Chapter 9
New Rules
Gemma
THE FIRST RAYS of sunshine make their way through the blinds, alerting me that it’s time to get up before my alarm even sounds.
I have to get moving.
I don’t have much time.
Slipping into the bathroom, I lock the door behind me. Turning on the water to the shower, I glance at the clothes hanging on the hook and take a single, calming breath. This is going to be fine. I have everything ready. I’ll be fast.
Quickly, I pull the thin straps down my shoulders and the expensive silk nightgown drops to the floor.
I stand naked and gaze at my reflection in the mirror. The vigorous workouts are showing their worth with the lean muscle and strength I’ve built. He believes it’s for him, and in a way, I guess it is. Just not in the way he thinks.
The steam starts to fog my view, but not before I turn around and catch sight of the pink heart on my shoulder. I stare at it. Even when my vision becomes blurred, that small glimpse is all I need to remind myself why I’m doing all of this.
I shake it off and get ready.
With my hair pulled back into a low ponytail, my aviators on, and dressed in beat-up jeans, a tunic top, and a wide-rimmed black hat, I unlock the bathroom window.
It sticks, and at times is hard to lift, but I manage it.
I always do.
While the dusk turns to dawn, I slip out onto the ledge, shimmy across it, and then lower myself down the small fire escape. In reality, it is my passage to freedom.
Once I’m on the ground, I glance around the beach, but no one is around. No one ever is. This condominium complex has very little traffic. It also has a private drive and although close to town, is very secluded.
Sure, I’m a bit worried that Enrique will catch me, but that’s why I listen to every word he says and plan my trips down to the exact detail.
He’s sending the new security person over at nine. Therefore, chances are very good I won’t see him much before then. He always spends his mornings with his wife and kids, and I usually spend mine at the museum. But not today, or any day in the future, I remind myself, and that fact still makes me burn.
I start to jog along the rock’s edge, and then I cut up the narrow side street that parallels my driveway to the condominium complex next to mine. Last night I moved my car there. I’ll move it back tonight. Enrique never looks in my garage, so he won’t notice it’s empty. However, if he does, I have a lie all planned out.
Jamming my key in the ignition of the Range Rover, Enrique insisted I needed, I drive slowly toward the town of Ocean Beach. When I pass Mike’s Taco Club, I pull in and park.
I’m close, and since parking is a nightmare even this early, I decide to walk the rest of the way on foot.
Once I hit Newport Avenue, I increase my pace. Keeping my head down, I look the part of an artsy hipster out to catch the early morning deals.
It’s Monday.
Funday around here.
The only day this place is open to artists and not just farmers, therefore the busiest day of the week.
“Welcome to the Ocean Beach Farmers’ Market.” A man in overalls greets me as I walk through the open gates.
I give him a quick nod and move faster, trying to slip quietly into the early morning crowd.
I love coming here because it’s so easy to get lost in the scramble of hippies, boomer yuppies, surfer dudes, beach goers, and Gen-Xers.
Backed against the Pacific and saddled with a slightly unsavory reputation left over from the seventies, Ocean Beach exhibits a rather frozen-in-time syndrome, and the farmer’s market wears the same symptoms.
Like barnacles, it clings tenaciously to its quirky identity. No one wants it changed.
Attitude-wise, Ocean Beach in general is way cool. Or at least I think so. Enrique hates it here, but he would. He thinks it’s beneath him because it has the fewest cell phones and even fewer luxury SUVs. There are also no high-rises, no glitz, and no glamor to be seen for miles.
Personally, I admire all of those things, but still, that’s not the reason I love it here. What I love most is that it’s an up-and-coming artists stomping ground—a place these hopefuls come to display their work and hopefully sell a few pieces while they try to become famous.
Some do.
Some don’t.
But purchasing their pieces is always worth the risk. You just never know.
Passing through the market quickly, I don’t have time to gaze at any of the works today.
Looking over my shoulder to make sure no one is watching, I slip through the back door of a vendor booth unnoticed and step right into a tray of neon orange paint.
Are you freaking kidding me?
No one is around, so I quickly shake off what I’m able to and keep moving so I can head for the beach’s village without further delay.
Like the market, the village is a laid-back atmosphere. No one’s especially curious and everyone walks everywhere. It’s a no-fuss kind of town. A vibrant bohemian neighborhood with a classic SoCal beach vibe.
I pass the cozy looking stucco cottages and beach bungalows, the eclectic mix of mom-and-pop shops, antique stores and surf shacks, and then I reach my destination—the building behind the storefronts.
The sign still reads, “Cigarro,” but it no longer lights up red. The old abandoned cigar factory turned storage facility is where my freedom from all my self-induced insanity resides.
It’s my refuge, my getaway plan, my life—the only one I have left to live.
Feeling especially anxious today, I push open the heavy metal door and quickly head to unit 305. I haven’t been here in a while, and I hate when I’m forced to stay away because of his demands.
His wants.
His needs.
Him. Him. Him.
I want to spit on the ground with the very thought.
High above me, sunlight streams through the open spaces in the broken windows of the old building, lighting the otherwise dark corridor. As my Doc Martin’s crunch beneath me, I glance up, thinking this broken glass is new.
Hmmm.
Just as I’m about to pull out my keys, I hear the sound of more crunching, except I’m not moving.
I hold my breath.
Feeling the weight of someone’s stare upon me, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Keeping my cool, I slowly glance over my shoulder, but all I can see is a dark blur walking my way. A homeless person perhaps, who spent the night inside?
Probably.
