Chapter Five
Molly
I breathe a sigh of relief as I lock up the center that evening, happy to put this day behind me. Greg and I finally broke the news about the funding to our counselors. We successfully assured them that their salaries are safe, though, for now, we’ll have to live with the old, ratty carpet that’s at least two decades old, the air conditioner that’s constantly on the fritz, and no one is getting a new chair anytime soon. There were a few grumbles about these discomforts, but everyone took it well. We have a passionate group. They have to be, or they wouldn’t work for such low pay. We all agree that the most important thing is the clients. As long as they’re being served, it’s all okay.
Shoving the keys into my purse, I begin my walk home. No one walks in this city. While the streets are jammed with traffic, the sidewalks are free and open. I love walking, and cherish these jaunts to and from work. I find it meditative. I can let my mind wander. Sometimes that’s a good thing, sometimes it’s bad, depending on my mood.
Today, I’m cursing the fact that I have to worry about money. I’m not in this game to get rich. I just want to help people, while providing a stable life for my counselors, who put their whole hearts into their jobs. I hate that my self worth is measured by numbers on a spreadsheet, and not the number of people I’ve helped over the years.
I cross the street, approaching the corner where I usually see the group of homeless people rifling through trashcans. There’s usually four or five of them, but today, it’s only one man. He wears a heavy black coat despite the dry heat. It’s hard to discern his age, but he’s probably not over fifty. There are only a few gray hairs on his head.
The group usually doesn’t give me the time of day. I approached them when I moved to this neighborhood, letting them know that we’re just down the street and willing to help if they desire it. They nodded and thanked me for the information, though none of them ever walked through our doors. I decided not to push it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my brother’s situation, it’s that you can’t help people who don’t want it.
I don’t expect this man to speak to me, but as I cross the street, he looks up and makes eye contact. As I step onto the sidewalk, I meet his eyes and give him a friendly smile. He doesn’t say anything, so I keep walking. When my back is to him, I feel sharp fingers grab my arm. I look down in confusion and see his dirty hand gripping my cardigan.
“Hey, lady,” the mans says, leering at me. “Where you going?”
He has that far off, vacant look that I often see with drug users. I worry that he’s taken something that could give him violent, psychotic episodes. If that’s the case, I need to stay calm, and not do anything to alarm him.
“I’m just going home,” I say, smiling sweetly. I gently pull my arm away, but his grip is relentless.
“Is that right?” He smiles, revealing a dark gap where his two front teeth are missing. “Sounds nice. Can I come?”
I try to stay calm, despite my heart beating rapidly in my throat.
“I don’t think so,” I say, casually. “But I’m just down the street if you ever want to talk.”
I search his face to see if he recognizes me, and find nothing.
“Don’t want to talk,” he says, in a sing-song way. He reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls something out. My blood drains to my feet as I hear a pocket knife flick open. The man pulls me closer, and laughs deliriously into my face. I’m paralyzed by shock. Is this how it ends, knifed in the street?
“You don’t want to hurt me,” I say. “They’ll arrest you. You’ll go to prison, and never get the help you need.”
He smiles frightfully, but his eyes are blank. It dawns on me that I won’t be able to talk my way out of this one. I eye his body, calculating where I could kick him without getting myself cut in the process. I grit my teeth, preparing to jab my foot into his shin, when I hear someone call, “Hey!”
Thank God, I think, as relief floods over me. It’s a male voice, maybe a police officer. When I turn to see who it is, my blood runs cold. Salvatore Mariano is walking towards us from the other end of the block. He’s wearing a black suit, making his legs look even longer and more elegant as he rushes towards us. The look on his face chills my bones. It’s hardened, determined, cold.
He doesn’t even look at the knife when he approaches us. He grabs the man by the back of his collar, forcefully pushing him away from me. The man frees my arm when Salvatore throws him against the stucco wall of an apartment building. Salvatore bends down, his face inches away from the man.
“Hands off the lady,” Salvatore says, threateningly.
