Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
I've barely peeled my eyes open before the throbbing pain in my temples forces them closed again.
I groan and throw my hand over my eyes, trying to block out the morning light that streams through my bedroom window.
I feel like my head has been clamped in a vise, crushed into some awful, tiny shape that no longer resembles a human skull.
My yawn turns into a grimace when I taste the chemical tang in my parched mouth. My throat feels constricted and dry, like it's full of sand. I shake my head, attempting to clear the fog that's permeated through my brain.
What the hell happened last night? I went on a date, didn't I? I can't remember what happened. I can't even remember how I got home. Did I get so drunk that I can't recall the details? Was I roofied or something?
Panic begins to tickle at my nerve endings, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My breathing becomes ragged, sawing in and out of me. It feels like an unnatural action that I need to think about in order to perform. I gulp down air, desperate to clear the fog in my mind.
It hits me all of a sudden. It hits me like a ton of bricks crashing through a window. The glass crackles and breaks so quickly that I barely notice the change before it shatters. And when it shatters, the memories flood in.
I remember it all. His presence, large and ominous, looming over me.
The despondent, rejected look on my date’s face.
Strong arms around me. Running through streets and alleys and forest. The cold air whipping at my face and freezing my lungs.
Hiding in the darkness. His body pressed against me.
The scent of him, like syrupy vanilla and leather wrapped around my body.
His lips pressed against mine. His hands expertly winding me up into a tightly coiled, desperate mess.
The way I crumbled in the face of his commands.
“Nope, nope, nope,” I chant. “Not thinking about this, definitely not thinking about this.”
I feel the heat spreading across my face while I try desperately to think of anything else.
My fingers clench around my bed sheets until my knuckles turn pasty and my breathing slows.
As I drag the blankets down my legs, my muscles practically scream in protest. Everything feels too tight, too constricting, like I’m covered in layers of thick cotton.
It isn’t until I look down at my legs that I realize why.
Practically every inch of my skin, from the tips of my toes to my knees, is covered in gauzy cotton bandages.
I shove my fingernail under a piece of medical tape affixed to my knee and peel away the dressings.
My legs, which I would have expected to be caked in a layer of mud, are clean, save for the cuts and scrapes spreading across my skin.
Even those are clean and covered with a glossy layer of what smells like antiseptic ointment.
I run my fingers through my hair, which, while slightly damp, is similarly free from leaves and dirt. I ignore the way my stomach somersaults. I also ignore the warm feeling in my chest when I notice that I’m no longer wearing a dirty dress, but a clean t-shirt.
My stalker, Gray, as I now know his name is, took care of me. After everything, he took care of me like I’m something that matters. Like I’m something precious. My thighs clench at the memory of his deep, baritone voice whispering precious.
My feet land clumsily beside my bed as I scramble out of it. I will the butterflies in my belly to stay behind, wrapped up tightly in a cocoon of sheets and comforters, never to be seen or heard from again.
Desperate for the kind of clarity that can only be achieved with coffee, I fumble my way to the kitchen on aching legs and sore feet. The bubbling of my coffee maker hits my ears and I send up a small thanks to the universe for the miracle that is timed appliances.
A small sense of relief settles in my chest at the normalcy of the moment. The coffee drip, drip, drips into the pot. The warm, earthy scent wafts through the room. The refrigerator hums softly, keeping my creamer chilled and ready. When I pull open the refrigerator door, my heart drops to my feet.
My normally sparse fridge is packed, practically bursting, with food.
Food that I definitely didn’t buy. Stuffed in behind my coffee creamer are half a dozen bottles of different fruit juices.
My usually empty produce drawer is packed with a colorful nest of oranges, apples, and pears.
A full sized casserole dish takes up most of the top shelf, leaving my nearly week old chicken salad fighting for room in the back.
I shove the tin foil top aside and stare down at a full sized lasagna, my favorite meal.
“Coincidence,” I mutter, “everyone likes lasagna.” The lackluster justification tastes bitter on my tongue, as if even it doesn’t believe that this is really a coincidence.
Angry, frustrated sounds sputter out of me as I dump an obscene amount of creamer into my coffee.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I stare at the steaming caffeine in my hands.
The brown liquid and cream whirl around each other until they look like the mud that cakes the underside of my car in springtime.
My stomach roils. Holy crap, my car! I drove it into the city last night.
I have to get it. Can I even get it? Did I even bring my purse home? My car keys?
Coffee sloshes across the floor as I scramble for the door.
My hand lands on the knob with enough force to send a zing of pain up my arm.
I wrench the door open and fly into the porch.
My car sits in the driveway, parked in its usual spot, as if nothing ever happened.
My head swivels, searching for something, anything out of place.
But there's nothing. Even as I step back inside, there's nothing.
My keys and purse are laid out on the little table by the door, sitting atop a small heap of junk mail.
