an effort to keep myself together than to combat the chill in the air.
I suspect that if I were to let go, my body might simply fall to pieces.
They'd tumble to the floor, pieces rolling under the bathroom vanity to hide with the dust bunnies.
With nothing left to clean, I crawl into bed and tuck the blankets under my chin. Despite, or maybe because of, my frayed nerves and consistently fluttery heartbeat, exhaustion hits me the moment my head finds my pillows.
The moment that sleep pulls me under, the monsters I'm hiding from, or should I say, the monster, finds me.
A nameless, faceless being cloaked in darkness towers over my bed. Shadows seem to grow from behind his massive frame, blanketing the walls and stretching across the ceiling. Like smoke, they whirl and dance.
Long fingertips that end in pointed claws grab my ankle.
I wince, anticipating a biting pain that never comes.
Instead I only feel the warmth that radiates off of his soft fingertips.
They lazily stroke my skin, caressing my legs.
His fingers move higher and higher, grazing my knees, crawling up my thighs.
There's no pain in his touch, only heat. Each brush of his skin against mine is an ember, burning hotter as they move until my skin is on fire. Liquid heat pools between my thighs. My body writhes under his touch, seeking more.
I gasp when his palm brushes over my bare waist. My back arches, pushing myself into his touch.
His large hand travels up between my breasts, his pinky grazing over my nipple.
My breath leaves me in a whispered moan.
That whisper morphs into a yelp when he pinches my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
My body lurches up so suddenly that my head knocks against the headboard.
I stumble to catch my breath as my head swivels around the room.
My breathing calms as I realize that I'm in my bed, alone.
I press my thighs together, trying to calm the ache in my core.
At the feel of the slick warmth between my legs, my face pulls into a scowl.
What the Hell is wrong with me? I should be traumatized. I am traumatized. So why am I having hot and heavy dreams? And why is he the star in them?
I mean, I can't pretend that I've never had dark desires.
What woman hasn't thought about being taken roughly, being entirely dominated?
I'm not a prude; I've read the books. You know, the spicy ones about bad men sweeping women off their feet.
But this is different. This is definitely different.
This is the real world where bad men are, well, just bad. Aren't they?
A knot forms in my stomach, the result of the war forming between my head and my pussy. Shaking my head, I shove the thoughts down deep inside of myself. I'll leave them there to be dealt with another day.
An aggravated grunt falls from my mouth as I slide out of bed and stuff my feet into my slippers. A single thought has me shuffling toward the closet:
I have got to get out of this house.
With unshaking determination, I grab an old, beat up duffel bag from the floor of the closet and stuff it with a heap of clothing. Tossing the bag on my bed, I fire off a quick text to Emily.
Can I come stay with you for a few days?
Immediately realizing the alarm that text will cause her, I send another.
I just really miss my bestie. I could come over after work tonight?
I dress quickly, throwing on a pair of blue jeans and a thick sweater before making my way to the kitchen for a much needed cup of coffee.
My feet halt at the edge of the kitchen.
Surveying the room, nothing seems amiss.
There's no indication of what happened the night before, save for the lemony tang of disinfectant lingering in the air.
Forcing my feet to take small steps, I push forward. Every time I hesitate, I remind myself that this is a morning like any other; I just make my coffee and get to work. I keep reminding myself of this as I go through the motions of my usual morning routine.
My feet end up a nearly a foot in the air when my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. My jumpiness causes my coffee to slosh out of the cup and onto the counter. I shake my head, internally chastising my fretfulness. At another buzz, I pull my phone out to find two texts from Emily.
I miss you too! Be here around 6? I'll get the drinks, you buy the pizza!
I type out a quick confirmation before refilling my half-empty coffee mug and wiping up the remnants of the previous cup with a dish towel. Knowing I'll get through the day by the power of caffeine and will alone, I gulp down the contents of the mug in a hurried swig.
Pouring another, I stare at the kitchen. How can a room look the same, but feel so different in the span of a day? No longer willing to think about it, I rush out of the room and into my office.
The day passes in a blur, despite my nerves causing me to jump at every sound. Living in an older house that's in serious need of maintenance work, sounds are plentiful. When five o’clock rolls around, I practically dive out of my chair.
* * *
The tension in my shoulders uncoils when I approach the front door of Emily's apartment building.
The six story building at 281 Field Street is situated at the center of the block just a few miles from the heart of the city.
Its brick exterior is almost identical to the row of buildings surrounding it.
When she first moved here after college, Emily had said she chose the location for two reasons: one being its close proximity to the best restaurants and bars in the city, and the second being its nearness to the Metro Station on Brown Street.
That particular station connects to one directly in front of the biggest newspaper in the city.
Even before we left college, she was determined to work at the City Herald.
In the years since, she's worked her way up from mailroom worker, to newsroom assistant, to journalist. But in true Emily fashion, she isn't done yet.
She won't be satisfied until she's the lead investigative journalist for the entire paper.
Thinking about how far she's come, my lips pull into a smile that crinkles my eyes.
I fidget with my bags, hiking the straps of my duffel and purse up onto my shoulder to free my arms before pressing my finger to the buzzer for apartment 306.
I pull my scarf up over my chin to fight off the cold breeze that tumbles through the narrow street.
A loud buzz and clank sounds when the door unlocks.
As I rush into the lobby, I let out a satisfied sigh at the welcomed surge of warm air that envelops my body.
My body warms as I trek up the three flights of stairs to Emily's door.
I pause at the top of the second staircase, my thighs aching, reminding me of how many yoga classes I've skipped recently.
I'd like to think that having a crazy, murderous stalker is a good excuse to skip a workout, but my body clearly disagrees.
By the time I reach Emily's door, I'm huffing out breaths like I've just sprinted a quarter mile. I smack the heel of my palm against the door while reminding myself to do more cardio. My frustrated thoughts fall away when the door swings open to reveal the beaming smile on my best friend's face.
“Bestie,” Emily sings out, her high pitched voice echoing through the narrow hallway.