“Aasif, why didn’t you fire me?”
He rolls his eyes. “Because you do a good job scaring off the criminals in that costume.”
“Now is not the time to fuck with me, Aasif. Tell me! Why did you change your mind?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy for pretending not to know. Then his features soften and his round dark eyes widen with surprise.
“You really don’t know?”
I glare at him, a silent reminder that I’m not in the mood to be fucked with.
He shrugs. “I got an envelope in the mail. When I opened it up, it was a picture of my mom and sister with the top of the picture cut off at their necks. The note on the back said that I’d regret the decision if I fired you.”
I cover my mouth in horror. “Oh, my God. That’s disgusting. Who would do something like that?”
He looks like he’s not sure if he believes that I had nothing to do with it. “Look, you can leave now. I’ve got it covered.”
I want to insist he tells the police, but I have no idea who sent him that letter. And I have no way of knowing if contacting the authorities will cause this person to retaliate against Aasif and his family.
I nod my head as I tuck my paperback novel into the cubbie under the counter. He wants me gone. He doesn’t want to talk about this, and I don’t blame him.
I pull the drawstrings on my hood a bit tighter and exit through the rear entrance. I hear the click of Aasif locking the door behind me and I stare at it for a moment, trying to figure out who would threaten his family. Initially, I believed it was my father because I refused to believe Daimon would care enough about me to do something like that. And his hasty exit from my apartment six days ago sort of proved his apathy. But now I don’t know what to think.
Especially now that I remember a customer in a dark hoodie driving a gold Mercedes just like the one I saw the first night I saw Daimon. But it doesn’t make sense. Why would Daimon kill someone who was driving his car? He said it was a known sexual predator in that car. Unless, the predator just happened to have the same car as him. Or the man I saw at the gas station two months ago wasn’t Daimon.
It’s too much of a coincidence to be unrelated. And now Aasif and his family have been pulled into this. But why does this person care if I still work at the gas station? What does all of this have to do with me?
I turn away from the back door of the snack shack and head for the sidewalk. It’s four a.m. The sun won’t come up for another two to three hours. These are the hours of absolute darkness, when I should feel most at ease. But I’ve never felt more uncertain about walking home alone.
Then I see it. For the first time in a month, I see my father’s silver Audi S4 parked about a block and a half farther down Hope Street. I get a strange urge to wave at him. To let him know that I see him. That I appreciate him. And that, despite his mistakes, I love him.
But I can’t. Because a larger part of me still wishes he would have been a better father. Teaching your child to fight isn’t a sufficient means of showing affection. I needed to know that I wasn’t a monster. I needed to know that I was loved. And I still don’t know if my father loves me. All I know is that he loved the fighting machine he created. He loved that machine, then he kicked it to pieces and threw it away.
I continue walking down Hope, watching as the glowing cherry of my father’s cigarette flies out the driver’s side window and he drives away. I shake my head. He still hasn’t quit. The last few years I lived at home, I had to go easy on my dad during sparring matches. All that tar in his lungs was slowing him down. I tried to make sure he didn’t know I was going easy on him, but I’m sure there were times he suspected it. Those times when he’d cut a match short and chew me out for doing something wrong. Punishing me for his own shortcomings.
Isn’t that what we always do? Punish others for our own weaknesses. Maybe that’s what Daimon is doing to me. Maybe he hasn’t come to visit me in six days because he recognized some weakness in himself while he was with me.
It’s a long shot, but it would make me feel better. Like I hadn’t been used.
Still, I find it hard to believe that a man like Daimon would go to all that trouble to use a woman for sex just once. He killed someone in front of me; someone who was possibly driving his own car. Then he came to my door and introduced himself as a detective, which I didn’t believe for a single second. Until I contacted the Los Angeles Police Department yesterday.
They confirmed to me twice that they do indeed have a Detective Daimon Rousseau in their department and that he works the Hope Street area. They wanted to know if I had a complaint about him or if I had some information for any of his cases. I told them I did not have a complaint and that I’d call Detective Rousseau directly to give him my tip.
I knew if I called from my home phone, Daimon would know it was me. So I called from a pay phone on Wilshire and disguised my voice. The fact that I have to go to such lengths to find out more about the man who ravaged me six days ago is disturbing. I willingly granted him access to the deepest parts of me and he thanks me by pretending I no longer exist.
I’m near the place where my father was parked just a few minutes ago. I look at the black asphalt and immediately see the cigarette butt he tossed out the window. The cherry is still barely giving off a thin stream of smoke. I gaze at it for a moment, trying to figure something out. Then I step off the curb, take two steps into the street, and pick it up.
Holding the cigarette butt up in the air, I smile as the streetlight shines down on it. Then I tuck it into my pocket and head home.
Chapter Nine
Never underestimate the lengths a person will go to for revenge. My father said those words to me the day I left. I didn’t understand if this was a threat or a warning. Who would ever want to exact revenge against a girl who’d been kept in a basement for most of her life? Well, now I know that he wasn’t issuing this warning to me.
It’s been two days since I watched my father’s Audi S4 drive away and I’ve been a busy bee. I’ve been playing the part of Detective Alex Carmichael. I’d make a great detective.