The man raises his hands in surrender, and Salvatore finally notices the knife. He yanks it out of the man’s hand, studies it, then presses the tip of the blade against his palm. My entire body seizes up, but Salvatore doesn’t show any signs of pain. He takes the blade away, then shows me his palm, unscathed.
“It’s fake,” Salvatore declares, throwing the toy into the man’s face.
I’m struck dumb. Just seconds ago, I thought that knife was going to plunge into my belly. I wasn’t in any danger, really, though I’m still shaking with fear.
Salvatore points a finger into the man’s face, shoving him harder against the wall. “Don’t let me catch you causing problems on my street again.”
“Sure, sure,” the man says, grumbling a promise I’m not sure he understands.
Salvatore lets him go, then turns to me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I watch the man scurry down the street, then turn blinking to Salvatore.
“Yes,” I say, breathlessly, but I don’t think I am. My hands are trembling. Adrenaline floods my stomach, making me a bit nauseas. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Of course.” Salvatore casts a disdainful stare at the man, who’s now two blocks away. “Filthy creep,” he mutters.
I wipe away the tears that have started to materialize in my eyes.
“He was completely out of it,” I explain. “Drugs or mental illness, probably both. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
Salvatore steps closer to me, raising an eyebrow. “Are you making excuses for him? He scared the shit out of you.” He takes my hand, holding it up to show me how it trembles. He stares at me, his dark eyes intimating that he takes what happened to me as a personal offense. Even in my agitated state, it’s undeniably hot. The thought of him throwing my attacker against the wall makes me shiver deep inside. I pull my hand away from him, blushing.
“Not making excuses,” I say, looking at my feet. “I’m just trying to understand.”
Salvatore squints at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. He quickly wipes the confusion from his face, and his confident, debonair smile returns. I flinch when I feel his arm slide across my shoulders.
“Come on. I’ll walk you home,”
His voice isn’t warm, per se, but it is a little softer. We’re silent as we walk. I’m rigid by his side, trying not to cry. I’m embarrassed about being so shook up over a toy knife. Salvatore probably thinks I’m a small town bumpkin, and not city-hardened yet. He doesn’t say anything like that. It’s my own psychological projection getting in the way. That’s how I see myself, so I delude myself into thinking that’s what other people see too. And Salvatore is a dark creature who exudes confidence. How could he not think that way about me?
Salvatore’s arm is steady around me. I’m too much in shock to fully appreciate how close I am to my landlord. Though this man is intimidating, being so close to him is actually a comfort. And he smells good, clean and fresh. We walk into the apartment building, down the hall, to my door.
“Thank you again,” I say, pulling away from him nervously. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Salvatore chuckles. “You just did.”
“I know.” I blush. My shock has transformed into a nervous energy. I have the sudden urge to run a marathon, or clean my entire apartment, or- “Let me cook dinner for you,” I blurt out. I immediately wish I could take the words back. What have I done? I’ve invited this cold, dangerously sexy man into my home. I gulp, watching Salvatore’s face for a reaction. A part of me hopes he refuses. But another part of me hopes he accepts. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Yesterday, I wanted to do everything in my power to avoid this man. One little scare on the street and I’m losing my mind. But I really don’t want to be alone, and right now, Salvatore seems like my savior.
At first, I think he’s going to refuse. He cocks his head to the side like he’s considering it. His mouth spreads into a smile.
“That would be lovely,” he says. He takes a keyring out of his pocket, unlocks my door, and swings it open. “After you.”
I rush past him into the apartment, slightly crazed, and glance over the living room and kitchen to determine its state of cleanliness. I wasn’t expecting a guest, and I don’t usually keep things especially tidy when it’s just me. Luckily, it’s not bad. I kick a few pieces of dirty laundry on the floor under the couch, and quickly sweep away the mail that’s gathering up on my kitchen counter.
