Page 77 of Violent Hearts

Chapter 37

Ann

He's not back.

I roam through the living room area, the kitchen, the hallway, knocking and eavesdropping at his door to see if I can hear him rummaging inside the room. I fell asleep at some point last night, the tears still not dried up from my excessive crying. I only slept for a few hours and haven't heard a thing since he left the penthouse last night, but I wanted be sure. There's an off chance that he came home during that window of time I spent sleeping, curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around me, because I didn't want to miss his possible return.

I didn't try to call him right away, but waited a few minutes to let him calm down, to maybe get some fresh air and take a few breaths before he was ready to face me again. Because I sure as hell know what this is like, what it's like to be a victim of your own emotions, to be overtaken by blind rage that makes it impossible to think straight, to act normally, or to listen to the person who's causing you the pain.

I get it.

I get him.

Of course, he's hurt. He had just told me his story! The memory of it was still fresh when he chose that very moment to snoop around my stuff and satisfy his curiosity about my writing. He's asked me about it a few times, but I always played it down, telling him that it little more than diary writing and a way for me to spend my time, just like other people watch TV in their spare time.

I lied to him, that much is for certain. I hid things from him. And even though I never actually planned to sell him out, or even was following an elaborate long-term plan such as the one he's suspecting right now, he has every right to be mad, furious, suspicious.

But God damn it, why won't he talk to me? I thought he’d just leave the penthouse for a little while, taking in some fresh air and then coming back upstairs, giving me an opportunity to explain. I thought all he needed was a chance to get ready to listen.

More than twelve hours have passed since he raised his voice against me in a blood-chilling way. I didn't say a word, I didn't move. I gave him the room I thought he needed and deserved. But now that he's been out God knows where, leaving me to wonder by myself all night long and still ignoring my calls this morning, I'm not only beginning to worry, I'm actually mad at him.

Why is he acting this way? Why won't he even give me the slightest chance to explain? Is he really that hurt? That blind? Does he really believe all the things he said?

I'm standing at the panoramic window in the living room, watching as the city wakes up dozens of stories below me. I can still feel the impact his belt left on me and am sore around my throat. My hand wanders up to my neck, carefully caressing the sensitive skin, wondering if this was the last time I'll ever feel his hand wrapped around my throat. I don't want to believe that, but the thought is persistent, because if nothing else, it would make perfect sense.

He said he'd protect himself. He said he's suspicious and needs to be careful, and he's accused me of being dangerous more than once, even before finding what appeared to him to be the perfect proof for his suspicions.

I try to call him one more time, but this time the phone doesn't even ring. He has either run out of battery or turned off his phone.

A part of me hopes that it's the latter, because the first option would give me too much reason to worry.

"Fuck," I hiss, audible to no one but myself.

What am I supposed to do? How long does he intend to keep me waiting?

Then I remember. There's actually something that I can do, something that he won’t know about, but something that will ease my mind tremendously.

I turn around, hurrying upstairs to my bedroom and searching for my purse, frantically rummaging through it until I find what I'm looking for. The card is crumpled because of my hurried attempt to hide it from him when I shoved it into my purse.

I turn it around and dial the number that's written on the back, certain that this call won't be rejected like the previous ones have been before. Yet the phone rings for what feels like an eternity before I hear a click sound and someone breathing on the other end.

"Stewart here," a voice greets me.

I furrow my eyebrows, unsure what to think of him introducing himself with his first name.

"Stewart, it's Ann," I say. "Ann Porter. You approached me at the-"

"Yes, Ann," he cuts me off. "Of course, I know who you are, don't be silly. I've been waiting for your call. Got something to tell me after all, do you?"

"No, actually I don't," I tell him, and nothing has ever felt better. "I just called to tell you that I don’t, and I wanted to make sure that you won't approach me again or try any devious methods to get to me."

"Devious methods?" he repeats, letting out a disgusting chuckle. "What kind of movie are you living in?"

"I'm just letting you know that whatever you're trying to do won't work," I insist. "You're digging for dirt where there is none. I have nothing to tell you because there is nothing to tell."

"Did he threaten you, is that it?"

I scoff, knitting my eyebrows. "What a vile idea. This is sick."

"Is it?" he probes. "Based on Mr. King's history, I'd say it's safe to assume-"

"Have you actually ever checked his history?" I ask. "Because if you did, you'd know that whatever you heard about him is simply not true. You're just trying to dig up dirt based on old rumors. I can tell you as a fellow journalist that you're pathetic at your job."

I hear Stewart chuckling at the other end, and even though I can't see him, I can imagine the kind of face he's making right now.

"This is a mistake," he tells me. "You're making a giant mistake, little girl."

"No, that's where you're wrong," I reply. "You're the one who's making the big mistake here."

I hear him getting ready to argue with me about my conclusion, but I've said everything I needed to say and end the call.

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