After renting a car and staking out the Central Community police station on 6th Street, I finally got a tail on Detective Daimon Rousseau. Turns out he really is a detective and he either has anger issues or he takes his job way too seriously. I watched him get in a fight with another officer while walking to his car.
Or maybe he’s just stressed about something. Maybe he’s feeling the heat from that murder he committed three weeks ago.
Either way, now I know his face, from a distance. I couldn’t see much, especially when he was scuffling in the parking lot, but it’s obvious he’s handsome. He carries himself with immense poise and an air of mystery. A bit of a loner.
Even after discovering these new details about him, I still don’t feel like I know the real Daimon. But I do know he’s coming to see me tonight. I watched him walk into a flower shop earlier today. Then he drove to his swanky apartment complex in Venice Beach.
I’m ready for you, Daimon.
I’ve resisted touching myself for eight days while waiting for him to knock on my door. My body and mind are primed for a perfectly sinful reunion. Tonight will be … explosive.
I spritz the air with a heady perfume, which I’ve mixed with a vial of pheromone oil I picked up at a local lingerie shop. Then I dab a few drops on my décolletage, smiling as I say the French word aloud a few times. It rolls off my tongue naturally. I think Daimon would be impressed.
As expected, at 11:23 p.m. on my night off, I get a knock on my door. I peek through the peephole and smile. He’s wearing the usual dark hood and he’s facing away from the door. I unlock the deadbolt and walk straight toward the bedroom.
“Alex?” he calls softly when I’ve reached the corridor.
I continue into the bedroom, calling over my shoulder. “Come in, Daimon.”
I press my back up against the wall. It’s cool against my skin as I wait fo
r him. He enters cautiously and I can’t help myself.
“Boo.”
He snaps his head toward me and I’m actually quite turned on by that black, circular shadow under his hood. The small hints of light on the top of his lips and nose are enough.
“I apologize for my absence,” he begins and I quickly reach up and press my finger to his lips.
“Shh. You don’t owe me any apologies. I’m a woman now, remember? I understand how it is. Things get busy. You get swamped at work. Blah, blah…. Explanations are for saps.”
He reaches up and grabs my wrist to pull my finger away from his mouth, then he’s silent for a moment. “If you don’t want an apology for your own peace of mind, that’s fine. But I’m offering my apology because I believe you deserve better.”
“Better than what?”
He lets go of my wrist and my hand drops to my side. Stepping forward, his hand lands on my bare waist. “Why are you nude?”
I smile and lay my hand over his so I can slide it back onto my ass. “I was waiting for you.”
“How did you know I was coming tonight?”
“Woman’s intuition.”
“I brought you something.”
He pulls his left hand out from behind his back and brings a sprig of flowers to my nose. It smells like raspberry and honeysuckle.
“What is it?”
“It’s freesia. It reminds me of my days as a young boy in France. I want to take you there someday.”
I take the flower from his hand and carefully tuck it behind my ear. “Perfect.”
He brings his hands up to cup my face. “I’ve missed you.” His hand trails down to my neck and he leans in until his lips are hovering over mine. “I was thinking about you every day.”
“I was thinking about you, too,” I breathe.
He runs his tongue over my top lip as his hand slides between my legs. “What were you thinking about, ma chérie?”
I draw in a sharp breath as his finger finds my clit. “I thought of you and me … fucking.”
He strokes me softly. “Did you touch yourself?”
“No. I wanted to wait for you.”
I whimper when he shoves two fingers inside me. He drives his fingers back and forth as I whine with pleasure.
“Oh, please.”
“Please, what? What do you want me to do?” He slides his fingers out and begins caressing my clit again.
“Please, fuck me.”
“Turn around.”
“No.”
He tilts his head back. “No?”
“I don’t want to do it like that.”
“You mean, you don’t want me to fuck you from behind?”
“Yes, I do. But … I was thinking ….” This is it. I have to just blurt it out or I’ll lose my nerve. “I want to try something different.”
He removes his hand from between my thighs and steps back. “What do you want to try?”
“I have this fantasy and I was hoping you could help make it happen.” I step forward and grab the dangling drawstrings from his hood. “I want you to pretend … to take me by force.”
He doesn’t speak or move while I count off the seconds in my head. Finally, at one hundred twenty-two seconds, he speaks.
“How long have you fantasized about this?”
“Since I began touching myself. I … It’s stupid. We don’t have to do it.”
I lay my hands flat against his solid chest, staring at the dark fabric of his hooded sweater. He presses his fingers against the bottom of my chin to tilt my face up.
“I don’t want to frighten you. I want to please you.” He kisses the corner of my mouth and I close my eyes, trying to remind myself to focus on my objective. “Would this fantasy bring you pleasure?”
I open my eyes and gaze into the darkness where his eyes would be. “I’ve been pleasing myself to this fantasy for years. Is that not normal?”
He chuckles softly. “There is no normal in the privacy of one’s bedroom. What pleases you pleases me, ma chérie.” His arm wraps around my waist and pulls me flush against him so I can feel his erection growing against my belly. “But we need some ground rules. If you are not enjoying yourself, you must say something. A codeword.”
