Page 38 of Pose for Me

Rayne

Flowersaredeliveredthatsame afternoon. For a few moments I think that perhaps they are from Knox and River, but I dismiss the thought before I even look at the card. They have been very obvious about knowing every tiny detail about me including my likes and dislikes.

Dislike isn’t a strong enough word for the roses that are left on my doorstep.

I stare at the bouquet, a cloying sweetness filling the air. The roses are a garish shade of red, their petals already starting to wilt at the edges. The cellophane crinkles loudly as I pick up the arrangement, my nose wrinkling at the overpowering scent.

Roses. Of all the flowers they could have chosen, it had to be roses. I've never understood the appeal of these gaudy blooms, their thorny stems always seeming more a threat than a romantic gesture. Give me peonies or lavender any day.

I carry the unwanted gift into my studio, holding it at arm's length as if it might bite. The wrapping is a metallic gold tissue paper underneath the cellophane. A red satin ribbon, tied in an overly elaborate bow, completes the clichéd presentation.

With a sigh, I set the flowers on my desk and reach for my phone. My fingers hover over Knox's name in my contacts for a moment before I hit the call button. It rings twice before his deep voice answers.

"Sweetheart? Is everything alright?"

The concern in his tone sends an unexpected warmth through me. "I'm fine," I assure him quickly. "But I thought you should know... I received flowers today."

There's a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. "Describe them," Knox demands, his voice tight and I can hear the edge of anger.

I detail the garish arrangement, from the wilting petals to the tacky wrapping. As I speak, I notice a card nestled among the blooms. With trepidation, I pluck it from its plastic holder.

"There's a card," I tell Knox, my voice wavering slightly as I unfold the small piece of paper.

The message inside is a jumble of apologies and possessive ramblings, the handwriting alternating between careful precision and frenzied scrawl. My stomach churns as I read aloud:

"My dearest Rayne,

I'm sorry if I frightened you. That was never my intention. I only want to protect you, to keep you safe from those who would harm you. You are mine, my beautiful flower, and I will do anything to keep you. We belong together, can't you see that? Soon, very soon, we'll be together forever. No one will ever come between us again."

Knox's growl is audible even through the phone. "Don't touch anything else," he instructs. "I'll be there as soon as I can. In the meantime, get rid of those flowers. Throw them in the dumpster outside, not your trash can."

I nod, then remember he can't see me. "Okay," I agree. "I'll keep the card for you, though. It's... unsettling."

I stare at the card for a long moment as I hang up the phone, my skin crawling as I reread the possessive words. The paper feels tainted somehow, as if the stalker's obsession has seeped into the very fibers. Part of me wants to crumple it up, to set it aflame and watch the ashes scatter in the wind. To destroy this tangible evidence of the unwanted stalker hanging over me.

But I resist the urge, carefully placing the card on the corner of my desk instead. The crisp white rectangle stands out starkly against the dark wood. I'll leave it there for Knox to collect, another piece in the puzzle he's trying to solve.

With a shudder, I gather up the offending bouquet then head down the stairs and out into the alley behind the building.

The metal lid of the dumpster clangs open with a resounding bang that echoes off the brick walls. I toss the flowers in without ceremony, watching with grim satisfaction as they land among the other refuse. Good riddance.

Back in the studio, I try to shake off the unease that clings to me like a second skin. Already the scent of the roses stubbornly sticks to me, so I reach for the oil roller on my desk, freshening the lavender and vanilla scent on my skin. I need a distraction, something to occupy my mind so I turn to my computer, determined to lose myself in work.

I pull up the folder containing Breanna's initial gallery shots. The images from our boudoir session fill my screen–soft curves draped in delicate lace, coy smiles, and empowered poses. I begin the painstaking process of sorting through them, selecting the best shots for editing.

As I work, I'm acutely aware of another folder lurking in my digital files. The gallery I should be focusing on–the erotic session with Knox and River. The deadline is looming, but I can't bring myself to open it. Not yet. The thought of looking at that footage and all those images makes my heart race.

I tell myself I'll get to it tomorrow, knowing full well I probably won't.

Hours slip by as I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of editing. I adjust lighting, smooth skin tones, and enhance the natural beauty of each shot. The work is engrossing, allowing me to forget–if only for a little while–about stalkers and threats and the chaos that has become my life.

By the time I finally look up from my computer, the sky outside has darkened to a deep indigo. My eyes burn from staring at the screen for so long, and my back aches from hunching over my desk. With a groan, I stretch my arms above my head, feeling my spine pop in protest.

I'm about to shut down my computer when a small notification icon in the corner of my screen catches my eye. That's odd–I don't recall seeing it earlier, and I always keep my volume up to avoid missing alerts. Frowning, I click on the icon, watching as a news article pops up on my screen.

"Another Victim Found: Serial Killer Strikes Again"

My heart races as I scan the article, but it's still lacking in even the most basic details. The victim isn't named, just described as a "local man in his 40s." The body was discovered this morning in an alley downtown, not far from where River and I had our encounter the night before. A shiver runs down my spine at the memory.

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