Salvatore doesn’t watch what I’m doing. He’s looking around, quietly studying my private abode. His silent meditation on my living space feels like an invasion, until I remember he’s my landlord. He’s probably checking to see if there’s any holes in the wall, or if all the lights are working.
After hanging my purse and keys on the hooks beside the door, I turn to him, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. I’m hot and flustered. I’m sure my cheeks are burning bright red.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I offer. “I’ll get started on dinner.”
Salvatore nods, then takes a seat on the couch. In his nice suit, with his impeccable hair, and sculpted, handsome face, he looks out of place on my second hand furniture. The contrast makes him seem otherworldly, a god deigning to visit a mere mortal. Why is he wasting any time on me? It’s hard to believe, with his cold demeanor, that he’s just being a nice guy. He picks up a copy of the Journal of Psychology and Psychotherapy from the stack on the coffee table, and begins to peruse it. From where he sits, he doesn’t have a clear view of me in the kitchen, and I couldn’t be more glad.
I tie an apron around my waist, then grip the countertop, reminding myself to breathe. Whether the knife was real or not, my experience was still traumatic. In my vulnerable state of white hot emotion, I invited Salvatore to dinner. I can’t explain why, but I don’t trust him. I sense ulterior motives. But, there’s no getting out of this, so, I must cook. I’m comfortable in the kitchen. I’ve always been a cooking show junkie, and love to try out new recipes. Maybe I can forget about the devil in my living room, and lose myself in the food.
That’s just what I do. I’d planned on reheating leftovers for dinner tonight, but I’ll have to do better than that. I peruse my refrigerator, and find chicken stock I made last weekend, chicken breasts, frozen peas and corn, carrots, and puff pastry. And poof- I have all the makings for chicken pot pie.
I’m so absorbed in the preparation, that I don’t realize I’ve been cooking for over an hour until I pull the piping hot pie out of the oven. Why did I go to all this trouble? Is this an unconscious desire to impress him? Sigmund Freud theorized that the unconscious mind directly influences everyday behaviors. So what does that mean? Do I want to be close to the man who makes me feel on edge, scares me, even? I rub my temples and take a deep breath. I need to stop psychoanalyzing myself and get through this dinner.
I glance at Salvatore in the living room. He’s deep into my stack of psychology journals. I step out from the kitchen.
“It’s ready,” I say. “Sorry that took so long.”
Salvatore stands up, straightening his pants leg. “Smells good,” he says, sniffing the air.
As I lead him to the dining table, I notice that my apron, hands, and probably face are dusted with flour. When I go into the kitchen to retrieve the food, I try to clean myself up as best I can. I stare at my creation in the pie tin. The crust is just the right shade of golden brown. I hope it tastes as good as it looks.
At the table, I serve up Salvatore’s portion on a ceramic plate, the only one from my collection without a chip, and set it in front of him. He stares at it, cocking his head left and right to study it from every angle. I watch anxiously as he takes a first bite.
“It’s good,” he announces, going for another bite. While he chews, his face is analytical, like it’s something he’s never tasted before, and he's trying to figure it out.
I take a long drink of water, then fiddle with the pie crust with my fork. My nerves have killed my appetite. I straighten my posture, determined to make this a normal evening, and make an attempt at small talk.
“So what do you do?” I ask. “Besides own the building.”
I feel a chill as Salvatore directs his cold eyes at me. He shrugs, casually. “I have a controlling interest in several business ventures.”
“I see,” I say, though I really don’t.
Salvatore puts his fork down, then leans closer to me. “You’re a counselor?” he asks.
My stomach tightens. “How did you know that?”
He smiles with satisfaction. “It’s on your renter’s application.”
“Of course.” I push my hair away from my face, cursing myself inwardly. What is this irrational fear I have of him? Why do I feel like he already knows everything about me? Is it my lack of confidence, or something else?
We continue to eat in silence for a few moments. I feel guilty about meeting his innocent question with suspicion, and for the secret I’m keeping from him. This man just helped me out of a sticky situation. If I’m honest with him, I can prove to myself that I’m not afraid of him. He’s not some supernatural creature that I unconsciously wish would drag me into his dark, unseen world. We’re just two adults in a business relationship.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say.
