Page 22 of Deliverance

“Hey, baby,” the voice says, and tiny hairs on my arms rise.Rhys.“Found ya.”

I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. Not a sound. Then a pitiful image of a fish tossed out of the water onto the sandy shore flashes through my mind.

Right now, I’m that fish, struggling to stay alive just a little bit longer, hoping some kind soul will stop by and take me back to where I belong.

But there are no kind souls here. There’s just him.

His body shifts closer and I can feel his hands hovering above my breasts for a few long seconds before they find my neck. Terror and nausea swarm through me as an overwhelming sense of déjà vu crowds my mind and draws out the old, almost forgotten memories.Not this.Hard fingers wrap around my throat and squeeze…

Then I hear it—-the wheezing and the snap of my fragile bones, and oddly, I’m as much at peace as I am terrified, because this chase is about to end. Finally, I don’t have to run anymore.

Black dots swirl at the edges of my vision, the room blurs and then I’m jolted awake…

My eyelids fly open; my breathing is fast and shallow and something presses against my ribs from the inside so hard that every inch of my shaking body hurts. It takes me a good minute to realize it’s my heart hammering against my sternum like a caged beast.

Hugging myself in an attempt to stop the tremors, I sit up and stare at the wall across from me, where a large framed black and white photo of the cityscape I purchased last year at the thrift shop is hanging. The soft moonlight pouring into the bedroom through the half-open blinds dances across the glossy paper without a care in the world. As if nothing just happened.

But nothing did.

I’m alone in my Hollywood loft. There’s a security guard in the lobby downstairs and Rhys can’t get in. He’s two thousand miles away.

It was just a nightmare, I tell myself, pulling my knees up to my chest and locking my arms around my legs.It was just a nightmare.

I don’t even try to go back to sleep. I know it’s not possible. Instead, I strip my bed of the sheets and pillowcases stained with my sweat and head downstairs to do laundry.

It’s barely three in the morning when I load the washer. The night is still thick and the city intently quiet, its lights stark against the darkness of the distant Hollywood hills my loft overlooks.

The unfinished canvas that’s laid out on the floor in my working area calls my name as I pace to the soft sound of the washer with my arms curled around my waist. I don’t typically bring my work home with me. The majority of my materials are in my downtown studio, but I’ve been working on this piece for almost two months and my muse seems to want to only come out at night. Normally, once the idea is fully formed in my head and I can visualize the final product, the process of creating the piece itself is quick—two to three weeks tops—or, at least, quicker than it was at the very beginning of my journey when I was still getting a feel for the medium and trying to understand how to extract what burned inside me without losing anything in the process.

This particular canvas challenges my patience. It wants to be something I can’t see and it made no sense to keep it at my studio where it took up precious space and distracted me from finishing up other pieces that are more submissive to my vision.

I text Santiago at five, unsure whether he’s had a late night.

We used to run almost every morning, but ever since our careers started to demand more time, getting together this early and on a regular basis has become difficult. We’re lucky if we’re able to line up something once a week now, especially with all the preparations for my new collection at Nu Dawn being right around the corner.

To my surprise, Santiago responds almost immediately.

Bae: Meet you at the usual spot?

Originally, it was just a joke. He took it upon himself to punch that god-awful label into my phone when we met, and I never changed it, because every time I got a call or a message from him, it made me laugh.

Thirty minutes later, an Uber drops me off in the parking lot near Griffith Park. It’s still early and there are just a few cars and a couple of hikers stretching. Soft yellow glazes the dark sky in the east as the sun is about to begin its slow but sure climb over the city.

Santiago is doing push-ups against the edge of a wooden picnic table and doesn’t see me approach. I pause and take a second to enjoy the view. I don’t know why since my interest in the male physique has been absent. At least, up until the moment Zander Shaw walked into Nu Dawn. There’s no denying Santiago has a beautifully sculptured body, taut and cared for, all lean muscle, an even tan, long, graceful limbs, perfect for a dancer. But my admiration isn’t sexual in any way. I’ve never thought of Santiago as someone I could ever be attracted to, despite his openness when it comes to relationships. He’s dated both men and women, but we’ve always known that what we have is more than enough. No amount of orgasms can replace a true friendship. And although everyone in this city seems to be obsessed with chasing great sex, the concept is foreign to me.

My marriage to Rhys Jacoby was my first and last attempt at a relationship.

Take off your clothes and bend over, Andrea. And don’t play games with me. I know you like it.

A shudder wracks me and I’m pulled back into the abyss of sickening memories of my ex. I shut them off and circle the picnic table to face Santiago.

“Show off.”

He lifts his head and gazes up at me through his thick lashes, an innocent smile touching his lips. “I hope you’re in shape, because I’m beating your ass today.” He continues with his push-ups to give me a chance to warm up.

So I do just that—rolling my shoulders and stretching my neck, readying myself for a good deal of exertion.

The air is still cool and fresh, filled with the scent of maple and morning dew, and I enjoy the delicate serenity of the dawn while I can, because I know it won’t last long. Soon, crowds of joggers, dog walkers, and young moms with strollers will flood the park, and we’ll no longer have it to ourselves.

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