I take my sunglasses off, but it doesn’t help, the glare from the sun is too much. I get back to my task. I don’t have time to leave and come back like I normally would.
The crunching continues and although a small voice inside me tells me I shouldn’t ignore it, I do.
Suddenly a knee slams into my spine. I fall to the ground with a sharp intake of breath. The room shifts in and out of focus, and I’m stunned.
The dark form was waiting for me.
Enrique? No.
One of his security men? Maybe.
His enemy? Perhaps.
Or someone else entirely? Who knows.
There’s no way I can be certain.
Scrambling away, I manage to get to my feet. As soon as I do, a giant wall of muscle, obviously a male, propels into me. A craze of panic clouds my mind.
He slams my body to the wall and covers my mouth. “Don’t say a word,” he hisses.
Pain seizes my torso. The unexpected attack draws any remaining air from my lungs and I wait a few seconds for it to return before deciding on my next move.
Is this man here to rob me?
To rape me?
To kill me?
The space goes light and then dark. I’m disoriented. I draw in a breath, and then another, trying to gain control over my body.
Out of my peripheral vision, I see my hat on the floor. I focus on it. Use it to regain direction. I’m no longer spinning. I’m upright. Standing. I need to get out of here. Out of his grasp. Away from him.
In an attempt to bite his hand, I accidently bite down on my own lip and can taste the blood.
“How about you cooperate, sweetheart,” my assailant hisses.
Sweetheart.
Right!
Sweetheart. I’ll give him sweetheart.
I jam my Doc Martin onto his foot, hard, and he grunts in pain but doesn’t release his hold on me. “Stop fighting. I don’t want you to get hurt,” he tells me.
His voice is calm, his body in control, whereas I feel like a wild and crazed animal. I kick into the air, crying into the palm of his hand, but I can’t get free.
The sun is getting brighter through the broken glass above. I drop my gaze and scour the floor for a piece big enough to grab and use as a weapon, but even if I spot one, I won’t be able to reach it. His hold is too tight.
“Are you going to do as I tell you?” he asks.
I’m not on my back or dead yet, so I figure there’s a purpose for this abduction, something more than random violence.
This petrifies me even more.
I know I don’t have a choice, so I nod and remain motionless. I try not to squirm when I feel a sharp jab of pain in my lower back as he pins my arms behind me with his free hand.
My apparent acquiescence must give him a sense of control because he loosens his grip from my mouth. “Slowly, take your keys out and even slower, unlock the door,” his rough voice mutters near my ear.
This time when he speaks, his voice elicits a vague recognition, but from where or when, I can’t place it. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m going to have coffee with him or adhere to his command for that matter.
The minute his palm leaves my lips, I scream, and struggle to free myself from his hold. I try to swing my fists but he catches my arms. Pinning them to my sides, he takes them both effortlessly in one hand.
He slaps his other hand back over my mouth, pushing me even harder. This time I can feel the dank drywall pressing against my cheek. “It appears Cleo is actually a feisty Cleopatra,” he tsks, “and she doesn’t like to follow instructions.”
Cleo.
He knows my secret identity.
Crap.
This is not good.
I don’t move.
I don’t answer.
My mind flutters with both relief and terror. This isn’t about Enrique, but instead it’s about the art. Someone from the dark web has found me. Found Cleo. I have to admit I never saw it coming. I thought I’d done such a stellar job covering my trail.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. I just need some information. Now, unlock the unit, sweetheart, and let’s go inside,” he whispers.
Sweetheart.
The word burns.
There is no way in hell I’m doing that, but I nod in agreement, anyway. This sick, sorry excuse of a man will not take me anywhere against my will. And all the while I keep telling myself this, I also know I’ve never felt so vulnerable, so defenseless, not even with Enrique.
I stop attempting to scream because no matter how hard I try, nothing but muffled noise comes out.
Then suddenly, I get an idea. A surge of adrenaline spikes through me. I can feel it coursing through my veins, and that’s when I make my move.
With pain seizing in my limbs, I yank my arms up. Freeing his hold, I claw at him like the wild animal I am. While he’s mildly distracted by this, I drop my weight and stomp my foot on his—hard, harder, pounding it, smashing it. And then I put all my weight on my heel and grind it into his boot.
When he still doesn’t release his hold on me, I throw my head back and smash it into his forehead.
This move causes what I can only assume is an involuntary release of his grip on me because my wrists are suddenly free.
Completely unrestrained, I scream loudly, but the pain erupting in my head doesn’t escape with the sound.
In a blur, I whirl around and bring my knee right to his groin, sparing nothing.
He yelps like a dog and I want to bask in my glory, but I don’t stick around to watch as he bends his body over in pain.
Instead I run—run like hell to the door and outside into the crowded sidewalks of Ocean Beach.
I breathe in one quick, sharp, shaky breath and then walk fast through the streets, not caring who's watching or wondering why.
My ears strain for sounds of my attacker’s boots tracking behind me, but I don’t hear anything.
When I get to my car, I pray my keys are still in my pocket—they are. I jump in and all my energy comes crashing down. Only when I put the vehicle in drive and pull out of the parking lot, do I allow my tears to release.
I haven’t felt so exposed, so petrified, or so helpless since the day I lost everything.
Who was that?
What did he want to know?
I glance at the time.
I’m going to be late.
I need to get moving.
Still, I feel lost.
Enrique’s concerns over me really are valid but not for the reasons he thinks. Someone besides him must be watching me.
Should I tell him what happened?
No, I can’t.
He’d kill me if he knew what I’d been doing.
Should I be scared?
The answer is yes.
Absolutely, yes.