Page 19 of Ends of Being

At first glance, he appears to be another strait-laced white brief kind of guy. He has sandy blonde hair that’s grown a bit too long and the palest green eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s dressed in a drab, almost ill-fitting suit, and I can’t help but reach a hand over and pull his suit jacket open a bit in the hopes of seeing what he might be hiding under his boring costume.

He slaps my hand away, giving me a dirty look before focusing back on the road. I roll my eyes, huffing a bit as I go back to looking out the window, allowing thoughts of Darius to flood in. The unknowns I have about Darius seem infinite, and my mind spins when I try to break it down. The amount of stuff I don’t know about this man is mind-boggling, and I’m torn between being furious and a little sad.

Don’t get me wrong, I know a healthy chunk of the blame for this is on me, and that’s just the baseline without knowing any of the dirty details. I’m generally unapproachable and entirely irredeemable in how I intentionally keep myself distanced from people. The fact I lack the necessary social skills to be willing to learn anything important about other people is also on me. Instead, I allow myself to fall back on whatever assumptions I can come up with based on my own inner resentments because, frankly, people are shit.

Not that I think Dare is shit. I’m relatively certain he’s a hell of a guy, given what little I know about him. And this fact just makes me push even harder to keep him at arm’s length because deep down, I’m not a good person, and a hell of a guy really deserves a hell of a girl. I just don’t believe I’m deserving of the attention and affection of this particular guy. Honestly, he would be better off slamming the door in my face and keeping it locked up tight because I would likely bring nothing but trouble down on his head anyway.

I know…this all sounds very dramatic, and I suppose some of it is. But in my weak defense, it can be difficult to unravel yourself from the diatribe that has been woven around you for your entire existence. Not even decades of therapy can fix that kind of mental trauma, and I know this firsthand. Once you’ve been smashed up into small enough pieces, it becomes almost impossible to find the entire you who once existed before all that bad shit tore you down.

But enough of that. Back to me being a bad bitch.

I think what bothers me the most about my current circumstances is how much time was wasted, seeing as it appears we’re a pretty decent match. Somehow, he obviously understands me on a deeper level, even though, as far as I know, I’ve never given him any inclination as to what level I’m on other than being a bratty little shit. Or maybe that’s what does it for him. If he sees that bratty side, and he’s just like,“Hey, now. I got you.”

I kind of wish he would’ve gone and said that rather than going to the extreme lengths he’s gone to, but I accept I probably wouldn’t have been receptive to the “normal” approach because I’m a raving asshole.

Between being lost in my inner thoughts and sending out messages to give the impression I’m checking in with someone, I miss most of the drive into the city. I’m not even sure exactly what neighborhood we’re in when we pull into the drive of a rather nondescript two-story house. I can tell it’s a nice house, so I’ll assume it is in a nice neighborhood and likely cost a pretty good chunk of change. Mostly, I’m surprised Dare lives in the ‘burbs. Because this is definitely the ‘burbs. I pegged him more for a high-rise, penthouse kind of guy, with all of his drab suits and shiny loafers.

Chief Shields turns to me, his face serious as he says, “You should probably stay here while I check to see if he’s home.”

I snort, shaking my head emphatically as I reply, “Not a fucking chance. Since he thinks I’m currently tied up in a bunker, I highly doubt he’s here hanging out for the night. And if he is, he’s definitely a dead man, so I’m coming with you.”

He gives me a skeptical look, raising his brows as he mutters, “You two are perfect for each other.”

He gets out of the car, so I follow him, quickly catching up to him on the walkway toward the front door. He knocks and rings the bell, then waits a few minutes before checking his phone again. He makes a frustrated noise, obviously not too happy with the current situation, then turns to me and says, “We’re going to step inside for a moment just to make sure he’s not here, and then we can try somewhere else I think he may be, since he’s not answering my texts.”

He turns back to the door and some fancy keypad thing, and I don’t even know what he does, but eventually, there’s some beeping, and the door opens. I’d like to know what the fuck is with all this fancy tech shit since he couldn’t even be bothered to lock the door of a bunker where he had somebody locked in against their will. Fucking unreal.

We step into a foyer, which is all white walls and dark beams, simply decorated and understated. The house seems quiet, and at first glance, there doesn’t appear to be anyone here. Chief Shields glares at me, putting his hand up as an indication for me to stop where I am, and murmurs, “Fucking stay here, okay?”

I nod in agreement, but of course, I won’t fucking stay there. As soon as he walks out of sight, I scurry off up the stairs because if he was on the ground floor, then it’s likely we would be able to see or hear him from here. Apparently, police work is my thing, and Chief Shields needs to go back to the academy.

I peek into each room as I walk by, seeing as the doors are open, until I finally come to a closed door. I peer at it skeptically—every horror movie I’ve ever watched telling me not to open it—but we’ve established I’m not always the safety-first type. I’m definitely that bitch who gets slashed in the shower.

Not surprisingly, the door is not locked, so I push it open slowly and peek inside. I can’t make out much in the darkness, so I reach over and feel for a light switch on the wall, then flip it on when I locate it. It’s pretty obvious what I’m seeing as soon as the lights come on, but I think it takes my brain a full minute before I can actually fathom what the actual fuck is in here.

It’s me.

Everywhere I look, all I see is my face.

There are literally thousands of pictures of me on the walls, on the ceiling, on the tabletop. There’s an array of computer monitors that, thankfully, are black because I fear my face would be on those as well. I have to laugh a little at this completely insane sight before me, even if my laugh comes out more like a pained sob. I’m not sure if I should be angry or scared, but mostly, I’m just numb. Because seriously, what the actual fuck. How the fuck did I miss how clearly unhinged my boring little Clark is?

For a brief moment, I ponder if maybe Chief Shields is trying to put one over on me. Maybe this is his house, and he’s going to come up here to find me at any moment to do the things that no one wants done to them. I quickly discard that theory because if Chief Shields wanted to do bad things to me, he could’ve easily done that without bringing me to this house.

I wander around the room slowly, my fingertips touching different images of myself, trying to pinpoint exactly how far back this clear obsession began. I step up to the desk and shuffle through the pictures there, and it appears there is a picture of me at every bar I’ve ever been to in at least the last few months.

There’s a manila envelope sitting near the keyboard with what appears to be a pile of newspaper clippings in it. I open it up, squinting as I try to figure out what it’s all about. The articles all seem to be about the same missing person. I don’t recognize the name, so I leaf through the articles one by one until I come across an article that includes a picture.

It’s jackoff.

Apparently, jackoff has been a missing person for some time. So again, what the actual fuck. Chills run down my spine, my guts cramp, and my breath catches in my throat as the clear implications of this information jump into my head. Also, slightly annoyed that jackoff had given me a false name, but this current issue seems to take precedence.

I feel the envelope fall from my hand and watch as all the clippings float to the floor and spread out before me like a fan. All I can do is blink down at them, stunned.

At that moment, through the buzzing in my head, I hear a commotion downstairs, several raised voices, then feet pounding up the stairs. I can’t move—don’t really see any point in moving—and the next thing I know, Dare appears in the doorway, obviously furious, his eyes wild as he locates me in the room.

“Antoinette,” he says softly. “Are you okay?”

I don’t say anything; I just stare at him. Has he looked around the room I’m standing in? Is he so fucking stupid he doesn’t realize what I have seen? How incredibly fucked up it is?

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