Page 6 of Vicious Hearts

“Yeah, it’s up to you, fine.” He’s back over at the couch, splashing the now-warm vodka into a tumbler. He downs it in one. “But it takes two to tango, and I’m saying no way. Now get out.”

I freeze. How can it be possible that he was eating my pussy a minute ago, and now he’s telling me to leave?

He’s still speaking, half to himself.

“I can’t fucking believe I allowed myself to do this. For fuck’s sake. You’re a virgin, and you were gonna give it up tome.”

I stand up, feeling exposed, with nothing covering my lower half. I snatch up the sheet, wrapping it around me.

“I didn’t know you were the sort of man to get precious about taking my honor,” I snap. “And in case you can’t tell, I’m being sarcastic. So I’m a virgin? Whatever. It doesn’t define me. If you just carry on and do what you were about to do, I won’t be a virgin anymore, and you won’t have to worry about it.”

“You don’t get it.” He slams my suitcase closed and carries it into the bathroom, dumping it on the floor. “This is not some fade-to-black romantic scene. I don’t do that. You can only give it up once, and you’ll regret letting me take it.”

“I won’t!” I block the bathroom door with my body, but he picks me up by my waist and sets me down again without breaking stride. “I don’t care how rough you are. Do you have any idea what I’ve pictured you doing to me? Don’t talk to me like I’m a child!”

“Get dressed and get out, Roxy.” Ben picks up the vodka bottle, but not the glass. “I’m not who you think I am, and this isn’t happening. Do you understand?”

My face feels hot, and my eyes sting with tears. I blink them away.

“Fine.”

Ben stalks out onto the patio, closing the door behind him. Ten minutes later, I’m dressed and ready to leave, but he’s still staring out to sea.

I steal a last look at him as I open the villa door, but he doesn’t turn around.

1

Six months later…

Roxy

Valentine’s Day. My least favorite day of the year.

I volunteered to work today so I could distract myself, but I can only write so many case notes before I feel compelled to put my head in the shredder. Before my best friend Ali got married, I could indulge in whining with her, but now there's no one to complain to anymore.

As per any other Friday, I have a date with a glass of wine and a movie. When all else fails, David Bowie inLabyrinthis my happy place.

I know what my problem is. I'm always at work and studying the rest of the time—no headspace for a relationship. And, of course, there's the other reason, the one I've spent the last few months trying not to think about.

Ben totally humiliated me. Not a day passes that I don't remember his face as he turned away, dismissing me even though we'd shared the most erotic few minutes of my life. But it's not as though I was that surprised. Except for Ali, everyone I cared about rejected me in one way or another. I should be grateful he didn't take more from me before he cast me aside.

I still hate myself for wanting him, and this stupid cutesy holiday is doing nothing to help. Luckily for me, he's out of town.

All the files have been stamped and put away, the referrals processed, and tomorrow's visits are on the board. As I walk out the door, I see a young man walking by, holding a red foil heart-shaped balloon.

I check the locks and tuck the keys into my bag. Shivering, I pull my collar up against the wind and head toward the park.

As a trainee children's counselor at Always Home, I get the donkey work, like coffee runs and data entry, but I wouldn't change a thing. If the charity had existed when I was a kid, I'd have been far safer. Maybe I'd have had a shot at finding a new family instead of ending up in juvie and clinging to Ali for so long.

I think about the murders and feel even colder.

Six children, all aged between five and nine, bled pale and left in marshy areas or shallow water.

New York City homicide was the first to call him The Dollmaker. It's a stupid, frivolous nickname, but the gutter press loves that kind of thing, and once they got hold of it, the name wouldn't go away. They stuck with it even after the suspect was arrested and convicted, and they had a real name to use.

Simon Farraday confessed to being the serial child-killer. He operated along the East Coast from Massachusetts to Savannah but actually lived and worked not far from here. A cable repairman with a wife and baby son.

The trial was brief but sensational. His family did not attend—reporters parked their news vans on the Farraday's front lawn, but in the days after the conviction, they left one by one.

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