17. Is He Dead?

Chapter 17

Is He Dead?

MEGAN

B ased on my past experience with people in general, but especially guys, I used to wonder if my father and stepmother fucked me up in the head. Now I know the truth. They fucked me up real good. Because how else can I explain the fact that I've allowed this grown-ass man to barge into my life and take it completely over? Why am I not afraid of him? He's a criminal and a very dangerous man. Dead bodies end up behind his club, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's the one who puts them there.

Having said that, I think that it's those dangerous parts of his personality that I'm drawn to because those are his qualities that keep me safe. I never expected to feel so utterly protected when he held me against him, covering my eyes as he doled out his brand of brutal justice.

Nobody has ever tried to shield me from violence the way this man did. I've never felt special or important enough to anyone even to deserve such protection. And yet, he flayed me with his tongue in a deliberate effort to remind me of my status in this world. But now he's here, bandaging me up, drowning me with care and consideration, and I don't know what's real anymore.

"Why?"

I've always been able to keep my emotions in check, even when I was humiliated by my own family or those elitist bullies at school, but this push and pull between Mr. Middleton and me has me bursting apart at the seams.

"What are you trying to achieve by all of this?" I ask him.

The words feel as if they are being torn out of me. I have to say them. I have to ask the questions that I'm dying to know the answers to. He doesn't say anything in response, but he doesn't walk out the door either.

When I lift my head, he's not looking in my direction. He's staring at the door. "I don't know."

I get to my feet slowly and approach him. "You don't know? What kind of bullshit answer is that?"

He turns his head to look at me and his eyes are flickering with a smoldering anger but I stand my ground, refusing to be intimidated.

"I am a student, Mr. Middleton," I say, deliberately keeping my voice even. "The only reason I'm working at your club and risking my life every day is because I need the money. I can't afford to get dragged into your world. I want to make something of myself. I want my own art studio. I may not deserve it but I have my own dreams, small as they may be, insignificant to you as they may be. So please stop treating me like this. You're fucking with my head, and I'm not going to be somebody's whore."

His eyes narrow at my words, yet I continue on ruthlessly, wanting to get this out of me.

"You were right in your office. I don't have any value. I'm not special. So stop treating me like I am. Don't give me jobs I'm not qualified for, nurse my wounds, or scare the shit out of my neighbors when you have no idea what you want from me. If this is a game you like to play with your employees from time to time, I want it on the record that I don't want to participate. Let me tap out. Let me quit, and you can go play ball with some other young girl at the club."

"That's enough," he says with a sharp edge to his voice, but I'm not done.

"So then stop," I hiss, my hands curling into fists. "Let me just do my job, get through my college, get a decent paying job, and maybe find a nice guy for myself. Let me live the life I'm trying to live."

His eyes harden at my words and his voice becomes dangerously deep, "And just who do you plan to find for yourself, Miss Taylor? Some nice accountant who bores you to death and fucks you every Friday like clockwork or a politician's son who treats you like trailer trash and never lets you forget where you come from?"

"At least he won't be ramming his gun down somebody's throat and shooting them dead. I'm just asking you to leave me alone for, I don't know, like the millionth time! You made a compelling argument in your office today and I'm glad you put me in my place. That is what you wanted, isn't it? I got it. I learned my lesson. I'm not your problem. I never was."

For a moment, the flash of heat in his eyes makes me falter. If he touched me right now, I would melt. If he kissed me, I would die. I hate that I find myself wanting him to do it, but I do. I can't help myself. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm starting to think that the biggest game player in this toxic relationship of ours... is me.

Then, without a word, he turns and walks out of my house, and the minute the door slams behind him, I feel my knees turn weak, and I sink to the floor. My heart is pounding, and I scramble back to lean against the back of the couch. My lips feel raw and tingly from the way they were so deliciously abused. I've never been kissed the way this man does, in this ruthless manner, taking everything from my mouth until there's nothing left and then demanding more.

"I have to stay away from him," I mumble to myself, running my hand through my hair and then wiping at my lips to remove his dark taste.

