“Now,” he growls, his eyes blazing with something carnal and dangerous.
Muttering a curse, I reach down and twirl my fingers over my clit, too scared of the repercussions. If it’s between orgasming and getting shot, I’m going to have to choose the option that will cause the least amount of damage.
“Good girl,” he whispers. It takes two more thrusts of the gun before I’m tipping over the edge, my ass shooting clear off the ground as the orgasm rips through me.
I’m screaming. I can feel the sound vibrating the muscles in my throat. And I can feel how hoarse it’s becoming. But I can’t hear it. Not when my entire being is consumed in fire and ice, and the only thing I can see is heaven.
The gun works inside of me faster and deeper, drawing out the orgasm until I’m literally begging for it to stop.
He rips the gun out of me, and my thighs snap shut instantly as the last of the orgasm dies.
I’m left a shuddering mess from the aftershocks, while he stands, his body towering over me.
I look up through half-lidded eyes, still jerking from the little shocks, when he lifts the gun and swallows the barrel. It feels like an out-of-body experience as I watch him lick the weapon clean, and then stick it in the back of his jeans.
My body is full of rage, humiliation, and shame—I know this. But it’s like my brain can’t process those emotions, so it’s just choosing to feel nothing at all.
Is this what trauma does? Knowing you’ve been violated but your body chooses to go numb instead?
Like a magic trick, his hand comes back into view with a rose that must’ve been in his back pocket. The petals are crushed, likely from our struggle, but he doesn’t seem to care. He twirls the rose in his hand before tossing it on me, the flower fluttering to my stomach.
With one last lingering look, he turns and walks out without a word.
And finally, the dam bursts as emotions crash through my body and flood out of my eyes.
For the next three nights, my shadow stood outside my window. Watching me, a red cherry blaring in the night as he puffed on a cigarette. What I wanted to tell him is how fucking disgusting it is that he smokes.
But the heat between my thighs likes the way he looks. I think my asshole of a vagina might’ve even been jealous of the cigarette. Apparently, it has a thing for inanimate objects.
And that reminder royally pissed me off. Enough to storm into the kitchen and pour myself an entire cup of wine. Wine cures everything for a little while.
Anger.
Trauma.
But now, with a glass of wine absent, rage causes my hands to tremble with the reminder of how he left me on the floor, tossing a rose on me like discarded trash and then leaving. I had never felt more debased as a human until that moment. Never more humiliated.
He hasn’t messaged me since. Hasn’t tried to come to me and wave another gun in my face. He just lingered outside the window.
And I stared back.
It’s become our fucked-up routine.
He doesn’t come around during the day, and as long as I’m not letting men feel me up and stick their hand down my pants, he doesn’t text me any more threatening messages.
I don’t tell Daya about our confrontation, and especially not about how that night ended. If my shadow doesn’t murder me first, Daya will.
I was incredibly stupid. A fact I’ve never tried to deny. Especially now.
There’s just no explaining the reactions he pulls from me. I’d love to pretend like confronting a scary man is so like me, but it’s the exact opposite. I work myself into a panic attack if I have to ask a complete stranger a question.
So why is it every time he comes around, I slip into insanity?
“Why are you wearing a turtleneck?” Daya asks with disdain, shoving a bite of her salad into her mouth. We met at Fiona’s to grab a bite to eat.
I needed to get out of the house. Desperately. The smallest things would bring me back to that night. And every time I looked in the mirror, I was overcome with the memory of his teeth sinking into me. And the bite of metal soon after.
I clear my throat. “I’m trying something new,” I mutter. It was the only thing that would cover the marks staining my body. I had to order several of them in different colors through Amazon Prime, the need for them dire.
I can never let Daya see those marks. Nor could I ever confess the new meaning my stalker gave to finger-banging.
She shrugs her shoulders, looking down at her salad. “Only you can make a turtleneck, mom jeans, and a belt look fashionable.”
I frown down at my outfit, disagreeing with her assessment. I hate this outfit, but maybe I only hate what it represents. Something designed solely to cover the bruises covering my body. Beneath these clothes is a map of purple hickeys.
“What about lover boy? Anything else happen with him?”
I hope the flush crawling up my neck stays down. If it doesn’t, maybe I can blame it on the goddamn turtleneck.
“I’d much rather talk about Gigi,” I say, eyeing the mozzarella sticks sitting between Daya and me. I’ve had four already and I want the last one. Noting my stare, Daya rolls her eyes and flaps her hand, urging me to take it.
I do so with a big smile on my face.
“I have some news on Ronaldo.” Both brows shoot up, urging me to continue. “Last night I was picking through the diaries to see what I could find on him. Gigi would often mention him wearing nice suits and that gold ring, indicating that he was middle to upper class. And there was one entry where he seemed to have gotten jumped. Came in bruised and bloodied but wouldn’t speak about it.
“So, I’m thinking he was involved in crime of some sort. He was very secretive about his life and told her at one point that he wouldn’t allow his dangerous lifestyle to affect her.”
“You think he was like a mob boss?”
I shake my head. “No, I think his boss was a mob boss. When Gigi spoke of him when he was beat up, she made it sound like he was punished for something. She quoted him saying, “it was nothing I didn’t deserve,” and that’s all he would say.
“Gigi had noted several times in entries that she kept asking anyways, concerned for his wellbeing. The last thing he told her was that he had a very strict boss, and he couldn’t know about her.”
Daya nods her head, a spark of excitement in her sage eyes. “I’ll look into crime families in the 40s. See if I can find anyone that might match his description.”
I smile, feeling the same spark of hope. The high lasts for a total of five seconds before Daya's eyes widen, her gaze locked behind me.
My heart drops and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. My shadow wouldn’t show up here now, would he? In front of Daya?
“Hello, ladies.”
My eyes widen along with Daya's. Her gaze clashes with mine and a million things are said in the span of two seconds. Like that we need to be very fucking careful.