belongs to me: my workout gear, my running sneakers.
I need to run until my lungs feel icy and my breath is ragged and hot. Maybe then I’ll be able to stop thinking about that rich, presumptuous, arrogant prick.
I pair my Bluetooth headphones to my phone and play some Amon Armarth, which was Dad’s favorite band before the end. He used to play it when we were on the freeway, going just close enough to the speed limit to not get pulled over.
I try not to think about that unsaid thing between me and Wyatt: that Dad’s driving might’ve played a part in getting him and Mom killed. Because he was always careful on the ice, right? But then, is careful relative? Maybe ‘careful’ for Dad is reckless for another, truly cautious man.
I need to run. I don’t let myself think about that, ever.
Soon, I’m out of the door, jogging down the street in the middle of the night, head ducked low and music roaring in my ears. I run until I can’t think anymore.
But here’s the thing: it doesn’t work. I do think. And I see. And I feel.
My mind is thrown back to a week and a half ago and I can hardly stand it. I can feel Angelo’s hands on me, hear his voice from the phone sex earlier. Touch your clit now. I want to touch it again. I want him to touch it again. I just …
I want.
A week and a half ago
Walking out of the hospital after my shift, I saw it: a sleek black car, a man with sunglasses sitting at the wheel. It was the sunglasses that made me think something was wrong. It’s December, for fuck’s sake, and there he was with traffic-cop shades on. So maybe I’m paranoid, but as I pulled away in my beloved Beetle, I watched him.
Sure enough, Mr. Sunglasses was still behind me. I played a little trick on him: turning left into a convenience store parking lot. He stopped across the street. I pulled out of the lot without even stepping out of my car, and there he was, doing a piss-poor job at hiding himself.
Maybe most people would call the police or, you know, do something clever. But I was still pissed from seeing yet another OD, plus I was pissed at having to work alongside Ricky who froze up on Wyatt, so what I did was pull up at the side of the road and walk over to the car.
I slammed my fist against the tinted window until it rolled down an inch.
“Can I help you?” the man said calmly. He had a black ponytail and wore a leather jacket, giving him a sort of sleazy look.
“The way I see it, there are two possibilities here,” I told him. “Either you’re a rapist or a murderer. Both are bad, so yeah, you can help me. Back the hell off. Okay?”
He smiled.
“Why are you smiling?” I snapped.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I had a bet with my employer. I did not think you would approach the car. He did.” He shrugged. “I guess he won.”
“And who’s your employer? Wait—it’s Angelo, isn’t it?”
He nodded. I felt this cord of anger move through me, but also something else. Weirdly, I felt almost flattered by this, like he cared enough to send this man after me.
But I killed that impulse quick. I rode the rage instead.
“Why the hell did he tell you to follow me?”
With another shrug, the man said, “He wanted to know if you’d given any more thought to his offer.”
Shaking my head, I took a step back. “Take me to him,” I snapped. “Right. Fucking. Now.”
“Sure. I will have to call him first, but sure. Climb in.”
I laughed darkly. Did he think I was an idiot? That I was just going to climb into a car with a stranger? “No, thanks. I’ll follow.”
I marched back to my car, seething, and watched in the rearview as the man talked on the phone. He gave me a thumbs-up and then pulled out ahead of me. I followed, rehearsing all the things I would say to Angelo. He needed to know it wasn’t okay to send his goons after me. And yet, at the same time, there was a small part of me that was glad for the excuse to see him again. That was the same part that wondered if I was gripping the steering wheel too hard in lust, not anger.
Finally, the man pulled up outside a