I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, "I'm fine. I'm fine now."

My stomach still hurts from where Steve punched me. I still don't understand the animosity that led him to kidnap me like this. When I saw his face, I was shocked. Confusion had followed shock, ending with resignation. Steve had always been a lazy bastard, but he'd never been mean to me. The hatred I saw in his eyes tonight was something new to me. It only reinforces the fact that I am a bad judge of character.

Now that I'm home, within the four walls of my apartment, I can't calm down. Everything that has happened today comes crashing down on me at once. I had been this close to dying tonight or, at the very least, to being tortured. I stare at myself in a long mirror in my room. I rip open my blouse, buttons fly everywhere, and I unzip and step out of my skirt. A sob escapes me as I stare at my bruised body. I wish Naomi was home. She'd know what to do to get me to forget this horrible day. She always knows what to do.

It takes me an hour to crawl to bed once the sun is nearly out, and when I do sleep, I dream of a night long ago when my arms were drenched with blood, and I stare down at a face I once loved.

And then the dream shifts to a faceless man, hiding me in his arms as people scream around me.

I don't go to college for a few days. The bruises on my face are something I can't hide under makeup, even if I had Naomi's help. Fortunately, she's gone to visit her family for a week or two, so I don't have to worry about her freaking out over the complete downturn of my life.

I don't go to work as well.

Naomi promised to cover my portion of the rent this month, so to save the little bit of money I have left, I just ordered a carton of ramen noodles, which I cook every day.

I spend the entire week under my favorite fuzzy blanket, eating noodles and watching cartoons. There is no way I can step outside with my face like this. There is no way I can face the world with a broken spirit like this. I don't even have the energy to sketch.

It's on the eighth day that there's a knock on my door in the evening. When I open it, it's the last person I want to see. I typically go out of my way to avoid our landlord, Mickey, but when he shows up unannounced, I don't have any way of walking away from him.

He's a fucking creepy fifty-year-old man with a round face, small eyes that are too far apart, and thin pink lips. Mickey is also an alcoholic with a protruding beer belly and a formidable six-foot-frame.

He takes one look at my face and sneers. "Somebody went at your face, huh? What did you do? Piss off your ex or maybe a new boyfriend?"

I grind my teeth at the insinuation. "What do you want, Mickey?"

"Where's that crazy friend of yours?"

I open my mouth, about to tell him the truth, but something inside me warns me not to let him know that I'm alone. "She's a few minutes away. Why?"

There's an odd glint in his eyes. "I came to fix the kitchen sink. There's a drip, right?"

"It's working just fine," I say, not moving out of the doorway. "And I told you to let us know beforehand if you have to repair anything."

"Well, I don't have time to run after the two of you." He pushes past me into the apartment and looks around.

I wrap my blanket around me even tighter because I'm only wearing a sports bra and panties underneath. I never should have mindlessly answered the door.

"Get out, Mickey. I'm working."

"What're you wearing under the blanket?" He eyes me hungrily, and I have the urge to scrub off my skin.

"None of your business!" I growl at him. "Come back another time to fix the sink."

He's watching me, and then he takes another look around the place. "I thought I told you I don't want you girls bringing random men in here. I'm not running a whorehouse."

His words are deliberately provoking, but I'm not so stupid as to let him get to me. "We know the rules, Mickey. We've been living here for a while now."

"Then who were those two men last week?" He narrows his eyes at me. "I saw them."

Such a creeper.

"If you saw them, you should have asked me then. Why are you asking me a week later?" I retort. "I don't have time for this. Like I said, I'm working."

"Because I wanted to be sure that your crazy bitch friend wasn't home when I came by."

His voice is sly, and a lousy premonition hits me.

He knows.

He knows that Naomi is out of town.

I glance down at Mickey's hand, and my voice is wary. "Where is your toolbox, Mickey?"

He's standing in the middle of the room, ignoring my question. "Since when have you started bringing around men in expensive cars?"

He takes a step towards me and my little voice is warning me quite loudly to remove myself from this situation.

"That was my boss."