A mixture of emotions churns in my belly, turning my coffee into a lead weight that moves and sloshes inside me. I breathe through the feeling, wondering if it’s nausea or those incessant butterflies that don’t belong anywhere near me.
As I thumb through the memories of every man I’ve ever known, I realize that no man has ever truly done anything kind for me.
I’ve had dates and even a few boyfriends over the years, but none who would have lowered themselves to take care of me—to wash me, dress my wounds, and feed me.
Granted, none of them have stalked me, drugged me, or killed for me, but that’s something else entirely.
Could this all be part of some twisted show of devotion? Some kind of psychotic love? The thought makes my heart skip. It thumps erratically in my chest.
My bare feet smack against the linoleum as I pace the length of the kitchen, inwardly chastising myself for even considering something so crazy.
It’s not love, the logical part of my brain screams. He doesn’t love you.
He can’t love you. No one loves you, not like that, at least. He’s insane, he’s dangerous, and you cannot develop feelings for him.
You can’t justify his insanity just because he leaves food for you.
As if summoned by the thought, that stupid, needy part of my brain cries, but he isn’t dangerous to you. He wants to take care of you. It feels so good for someone to take care of you.
After guzzling several mugs of coffee, I do the only thing that I can think of to keep my mind off of him—I throw myself head first into my work. I escape into mystical worlds where nothing is as complicated as my life has become.
* * *
A thumping beat blares from my phone, suddenly ripping me out of a fairytale romance and dropping me unceremoniously back into my office chair.
When I lift my eyes away from the pages of the beautiful story, my office is glowing orange with the dim light of the evening.
I slurp a mouthful of coffee, which went cold hours ago, before picking up the phone.
“Oh my God, Ava!” Emily shouts before I’ve even opened my mouth.
I cough, expelling the sudden tightness in my throat. “Uhh, hi, Em.”
“Girl, do not just ‘hi, Em’ me! You have secrets you need to spill right away.”
“Oh, I…umm…well,” I stutter through single-syllable words and sounds as my brain desperately tries to figure out some kind of response.
Emily’s sigh drifts through the speaker. “Look, I’m not mad at you, honey…but Max told me about your interrupted date.”
My heart practically falls out of my chest and lands on the floor. “Oh. He told you about that, did he?”
She huffs out an exasperated sigh. “Ava, why didn’t you just tell me you were seeing someone?”
“Well, I’m not. Not really. We’re not together or anything. It’s not a thing,” I sputter, simultaneously explaining and avoiding the truth of the situation.
“Look, I know that you’re private about that kind of stuff, and with everything you’ve been through, I get it. But from the way Max described it, it sounds like you’re hot and heavy with a badass super hottie.”
“We're not hot…or heavy,” I deny. “We’re just—”
“Don't try to deny it,” she interrupts. “He said you swooned.” She drags the word out like she’s singing a song.
My face heats. No matter how much I want to voice them, I smash my lips together to prevent any further denials from spewing from my lips. I want to pretend that Gray's dominating presence doesn't make me melt. I want to pretend that his touch doesn’t set my nerves on fire, but I can’t.
When I don’t respond, she continues. “This is a good thing, Ava! I’m happy for you. I just wish you would have told me.”
“Oh, well, thanks for that,” I say, trying to imitate the happiness in her voice. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just…didn’t know what to say. It’s new and we aren’t official or anything.”
A muffled voice yells something I can’t understand before Emily continues, “Look, I have to get back to work, but I just want you to know that I’m really glad you’re seeing someone.
Truly, I’m happy that you’ve found something other than your dull routine of books and work. Please, give this one a chance, babe.”
“Thanks, Em. I’ll…uhh…try, okay?”
“That’s the spirit! I’ve got to run. Love you lots!”
My phone drops to the desk with a clunk. Letting my arms drop by my sides, I sink down into my chair. I stare holes into the ceiling while Emily's words replay in my mind.
Something other than my dull routine? What's wrong with my dull routine? I know my life isn't exciting, but it's average. It's safe. At least it was safe before he made an appearance. He stomped through my quiet life and crushed every semblance of control I had over it.
Control. That's what he wants me to give him. Haven't I had enough men try to control my life?
My father's face flashes through my mind, drunk and angry. He controlled me through pain and fear. Maybe he still does. Who would I have become without him? Would I have been like Emily—fearless and adventurous? What could I have been if I wasn't broken?
I scrub my hands over my face and shove the images of my father aside. I let go of a shaky breath and remind myself that he hasn't spoken to me in years.
“You're safe,” I breathe.
That nagging, horny creature that lives somewhere behind my eyeballs perks up and murmurs, Gray will keep you safe.
A laugh snorts out through my nose. Would shacking up with the big, bad wolf make Red Riding Hood safe? That's what Gray is; he's the wolf. He's the bad guy.
What the Hell does it make me if some part of me wants him?