Page 50 of Obsession

Is He Dead?

MEGAN

Based on my past experience with people in general, but especially guys, I used to wonder if my father and stepmother fucked me up in the head. Now I know the truth. They fucked me up real good. Because how else can I explain the fact that I’ve allowed this grown-ass man to barge into my life and take it completely over? Why am I not afraid of him? He’s a criminal and a very dangerous man. Dead bodies end up behind his club, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the one who puts them there.

Having said that, I think that it’s those dangerous parts of his personality that I’m drawn to because those are his qualities that keep me safe. I never expected to feel so utterly protected when he held me against him, covering my eyes as he doled out his brand of brutal justice.

Nobody has ever tried to shield me from violence the way this man did. I’ve never felt special or important enough to anyone even to deserve such protection. And yet, he flayed me with his tongue in a deliberate effort to remind me of my status in thisworld. But now he’s here, bandaging me up, drowning me with care and consideration, and I don’t know what’s real anymore.

“Why?”

I’ve always been able to keep my emotions in check, even when I was humiliated by my own family or those elitist bullies at school, but this push and pull between Mr. Middleton and me has me bursting apart at the seams.

“What are you trying to achieve by all of this?” I ask him.

The words feel as if they are being torn out of me. I have to say them. I have to ask the questions that I’m dying to know the answers to. He doesn’t say anything in response, but he doesn’t walk out the door either.

When I lift my head, he’s not looking in my direction. He’s staring at the door. “I don’t know.”

I get to my feet slowly and approach him. “You don’t know? What kind of bullshit answer is that?”

He turns his head to look at me and his eyes are flickering with a smoldering anger but I stand my ground, refusing to be intimidated.

“I am a student, Mr. Middleton,” I say, deliberately keeping my voice even. “The only reason I’m working at your club and risking my life every day is because I need the money. I can’t afford to get dragged into your world. I want to make something of myself. I want my own art studio. I may not deserve it but I have my own dreams, small as they may be, insignificant to you as they may be. So please stop treating me like this. You’re fucking with my head, and I’m not going to be somebody’s whore.”

His eyes narrow at my words, yet I continue on ruthlessly, wanting to get this out of me.

“You were right in your office. I don’t have any value. I’m not special. So stop treating me like I am. Don’t give me jobs I’m not qualified for, nurse my wounds, or scare the shit out of myneighbors when you have no idea what you want from me. If this is a game you like to play with your employees from time to time, I want it on the record that I don’t want to participate. Let me tap out. Let me quit, and you can go play ball with some other young girl at the club.”

“That’s enough,” he says with a sharp edge to his voice, but I’m not done.

“So then stop,” I hiss, my hands curling into fists. “Let me just do my job, get through my college, get a decent paying job, and maybe find a nice guy for myself. Let me live the life I’m trying to live.”

His eyes harden at my words and his voice becomes dangerously deep, “And just who do you plan to find for yourself, Miss Taylor? Some nice accountant who bores you to death and fucks you every Friday like clockwork or a politician’s son who treats you like trailer trash and never lets you forget where you come from?”

“At least he won’t be ramming his gun down somebody’s throat and shooting them dead. I’m just asking you to leave me alone for, I don’t know, like the millionth time! You made a compelling argument in your office today and I’m glad you put me in my place. That is what you wanted, isn’t it? I got it. I learned my lesson. I’m not your problem. I never was.”

For a moment, the flash of heat in his eyes makes me falter. If he touched me right now, I would melt. If he kissed me, I would die. I hate that I find myself wanting him to do it, but I do. I can’t help myself. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m starting to think that the biggest game player in this toxic relationship of ours... is me.

Then, without a word, he turns and walks out of my house, and the minute the door slams behind him, I feel my knees turn weak, and I sink to the floor. My heart is pounding, and I scramble back to lean against the back of the couch. My lips feelraw and tingly from the way they were so deliciously abused. I’ve never been kissed the way this man does, in this ruthless manner, taking everything from my mouth until there’s nothing left and then demanding more.

“I have to stay away from him,” I mumble to myself, running my hand through my hair and then wiping at my lips to remove his dark taste.

I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, “I’m fine. I’m fine now.”

My stomach still hurts from where Steve punched me. I still don’t understand the animosity that led him to kidnap me like this. When I saw his face, I was shocked. Confusion had followed shock, ending with resignation. Steve had always been a lazy bastard, but he’d never been mean to me. The hatred I saw in his eyes tonight was something new to me. It only reinforces the fact that I am a bad judge of character.

Now that I’m home, within the four walls of my apartment, I can’t calm down. Everything that has happened today comes crashing down on me at once. I had been this close to dying tonight or, at the very least, to being tortured. I stare at myself in a long mirror in my room. I rip open my blouse, buttons fly everywhere, and I unzip and step out of my skirt. A sob escapes me as I stare at my bruised body. I wish Naomi was home. She’d know what to do to get me to forget this horrible day. She always knows what to do.

It takes me an hour to crawl to bed once the sun is nearly out, and when I do sleep, I dream of a night long ago when my arms were drenched with blood, and I stare down at a face I once loved.

And then the dream shifts to a faceless man, hiding me in his arms as people scream around me.

I don’t go to college for a few days. The bruises on my face are something I can’t hide under makeup, even if I had Naomi’s help. Fortunately, she’s gone to visit her family for a week or two, so I don’t have to worry about her freaking out over the complete downturn of my life.

I don’t go to work as well.

Naomi promised to cover my portion of the rent this month, so to save the little bit of money I have left, I just ordered a carton of ramen noodles, which I cook every day.

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