Salvatore wipes his mouth on a napkin, not hiding the intense interest in his eyes. “Oh? What’s that?”
I take a deep breath, then explain the funding cuts and my reduced salary as succinctly as I can. Salvatore listens to every word, nodding along as I speak. When I finish, he leans back in his seat, stroking his chin.
“I hate to hear that, Molly,” he says, compassionately. “We do have income requirements in this building. I’d love to make an exception for you, but that wouldn’t be fair to the other tenants.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”
“I wish I could do something.”
“How about a reference?”
“Absolutely,” Salvatore says, clasping his hands in front of him. “But I have to warn you, anything below this price point can be in a bad neighborhood. Everyone thinks LA is this glamorous city, and it is, but there’s a dark undercurrent here. You don’t want to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The way he speaks, with his low, gravelly voice, paired with his intense stare, makes this feel like a warning. I sip my water to buy some time.
“I’m sure I’ll find something,” I say, choking on the water and coughing out the words.
Salvatore squints, drumming his fingertips on the tabletop. “Maybe we can work something out. Let me think about it.”
“That’s very understanding of you,” I say, with a polite smile. But why do I get the feeling he already has something in mind?
*
Salvatore
I’m at my desk, studying Franco’s finances, and watching my surveillance footage, but my mind is on Molly. Now it’s official. I want her. I want to own her. I want to watch her face as I spread open her creamy thighs, then claim her for myself. This yearning has taken root in my mind, and is growing just as strong as my need for revenge against the Mariano’s. With what I’m planning, I’ll be able to get both.
My dick hardens when I remember the taste of cream in my mouth. I never eat the kind of food Molly served me. My usual diet consists of fresh sashimi and chilled seaweed, plain salad and extra rare steak; foods that are cold, raw, and bloody.
Is that what you taste like, Molly? Like sweet, luscious cream?
Paying that dirty street urchin to harass her so I could swoop in and save her had been worth it. My skin crawls with excitement when I think of how she clung to me when I walked her home, how she looked at me like I was her knight, though a dangerous one. It was a calculated move to get her to trust me. But I like that she’s still afraid of me.
I can’t stop thinking about her, so I fire up my laptop and track her online movements. In her search history, I see she’s looking at listings for cheaper apartments. She’ll soon realize that there’s nothing there for her. I priced the apartments in this building strategically. The rent here is just a bit more than the lowest price point, and a hell of a lot nicer. It seems like heaven to renters used to seeing roach infested hellholes. I could charge a lot more, but this way, I’m always renting at full capacity, which gives me the biggest return on my investment.
I smile to myself. There’s nowhere for you to go, Molly.
I refresh the browser, updating her search history. Moments ago, she searched for the keyword “Salvatore Mariano.” I’m flattered, but I can’t have her finding out about me. I’ve already scrubbed the internet for anything relating to me, but I still can’t take the chance, so I cut her wifi remotely.
*
Molly
My wifi is down. Funny how it was working fine, then went out just when I was searching for him. Paranoia overwhelms me. I close the laptop, and shove it out of my lap. Salvatore’s been gone for an hour, but it’s like he’s still here. I can feel him. The room is colder than normal. I wrap up in a blanket to combat this. My psychology journals are in a neat, uniform stack. His work, since I usually leave them in disarray.
Is he watching me right now?
“You’re crazy,” I say out loud, shaking my head. I reason that I’m probably still reeling from the scary encounter I had earlier. Salvatore’s not watching me. He can’t monitor my internet. That would break so many laws. I repeat this sound rationale over and over to myself, trying to get myself to believe it.
Maybe we can work something out.
What, exactly, will that be? I pull the blanket tighter around me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m slipping into something I can’t escape.
And even though he’s not here, he’s close. I don’t feel alone. Salvatore’s gotten under my skin.