“How about … freesia?”
I can practically hear him grinning beneath that hood. “Okay, and if you want me to stop, you have to say rose. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I coil my arms around his broad shoulders and he lifts me gently so I can wrap my legs around him. He kisses me slowly and I can feel myself growing slicker with every passing moment. He presses my back against the wall and I moan into his mouth as he grinds the solid erection in his pants against my clit.
I pull my head back and smile. “I trust you.”
He moves his hips slowly, crushing me with the force of his manhood. “You shouldn’t trust me.”
He thrusts harder and I cry out. “Ow.”
“Does that hurt?”
“Yes.”
“How about about this?”
He reaches up and pinches my nipple, hard. I let out a screeching yelp. He claps his hand over my mouth and I continue to cry as he sets my feet down on the carpet and shoves his other hand between my legs. He rams his fingers inside me and the sound of my muffled cries seems to spur him on.
“Do you want to be fucked?”
“No!” My reply is smothered by his hand.
“What do you say?” he growls.
“No. Please. Please don’t do this.”
He’s silent for a moment and I begin to worry that he’s going to back out. Then he slowly slides his fingers out of my pussy and begins to massage my clit. Softly at first, then roughly.
“Ow.”
My knees begin to buckle and he presses his chest against mine to keep me propped up. “Don’t fucking move,” he whispers in my ear. “Or I’ll kill you.”
My stomach roils at the tone in his voice. “Please don’t kill me.”
“Shut the fuck up!” I try to push him away and he removes his finger from my clit so he can grab both my wrists and pin them against the wall. “I said don’t fucking move.”
I stare in the dark hole of his face, my chest heaving as I pretend to struggle free. He leans in and kisses my neck and I whimper. No. This is not part of the fantasy. I want to tell him to stop, but I can’t form the words.
He licks his way up my neck and to my ear and he kisses my ear so tenderly I could cry. Stop, I want to shout at him. Please stop this torture.
He moves to my mouth and kisses me the way I’ve only ever dreamed of being kissed. I can’t breathe for the longing that’s building inside me. His tongue strokes mine so lovingly and his lips are so soft and firm all at once. I have to stop this.
I lift my leg and knee him in his groin and he bumps his forehead against mine as he curses in French.
“Merde!”
I race into the living room and he chases after me. He catches up to me in the kitchen as I’m reaching for the knife drawer. He grabs my hair, yanking me backward.
“Help!” I cry out and he covers my mouth again as he bends me over the counter and forces my cheek against the cold tile.
“Shut the fuck up!”
It’s a low, snarl. An animalistic and primitive warning. A tone so cold and threatening it makes me long for the beautiful voice that’s haunted my dreams for the past week.
His fingers woven through a large chunk of my hair, he tightens his grip as he pushes my face into the countertop. With his other hand, he undoes his belt and pants, then he forces his way inside me.
I whimper with pleasure, then I remember this is supposed to hurt. “Ow.”
He thrusts into me and my belly slams against the sharp corner of the countertop. I cry out again, but the pain is real this time as the counter digs into my stabbing scar. Again he pounds me harder, and harder, one fist clutching my hair, the other covering my mouth. How is he supposed to hear me say freesia or rose?
A real tear rolls down my temple and onto the tile and, without knowing, he rubs my cheek against it. Driving my healing wound into the edge of the countertop. Repeatedly and desperately I cry out, but his hand muffles my howls.
“I’m moving my hand, but you are not to say a fucking word. Understand me?”
I nod my head and he slowly removes his hand as he drives into me. I sob through gritted teeth and he uses the hand he just removed from my mouth to reach forward and stroke my clit. He’s determined to make me come.
“Oh, please. Please stop.”
“Shut up.”
He buries his cock so deep inside me, I fear he’s going to pierce my vital organs. All the while, he caresses my clit until I turn to jelly beneath him.
“Freesia. Freesia!” I whisper before he can come inside me.
He eases me off the counter and my legs are so weak. It makes it easy for me to pretend to collapse onto my knees on the kitchen floor. He wraps his thick arm around my waist and lifts me off the floor. Then he turns me around and cradles my face in his hands.
“Did I hurt you?”
A small surge of emotion bites at my throat and stings at the corners of my eyes as I think of everything I’ve learned the past two days. I swallow the sadness and look up. I want to push that stupid hood off his head and tell him I’ve already seen him. But I can’t.
“No. It felt good … to be taken.”
He wraps his arms around my shoulders and, sliding my arms around his waist, I bury my face in the front of his sweatshirt. Then I allow myself a few more tears. A moment passes and he loosens his hold on me so he can tilt my face up to look at him.
“I’m going to make love to you properly now.”
Make love? I almost say the words aloud, but I stop myself just in time.
Love.
Ha.
I lick my lips then I stand on my tiptoes so I can press my lips to his. I brush my lips against his mouth without kissing him. He nuzzles his nose against mine and I feel the longing in the pit of my belly. That desire that I’ve tried to deny myself since his last visit.