Sitting on the old leather couch in the corner, watching reruns of Cops, I stare at the screen, lost in thought.
I don’t know why we’re here, and if I’m being honest, I don’t care. I’m drained. I’m tired and worn out mentally. I need a long nap and a faraway vacation.
Everything in my life is starting to wear on me and it’s my fault because I let it—Tags, a stalker, and now King. King being the worst of them all. The man is all-consuming.
From the coffee table in front of me, my phone rings, vibrating across the wood.
Unknown flashes across my screen.
My heart sinks and my hands tremble.
I don’t want to answer it. I shouldn’t answer it.
“Hello?” I answer, nervous, my voice giving me away.
There’s nothing. No answer. No noise. “Hello?” I repeat, my voice firmer, making me sound braver than I am when inside, I’m soft. I’m Jell-O.
“You’re pretty when you’re scared,” a deep voice says into the silence after a beat.
My heart tumbles, taking a nosedive.
I don’t know what to say, too sick to answer. “Don’t be scared, Samantha,” he continues, and my heart sinks further just hearing him say my name.
I want to ask who he is and why he’s calling me. I want to scream at him, tell him to leave me the fuck alone, but I’m too scared to even open my damn mouth. I feel like a weak idiot.
I’ve seen a lot in my life. Done a lot. Lived through a lot. I’m tough. My backbone’s made of steel, but the icy, unfamiliar voice turns my stomach and sends goose bumps up my spine. It’s one thing to stare down danger, but to be blind to it, not see it? It’s terrifying.
He chuckles, his voice like ice water in my veins. “I’ll see you soon, pretty girl.” The phone goes dead, beeping to an end, just as King walks through the back door.
Wide-eyed, I stare at him, the phone limp in my hand. I see him, but not actually see him.
I’ve never heard his voice. He’s called but he’s hung up. I’ve found a few roses on my car and a note. I’ve had the feeling of being watched, and then the realization that he’s found my house but I’ve never heard him? It makes it real. Realer than ever before.
“Princess?” he says softly, walking toward me. The fog clears, finally seeing him, and I want to cry just seeing his face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, walking up to me and cupping my jaw in his hand, bringing my eyes up to his.
His touch is so comforting.
Holding up the phone, I whisper, “He called.” Just saying it makes me feel sick.
King looks at me, looks me in the eyes, and then looks at the phone. “He called?” he repeats, his voice dark, dangerous, registering my words. “What’d he say?”
“I’ll see you soon.”
“He what?” King shouts, mad—so mad.
“I don’t want to repeat it. Please don’t make me,” I plead, my voice clogged with emotion. I hate this. Hate that some sick asshole has made me weak. I don’t cry. I don’t shake and shiver. This is not me. I’m a tough chick.
I don’t know how King knows, but he does. He knows I need something from him and gives it to me. Bringing his lips to mine, King kisses the corner of my mouth, softly. “I got you,” he tells me, wrapping an arm around back. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Anger snakes around my fear, squeezing it, squeezing my chest. I’m scared and I’m mad. So mad. “You have to kill him,” I tell King. I’m not pleading, it’s a demand. He has to. I won’t accept anything less.
“Slowly,” he promises against my lips. “Painfully.”
“I want to watch.” My words surprise even myself.
King pulls back and smirks. “No one fucks with you and lives.” I believe him, trusting him down to my core.
Taking my hand, he walks me outside and into the rain. Across Buck’s large yard and toward the woods.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what happened, but I follow King without a fight. I don’t ask where or why. I just go, trusting him when I probably shouldn’t.
Stopping outside of a small shed, King looks at me, and it’s then I notice blood on his shirt and his arm. “That’s not your blood, is it?” It’s not really a question, because I know the answer.
“You gonna be brave for me, baby?” His eyes narrow, watching for weakness. The man is a predator—he can smell fear.
Taking a deep breath, the air damp and mossy, I nod, exhaling into the cold night air. I can see my breath. “Yes.”
Throwing open the door and standing to the side, King nods me in. “You recognize him?” he asks, watching me watch the man.
Bloody. So bloody and bruised, some man in a chair groans, trying to lift his head to look at me. Instantly, I recognize his face.
My stomach starts to twist, hurting. “I showed him and his boss a house a few months ago.” Things start to click, everything falling into place. “He’d been calling for weeks trying to book a showing with me.” I’d brushed him off, not liking the sound of his voice and the way he pushed, so I tried to give him to my coworker Dave, but he’d insisted, and my boss agreed. Anything for a sale. “He kept calling.” My voice starts to rise, franticly. “Your boss just kept calling!” I shout at the man, mad. “I finally told him no, I couldn’t help him, and a few weeks later, this shit started!” I scream, throwing my phone at him.
I try to advance, but King catches me, wrapping his arms around my middle. “Let me go.” I fight. I don’t even know what I’m going to do, but I’m mad, so mad. Sick and tired of living in fear, always looking over my shoulder, and this asshole and his boss are the reason. I want to kill him and his boss.
King carries me out of the shed and around the corner as I fight to be put down. “Set me down, King.”
“Not settin’ you down, baby.”
“That asshole,” I choke on a sob, my emotions finally spilling out. Everything that’s been pent-up starts breaking free. “He’s the reason I’ve been stuck in my house and at the club, scared.”
“I know,” he whispers, pinning me against the shed wall. “I fucking know. You want him dead, baby, I’ll kill him. You’re not gonna do it.”
It might be cold and it might seem ruthless, but this is my life. “Kill him, King.” I can’t live my life with someone out there watching me, waiting to get me. I can’t. “Kill him now.”
Kissing my lips, he smirks. “Yeah.”
Standing outside of the shed, my back against the rough wood, I hold my breath, my fingers in my ears as I wait.
In the doorway, a foot away from me, King pulls a gun from the waist of jeans. He lifts it, cocks it, and fires it.
I jerk, the noise still penetrating my plugged ears. I can feel the bullet, feel the shot.
“Done,” he tells me, stuffing the gun back in his waistband and pulling my hands away from my head. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you wanna go.”
“Home.”
Taking my hand, he agrees. “Then we go home.”