"Bullshit," he responds, smiling at me, his yellow-stained teeth visible. "Why would your boss come to your apartment unless you're offering him something special? And here you keep crying about not being able to make rent."

"I've always made my rent," I spit out, tense. "I want you to leave."

"I own this place and rented it to you two without a credit check," he sneers at me. "If you were willing to suck dick to get by, you should have just told me."

I don't hesitate, picking up the ugly ceramic duck-shaped vase on the table next to the couch and throwing it at his feet, "Get out, you sick pervert!"

He slides his feet out of the way, and his sneer morphs into an ugly look.

"I'm not going anywhere. You girls are always flaunting yourselves in front of me, teasing me. You want this," he says, grabbing the small package between his legs. "Why else would you bring those men around for me to see?"

The sick feeling in the bottom of my stomach compounds as I realize a couple of things. First, that Mickey is a delusional psychopath, and two, that he's here to rape me.

In a heartbeat, I rush towards the door, and I'm about to pull it open when he's on me, grabbing me by my middle and throwing me to the ground as I let out a loud scream.

But I'm a fighter.

I scramble back on all fours and dart behind the couch. Mickey is so focused on my ass that he doesn't see me grabbing the hot mug of tea that I just made a few minutes ago. I toss the whole thing into his face, and as he screams in pain, I scramble over the couch and dart towards the door, pulling it open and running outside with bare feet and only the blanket around me.

I'm so busy looking over my shoulder to make sure he's not following me that I run smack dab into a wall of firm male muscle. Fear is rampant within me, my breathing uneven as I try to jump away, but the man grabs me by the waist.

"Leave me–"

Before I can get out the word alone, I look up and see Mr. Middleton staring right back at me. I'm in shock. He's the last person I thought I'd see again. After a week of no contact, I thought he was finally done with me.

"What's going on?" he asks, his voice tense. "Why are you running outside with no shoes on and a blanket?"

I look over my shoulder, terrified. "My landlord, Mickey, he came in and tried to; I think he wanted to?—"

I can't get the words out. I'm shaking so badly.

"I've got you." Mr. Middleton's arm wraps around my waist, pulling me into his chest, his other hand tightening the blanket around me. "It's going to be fine."

"He's still in there, though."

My ear is pressed against his chest, and hearing his steady heartbeat calms me down. I don't understand why I feel so safe in his arms; I'm pretty sure that I've gone from one monster straight into the arms of another one.

"Not for long," he reassures me, his voice calm.

I worry for a moment that Mr. Middleton may kill my landlord, but when Mickey emerges from the apartment building and starts verbally attacking me, I begin not to give a damn.

"You fucking bitch! How fucking dare you?!"

Mr. Middleton's voice is cool as a cucumber as he whispers into my hair, "I won't let him touch you."

I've never once relied on another person to protect me because I never had that luxury, even as a child. But why are those six words everything I needed to hear? Why does my body instinctively relax when he says them? All I want to do is to envelope myself inside his embrace, where it feels completely safe... and stay there.

Mickey comes to a stop when his pea brain realizes that I'm not alone. He's huffing for breath, his face an angry red from where I threw the hot tea at him. "Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing in front of my building?"

He squints his eyes as if he's finally getting us into focus."Wait, you're that man from last week, aren't you? You need to get going, man. This bitch is mine tonight."

As Mickey advances, Mr. Middleton does not so much as move. Part of the reason may be because of a dark shadowed figure which moves past us and then tackles Mickey to the ground.

The front of the building isn't that well-lit, so it takes me a second to realize that it's Lars. Parker is right behind him, with a gun in hand. He smiles at Mickey sinisterly, who is struggling under Lar's chokehold. "You're an ugly little fucker, aren't you?"

"Let me go!" Mickey shouts. "This is illegal! You can't just assault me when I've done nothing. I'm going to press charges against all three of you."

Lars exchanges a look with Parker, who shrugs and brings down the butt of his gun on the back of Mickey's head. My perverted landlord collapses onto the ground like a sack of potatoes.

A panic overwhelms me.

"Is he dead?"