Page 36 of Life

I pull away from his hold and look around, trying to assimilate what I’m seeing. My couches have been cut and the stuffing shredded. Puffs of cotton trail all over the floor where the cushions have been tossed. All my pictures and figurines—the ones that mean the world to me—are shattered, the broken pieces strewn throughout the living room.

Slowly, I walk to the kitchen and peer over the island. All the drawers have been dumped and food mixes with broken cutlery and stemware in varying stages of disarray all over the tile floor and granite countertops. The fridge door is open and milk, fruit, veggies, and everything in between are spilling out onto the floor, leaving a sour scent permeating the air.

With as much stoicism as I can muster, I walk through the apartment to my bedroom. Eli, hot on my heels, is still speaking in a low tone into his phone. He’s already taken a cursory look and has come back, so I know the coast is clear. At this point, though, I can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s a jumble of words until I reach the master bedroom.

I step a single foot into my room, my sanctuary, the place I let all the injustices of the world go and focus on the good as I lay my head down to sleep each night. It’s a fucking nightmare come to life. No other way to sugarcoat the catastrophe that occurred here tonight.

Tattered remnants of my clothes are everywhere. My bras and undies have been cut and tossed on the bed like multicolored confetti in piles of ripped lacy fabric. The jewelry box the girls got together and bought me for my twenty-fifth birthday is broken and lying on its side. All the drawers are now wooden chunks with jewelry scattered everywhere as though he pulled out handfuls and tossed them all over willy-nilly.

But that’s not the worst of it. Spray-painted in bright crimson red, mimicking blood, complete with wet drips of paint marring the text, is a message written on the entire wall where my headboard rests. A message for me. One I cannot deny is a threat from my ex.

Three words.

Three little words that, together, and using only six letters, are arranged in such a way as to end any semblance of a healthy reality I’d been working so hard to achieve for these last five years. I know now that no matter what, regardless of who threatens him, or whether he gets put in jail again, it will never end. Never. The message is clear in those three words. And I know with my whole heart and being he means every last one of them down to the depths of his vile, demonic black soul.

I OWN YOU

Flashing lights. Boots on the floor. Murmuring voices. Whispered words of anger and fear surround me as I sit on one of my dining room chairs in the far corner of the room, as far away from it all as I can get.

Jack Porter, Chase, Eli, and three members of Eli’s secret league of bounty hunters tromp all over my private space taking pictures, looking for clues, all while San Francisco’s finest poke and prod me for information.

“No, I don’t know who did this, but I suspect Antonio Ramirez.”

“Yes, he’s been violent to me in the past.”

“No, I haven’t seen him personally.”

“Yes, I’m aware I should stay somewhere else.”

“No, I haven’t provoked him or seen him at all in the past five years.”

“Yes, I know this looks like the person is mentally unstable.”

“No, I didn’t leave my door unlocked.”

“Yes, I’ll let you know if anything more happens.”

“No, I don’t know if anything has been taken. It’s impossible to determine right now.”

Eventually, the police leave me alone to sit in silence while they do their thing. A voice booming through the door catches my attention.

“Ria! Where are you? Maria!” Phillip, Bree’s boyfriend and Gillian’s longtime best guy friend, enters the room on a roar. His voice is strained with worry.

“Phil! Over here,” I call out and wave him over.

He rushes over to me and pulls me into his arms. I clutch on to him like he’s a life raft and I’m stranded at sea.

“Oh my God. Is this shit ever going to end?” He is petting my hair and then curls his hands around my cheeks. “Are you okay?”

His eyes are tired and crinkled at the edges. “Gigi called Bree, and you know what happened then.” He sighs.

“My girl lost her shit.” I state only the facts. When Bree and Gigi heard my place had been broken into, especially after what’s happened this past year, they probably flipped out. Big time. Poor Phillip and Chase. At least Chase can restrain his wife by sticking her with a bodyguard who will refuse to let her leave their penthouse across the street. Of course, that didn’t stop my girl from calling out for reinforcements. Damn, I love my soul sisters. Best. Friends. Ever.

Phillip smiles briefly. “That about sums it up. Why didn’t you call? We’re family now. I can take care of you,” he says, offering up the world, like he does to our Bree.

Before I can respond, I’m catapulted out of Phil’s arms and locked to a wall of man. His leather and spice scent hits my nose, and I calm instantly, as much as I hate he has that effect on me. Mostly because it’s too soon and doesn’t seem rational since we’ve only known each other for less than two weeks.

“Who the hell are you?” Eli demands in his usual alpha-badass-I-don’t-have-time-for-this-shit rumble.

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