Random streetlights going out is something that used to terrify me.

I hate the feeling that comes with the sudden flicker signifying what’s about to happen. Then the light burns out, and all you’re left with is darkness. Even just remembering how it’s happened before makes me shudder.

One night two years ago, it took place in quick succession, the bright lights flickering briefly and then suddenly there was no light at all. It happened on my way home from old man Bailey’s hardware store. I’d gone only an hour before sunset and spent longer than I thought I would. Some asshole had kicked in my front door the night before and there was no way I was going to leave the store without a new lock. I bought two just to be on the safe side.

And so, I was walking home alone in the dark when the lights went out, one after the other. I couldn’t walk fast enough to get to the next light that hadn’t burned out; I nearly ran to it.

I don’t like to be outside at night, not unless I’m on my porch. But even then, I’d rather stay inside, where the idea of safety used to mean something.

Either way, I’d spent too long at the store and with the plastic bag dangling from my wrist, I quickened my pace when the first bulb died. I remember how I stared straight ahead at the next one, praying it would give me light long enough to get home. As if it was listening to my fears and wanted to mock me, the light vanished before my eyes.

Fear of darkness is reasonable. But the kind of inevitable dread that lingers when a light goes out while you’re watching it used to follow me everywhere.

It haunted me during the day and never hesitated to steal my sleep at night.

I don’t know when things changed, but as I make my way down Peck Avenue, the light flickers on my right and I don’t miss a step, I don’t even dare to look at it. In my periphery, I see shadow consume everything behind me. My fingers wrap a little tighter around the strap of my purse, but it’s more instinctive than a conscious response.

My heart races and then steadies to the sound of my heels clicking rhythmically on the pavement.

One more block and I’ll be home. In darkness or in light, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve been through both.

I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead and think about the mundane task awaiting me at work tomorrow. I spent all day organizing Mr. Brown’s new clients, and my back is killing me from leaning down to the filing cabinet and then looking at the computer, time and time again. A few more days and the new system will be in place. At least until he decides to change it again.

I used to think Marc Brown changed the system so frequently out of boredom, but after looking at his client list, I think the lawyer is a crook. Everyone in this city is, so it shouldn’t have surprised me. I’d work for anyone else, doing anything else, but my options aren’t exactly overflowing.

I have my high school diploma, but after trying for the last two years since graduation to get into any college at all and being rejected, a diploma is all I have and all I’ll ever have. And that piece of paper is useless here.

My phone pings in my purse and I’m more than eager to pull it out.

I could use something to keep my mind from wandering back to the shit job I have. As I pull out my phone I see the old book I’d stowed in my purse earlier this week, ready to read the novel again. For the dozenth time.

A court-mandated shrink gave it to me five years ago. She loved to draw, although I remember thinking she wasn’t really good at it. I used to have a picture from her of a duck she drew with a pencil. I don’t know where it’s gone, not that it matters much. I still have the books she gave me and, more importantly, a love of books. I wasn’t so much into the drawing, but that shrink—I think her name was Rebecca—gave me a handful of fiction. She gave me a way to get lost in someone else’s world. It wasn’t long before I started writing as well, trying to create an escape from this life. I couldn’t give two shits about her artwork, but I’ll always be grateful to her for giving me a love of reading and writing.

Forgetting about the book and everything that happened back then, I focus on the text message.

You’ll never guess what happened last night.

It’s Angie, a friend from work. Well, I think she’s my friend. She’s new and doesn’t do much but read magazines and chew gum while she tells off clients who want their paperwork faster than she can print it out, but she tells me all the details of her Tinder dates. I’m the only one she talks to at the office.

Mr. Brown exclusively hires girls in their twenties—and younger. Of the five of us, Angie likes to only talk to me. I get it, sort of. I don’t care for the other women either. For the most part, they ignore me, which I’m used to, but they also stop their hushed whispers the moment I walk into the room. At first, I thought it was all in my head, but no, they like to talk about me. About the rumors of what happened years ago. How sad it is. They can go fuck themselves.

