Page 5 of Love Me

Chapter 4

It was surprisingly easy to get acclimated to the area and our life together, once I let myself. I worked in the morning, gathering or ordering materials, sculpting new projects, and drafting artist statements for each piece in case Orinda asked for them. Then, after eating lunch at the bakery across the street with Misty, I wandered around the streets. Sometimes I would fill out applications at places with Now Hiring written in the windows, but I felt strange about each one. I kept applying for service industry positions; it’s what I knew. But somehow, being far away from every place where I had earned experience, it seemed like I should do something different, perhaps something more in line with art. Luckily, I had a big enough nest egg that I could wait a while and still help pay for utilities, much to Owen’s disagreement. After finding inspiration and filling out applications, I would suck in the smell of damp asphalt, and wander back to the condo. In the evenings, if Owen had business meetings, he invited me and introduced me as Riley Glass, the sculptor, and his girlfriend.

Late one morning, I washed the plaster from my hands and wrists, my stomach grumbling from the lack of food. I noticed a text message notification blinking on my phone. I assumed it was Owen or Misty. After I dried my hands, I checked and saw it was from a number I didn’t recognize. A local one.

Two words: He’s dangerous.

I rolled my eyes. More of this dumb drama? We had left Poppy behind us thousands of miles away in California, but it wasn’t surprising that there would be another jealous ex chasing after Owen, trying to scare me away. I had literally moved across the country for the man; I wasn’t about to leave him, especially not because of some stupid text with a lame scare tactic.

I texted back: You have the wrong number.

An immediate response: You’re Riley Glass, right? That made me stop, but I cleared the notification. Before I could find my keys, the next message arrived: You don’t know me, but I know Owen. The next message: I want to help you.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The frantic tone gave me pause, but I ignored the sinking feeling in my stomach and deleted the messages from the stranger. I knew he was dangerous in the bedroom, but he also protected me in every situation, including from his truly sadistic side while we had sex. He only did what he knew I could take.

I crossed the street to the office building across from the condo. In the lobby, I soaked in the smell of sourdough from Salon de Thé Patisserie, what was called the Salon for short. Even if they were nothing alike, the Salon reminded me of the No Doze Cafe. No Doze was a dive compared to the Salon, but the cafe still felt like home and made me nostalgic and comfortable. I pushed any nagging thoughts out of my head. If Owen was dangerous, my instincts would’ve warned me. But they didn’t. I had to trust myself.

“You wouldn’t believe what I have to do today,” Misty said. She rolled her eyes. “I have to clean the toilets in this studio. But you know, I don’t care. My mind goes numb sifting through all of those reviews and cataloging them. I mean, he doesn’t even read them!”

I was about to say how she should complain to the director when another message came through: He almost strangled me to death. As I clicked the drop-down menu icon to block the number, another message came: I’m lucky to be alive.

I stopped, holding my finger above the block button. I wondered if this person deserved the respect of being heard, regardless of if I decided not to believe them.

“What’s up? You like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I closed my phone. “Some weirdo keeps texting me saying she used to date Owen,” I said.

“A weirdo?”

“She keeps saying he almost hurt her, like could’ve killed her, badly.”

Misty raised an eyebrow, clutching her hand to her chest. “Isn’t he—” she paused, looking around, then back to me, “into that kind of stuff?”

“What kind of stuff?” I asked, annoyed.

“Clay said he has a reputation. That he has a dungeon or something,” Misty said.

I don’t want anything to happen to you. To anyone, the next message said.

“It’s true,” I said, ignoring my phone as best I could. “He owns an S & M nightclub back in California.”

“So he is dangerous, then?”

Did he know how to bruise my ass to make me shiver with anticipation for the next time he’d spank me? Yes. Was that dangerous? No. I didn’t think it was. But the last message ran through my head like a broken stoplight: I don’t want anything to happen to you, as if this stranger cared about my well being.

But something didn’t seem right. Why haven’t you gone to the police, then? I replied.

I tilted my head to the side. “He spanks me. So what?” I finally said.

Misty shrugged and went on a tirade about how everyone was into something weird these days, and I zoned out, my mind unable to focus. I noticed there was no immediate response from the texter, which made the whole situation more suspicious. I didn’t know if the woman was making it all up, or if Owen was pretending to be a good person, or if it was all a complete misunderstanding. Owen wasn’t a liar, I told myself.

But the most respected people left out details too, didn’t they? my mind shot back.

I went back to the condo earlier than usual. As I sat in the back of the taxi, watching the city move past, my mind kept imagining Owen’s hands clenching a thin, wiry neck. It wasn’t that far off from the truth, was it? How different was it to have the same hands that struck my ass, wrap around someone’s neck and squeeze?

I have proof. I can show you, the stranger sent. It was the first message in a few hours, but I ignored it. I laid on the bed, watching Owen change from his suit to more comfortable clothing: jeans and a fitted shirt. Usually, it was hard to let him put his clothes on so we could eat dinner, but this time, those texts ate away at me, running through my mind, successfully distracting me from my libido.

I flipped onto my back and texted again: Why haven’t you gone to the police?

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