Page 48 of Rush of Jealousy

It has been twenty-four hours since I last talked to him on the phone—albeit it was a one-sided conversation with him yelling at me to follow the orders of his security detail. I know that he is across the country—who knows where—and I do have several contact numbers to reach him. However, loneliness does not constitute an emergency by any stretch of the imagination for me to reach outjust because.

I do not want to be like one of those girls. The type of girl who waits by the phone, going through life as if having a man is the only way to feel free and alive and loved. I want my independence. I want my own desires to dictate the type of things I do each day. But something deep within me—under all of the layers of pain and disappointment from the past—yearns for the release and comfort of having someone make decisions for me. For someone to come along and care for me so deeply that my happiness is their ultimate mission.

But does that even exist?

In Disney movies it does. In fairytales, yes. Seriously, the romantic novel genre is the number one selling genre for…decades? Yet, why is divorce so prevalent in society? It’s because women are led to believe that fiction equals reality. That if we just wait long enough, our prince will come. That we just have to be patient and say “no” to all of the anti-princes. Then, when we least expect it—when we aren’t even looking—bam! Love.

Blah.

No. Love like that does not exist.

Nothing lasts forever. The more I keep telling myself that, the better it will be whenever Graham finally leaves me alone for good. And he will. Everyone, with the exception of Claire, who I ever cared about left. Why will he be anyone different?

There’s a pattern in regard to falling in love. Almost like stages, rather than pathways. First, there’s attraction—also known as lust. Second, the romance stage. Then, the power-struggle. Followed by the trust. And hopefully that leads to commitment bliss.

Graham and I have no problems in the attraction stage. He has made it clear to me—on more than one occasion—that he wants me, and his body language supports his verbal language. The feeling is mutual. As much of a hard-ass as he claims to be, he is definitely romantic. It is just not textbook romance. No, it is a security system and random erotic gifts and a safety entourage. It is unconventional, at best. But it is still a way of showing he cares about me.

Now, the power-struggle stage is something that I constantly feel that we are in. As if the broken record keeps playing over and over and over. I never met someone like Graham before—ever. He wants everything his way. He thinks his opinions are the best. And he rarely compromises. It irks me. It thrills me. It overwhelms me. I love it and I hate it. I can’t figure him out. We are playing a game of tug-of-war—where there is never a winner. No one wants to bend or give in. We are always at a stalemate.

As much as he wants to delve into my life, discover all of the mysteries and get to know me more, he very much wants to keep things hidden and buried in his own closet. Which makes me wonder if we are even compatible or if we will forever bump heads. Even when I try to stay away from him, he is there.

I don’t trust easily. I blame that on many years of trusting freely and having it shatter my life. I trusted that my mom would be around to help me pick out a prom dress. I trusted that my dad would step up to the plate whenever she couldn’t. I trusted that James would be around to celebrate all of our birthdays together. I trusted myself to not let anyone else get close to me. Because everyone either dies or walks away from me.

Now I am conditioned to do the complete opposite. I constantly look for hidden messages and ulterior motives. It’s not a great way to go through life, but protecting my heart from being broken outweighs my need for a deeper level of relationship. People can only hurt me if I let them.

If Graham and I can just skim the surface, I will be just fine. I tried to stay away from him and it didn’t work. I can’t stop thinking about him—especially after spending the night together.

He comforted me while I got stitches…

He took care of me after the Halloween party…

There is a comfort knowing that he is around. And as selfish as I am, I want him to be available.

I slip out of bed and go downstairs to evaluate the damage. The Monday night ritual was intense—both on the TV and in the living room. I spent half the night sleeping at the foot of Claire’s bed to make sure she was alright, finally returning to my room after three in the morning. I almost stayed with her longer to clean up the clutter in her room while she slept, but I couldn’t turn on the lights without waking her.

After receiving a call from Ethan asking her if she could hang a scarf he left over here on the doorknob outside, she had an emotional break. Quite frankly, it was scary. Not even Blake and his ability to make the guards at Buckingham Palace smirk worked on Claire’s mood. In the end, I sent everyone out the door after the show ended and helped her get settled in upstairs.

Once I saw Ethan trot up the steps to our place, I swung open the door and gave him a piece of my mind. One of the new security men who Graham hired got out of a discreet-looking car in the lot and instructed me to go inside as he escorted Ethan from the property. It took everything in me not to jump on his back and beat him from behind. I have no shame in playing unfairly. You piss with Claire, you piss with me.

As expected, wrappers and chip crumbs are all over the coffee table and hardwood floors. Partially filled glasses of some alcoholic concoction are left on coasters around the room on every available flat surface. It’s a mess.

A carton of ice cream and the plastic container of chocolate-covered strawberries were victims of last night’s episode. Both disappeared without a trace, but Claire cannot be completely responsible for the binge. She had a partner in crime.

Knowing that thirty minutes is not enough time to clean up the disaster, I go back upstairs and prepare for a trip to see Dr. Williams. This can all wait until I’m back.

* * *

“What did I tell you about tampering with a police investigation, Miss McFee?”

I frown over Dr. Williams’s tone. He has gone from encouraging me at the start of the semester to trying to persuade me to find another topic entirely. I don’t have time to find another topic. It’s already November and the semester ends right before Christmas.

“I, um, am not interfering.”

“You are essentially acting like an undercover police officer. Without a degree, without a badge, and without the skill set.”

Sadness rushes through me. He is wrong. I am not doing anything differently than I would as a typical college student. The only difference is that I am privy to a pattern that may have otherwise been overlooked. Only agency girls are becoming victims to a string of druggings happening on campus. I have connections and am able to do more than a police officer would ever be able to do, because I am smack-dab in the middle of the chaos. I am in college. I am a girl. And I am—was—a part of the agency. While I don’t have the skill set to protect myself like a police officer would, I do have the skill set to see connections that may not be otherwise revealed.

“What would happen if I continue this topic of research for the class anyway?”

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