My family has history here, but it’s no secret. Every person in this damn city comes from circumstances of shame. Luckily, I don’t work with them much; it’s usually Angie who I get paired with, and I should really be grateful to Marc for that.

What? I text her back, curious about the escapade of last night.

After dinner, I took him home and he was fucking amazing in bed. I think I’d use the word… enthusiastic.

My brow raises at the last word.

What does that mean? I ask her.

He did things to me I had no idea I even wanted.

I can feel my blood heat just thinking about what she may have done. I’ve never done anything with anyone. Having sex simply isn’t on my to-do list. I’m not interested, not from anyone in this city. My phone pings again, and I look to see what else she’s said.

He choked me.

I stop in my tracks for a moment, staring down at the glowing screen in my hand and rereading what she wrote.

And he told me he was going to take my ass and holy shit Chlo, anal is e v e r y t h i n g.

If anyone could see my face, they’d see the shock. I don’t know how she can even surprise me anymore. My fingers reach up to my throat as I swallow, wondering why he’d want to do that to her and how she could enjoy it. The choking part. I watch my fair share of porn, but that’s one I don’t really understand.

I’ll tell you more on Monday, but I had to tell SOMEONE. I read her text as if she’d spoken it to me, sprightly voice, and all.

Can’t wait to hear all the deets. My reply can’t convey my gratitude at being informed via text about the choking, so I can hide my naivety and shock from her at the realization she’s into that.

You almost home? she asks, and a soft smile plays at my lips. A warmth I’m not used to courses through me and slowly I find my pace again.

One block to go, I answer her and wait for her to respond with the same thing she wrote a few nights ago. For me to tell her when I get in.

Last week I told her I live just outside of Fallbrook, and she kept pushing to know where exactly. When I told her I’m from Crescent Hills, the same city as Mr. Brown’s office, her face paled. She’s not from around here, but she knows the reputation of this place and what it’s known for. Everyone does. If you want a taste of sin, Crescent Hills is where you’ll find more than your fill.

I’m used to the embarrassment, but not from someone who chooses to work in this city. She doesn’t have to be here any longer than a nine-to-five, and honestly, I don’t know why she even chose to work in this run-down area when she lives in the big city. And that’s exactly what I challenged her with when she told me I shouldn’t be walking home.

I’m grown. I’m aware. I’m also broke and on my own since my uncle died two years ago, leaving me with bills, a mortgage, and no job to pay for any of it, so I told her she could take her high horse and shove it. But maybe not in those exact words, and maybe with a choked voice of shame.

The silence lasted only a minute or so, but it felt like an hour. She offered to walk me home and when I declined, as politely as I could, she snatched my phone from my desk. Before I could ask her what she was doing, she texted herself before handing it back, so we would have each other’s number.

Text me when you’re home, she told me, but I didn’t answer her. When she texted again, apologizing, and asking if I’d made it home all right, I answered only because I thought she was genuinely worried. And things have been normal again ever since.

It’s a small act of kindness, but it means more to me than it should. I’m smart enough to know that I shouldn’t let it get to me like this. I can’t rely on anyone or trust anyone. Outsiders come and go here. Even Ang said she wasn’t planning on staying at the law firm for long. I should know better than to think of her as a friend.

But when she sends texts like the one that just came through, I can’t help but feel a little camaraderie. I smile as I reread the text. See you Monday, prepare to be scandalized!

My heels click on the asphalt, worn rough from years with no repairs. In the distance, I hear a siren, and farther down the block, a few kids are screaming at one another. It’s nearly ten at night, but this is normal.

Just like the streetlights going out.

Back when I would have childish fears about the darkness swallowing me up, I also used to dream. I used to dream of leaving here. Of going anywhere but here and never returning. I wish I could forget those memories. But they cling to me like the filth that clings to the gutters on the side of the road.

I used to dream of running away. Mundane things like bills have a way of robbing you of your fantasies. At least I have my books and my writing. Even if I never escape this place, I can still escape into the worlds I build for myself in my stories.

Years ago, when I was still in school, I told my uncle that I’d leave here one day. I remember the sound of the porch swing as it swayed, how my fingers felt as they traced the rusted chain that held it in place. He told me this city didn’t let anyone leave. It kept them rooted to this place.

I didn’t know what he meant until he passed and there was no one here to pick up the pieces. No one but me.

My feet stumble and I come to a halt as I try desperately not to fall forward. The combination of rubble on the ground and the sight of someone’s shadow laying across the very porch swing I’d just been thinking about are what almost cause me to trip.

My chest aches with a sudden pounding of anxiety. No one comes to visit me. It’s one of the blessings I’ve been afforded by being the sad girl with her sob story. I keep my head down and I mind my own business. No one likes me, no one but Ang, and no one fucks with me either. Why would they? I have nothing.

But someone’s there. I can’t see their face, but the shadow is there and unmistakable.

The paint on the porch swing is weathered, and no one ever sits on it anymore, but I watch the empty seat move back and forth and then a man steps away from the shadows.

A man I see from time to time, but always in passing. Except for when I think of him late at night. Unfortunately, it happens more than I’ll ever admit.

He’s a man I used to want because he made me feel something I’d never felt before. A mixture of hope and desire. Like the silly dreams of getting away from this place, I used to want to be his. To be pinned down by his hands while his eyes held me in place.

I used to dream of him pressing his lips to mine and stealing my breath with a demanding kiss. I knew he could do it; I’d felt it once before.

His stubble-lined jaw looks sharper in the night with only the neighbor’s porch light and the pale moonlight casting shadows down his face. My heart beats slower, yet faster all at once. Knowing Sebastian is on my porch waiting for me, I can hardly breathe, let alone move.

His steely blue eyes are next to come into view, and they immediately capture me. Staring straight at me, they pierce through me and see more of me than anyone else can. He must. I can feel it deep in the pit of my gut. He’s always been able to do it. There was never a moment where Sebastian didn’t have that power over me.

With clammy palms, I try to move my hands, but my fingers are as paralyzed as my body. It’s not from fear, although I know that’s what this man should elicit from me. That’s the reaction he has on everyone else.

No, it’s not fear. As a gust of wind blows, I sway gently in the breeze and it seems to free me from the spell his sharp blue eyes have placed on me. I refuse to look back into his gaze.

Instead, I stare at the chips in the old cement stairs that lead to my porch and feel my heart squeeze harder and tighter than it has in a very long time.

“What do you want?” I ask Sebastian in a hoarse voice, barely louder than a murmur.

His shadow shifts in my periphery, but I don’t look up at him.

He’s a man I would let do whatever he wanted to me. I would let him do completely as he pleased. There’s no reasonable explanation for it. No justification. I’m fully aware that he’d chew me up and spit me out.

Maybe everyone has a person like that. That one person you know can destroy you, and you pine for it despite yourself. I crave what he’s capable of. I want the bad things that come with the promise of being his. That confession alone is enough proof I belong in this shit city.

I can feel the danger, the dominance, the overwhelming presence that never leaves with Sebastian Black. I can even smell his masculine woodsy scent that sometimes filters into my dreams. With my lungs full of it, I close my eyes, letting it intoxicate me, but doing my best not to show it. I won’t give him that satisfaction. Not when he chooses to give me nothing. Not when he pretends that I’m nothing to him. Although maybe I am. Why would I ever be more than nothing to a man like him?

“Why are you here?” I ask, hardening my voice, raising it, and daring to finally look at him. His shoulders fill the entrance to my front door. My open front door. It creaks and the sound echoes in the chilly night air as Sebastian looks me up and down, the hint of a smirk on his face until his gaze reaches mine again.

“I thought you were smarter than that, Chloe,” he says and his deep voice rumbles. It’s rough, and the way he says my name sounds dirty, even though he’s only said it in the same manner as always. With a wanton heat building in my core and my breathing picking up, I stare into his eyes as he adds, “I’m here for a little chat… with you.”