My traitorous pussy quivers in response.

I try to change the subject. “What about my car?”

“Write down your address and I’ll call a tow truck to have it taken there. I’ll pay for it.” He opens a drawer and hands me a pen and torn piece of paper with a hotel emblem on it.

“Don’t you have a job?” I ask him, writing down my address. “And a name?”

He takes the paper from me and gives me that long stare of his, as if he’s looking right through my eyes and straight into my thoughts, making me feel vulnerable and exposed.

“We’ll talk about that later on,” he finally answers.

“Seriously? We’re going to talk about your name later?”

He doesn’t waver. “That’s what I said.”

“Don’t you want to know mine?”

“No. I’ll call you what I want to call you.”

“Fine,” I mutter, and take off out the sliding glass doors in the kitchen that lead to the backyard, sure to close the doors behind me so Sterling can’t wander out. There’s a chilly breeze coming off the lake. All I’ve got on is his thin T-shirt, but I don’t care. There are no other houses around that I can see from here, so no one’s going to see my pointy nipples and naked legs.

Walking over to the small wooden dock that extends from the yard, I find a little boat tied to it. It’s hard for me to picture him in this tiny boat; he’s just too big. I think he would sink it. I climb into the boat and untie the rope from the wooden post. There are two oars but I don’t use them; I just let the wind blow me slowly across the water. From the middle of the lake I can see a few other houses, each with their own little docks and boats. I didn’t explore his house while he was gone, but now I wished I had. There were definitely other rooms—I just lacked the interest in seeing them. Maybe there is a guest room that he will let me stay in while I’m here. Unless he expects me to sleep in his bed every night. With him? I’m not sure I can do that.

I wiggle my left hand, staring at my engagement ring and wedding band. All my memories feel so far away, and I don’t understand how that can happen in just a few months. Everything feels as if it happened a lifetime ago. I can’t remember the happiness I felt every day before the accident. Now it feels like a movie I watched, and not like it happened to me at all.

Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m grieving the loss of Nick or the loss of myself.

I peer over the edge of the boat and see a face looking back at me in the water. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. The girl in the water looks like a sad wreck.

The boat bobbing in the water is making me sleepy, and I wish I had a blanket and pillow with me so I could just curl up on the small floor of the boat and sleep. Better yet, I wish I could fall over the side, float to the bottom of the lake and just stay there.

Dom dude is just as much of a mess as I am. Possibly even more so. He seems sad, but also dark and devious and a bit of an asshole, and yet I see fleeting glimpses of care and compassion in him too. The fact that I got on a motorcycle with him so easily without a second thought and let him bring me here to his house in the woods scares me terribly.

I look back at the house and he’s standing on the dock with a bottle in his hand. I’ve drifted out further than I thought and doubt the wind will be nice enough to lead me back, so I pick up the oars and row back. His eyebrows furrow together when I near, and he grabs the rope from my hand and ties it to the post. I watch his fingers expertly tie the knot and I feel wetness between my legs, thinking of how he tied my hands almost the same way.

He takes my arm and helps me onto the dock. “What the hell are you doing? I thought something happened to you.” He picks up his bottle of vodka and takes a swig. This cannot be good.

“What could happen? I was just floating around.”

“Next time, tell me. You can’t just disappear on me like that.”

“I wish I could just disappear. And why are you drinking?”

“Because that’s what I do.” He puts his arm around me and leads me towards the house. “Its too cold for you to be out here like this.”

As soon as we walk through the doors I can smell food cooking, so he must have started dinner while I was out on the boat disappearing. He doesn’t strike me as the cooking type, but I guess he is just full of surprises.

“It smells delicious. What are you making?”

“Chicken cordon bleu and rice pilaf.”

I can’t hide the impressed and surprised look that must be on my face. “Really? You made that?”

He takes another sip of vodka before answering me, and I’m starting to worry about why he’s drinking and how much of that he’s going to be doing. I really don’t want to be stuck out here with an angry—or psycho—drunk person.

“Yes, I made it. My grandmother loves to cook, and sometimes I just go to her house and spend the day cooking with her.”

Picturing that scene brings a smile to my face. I don’t know many men who would hang out with their grandmother cooking, especially ones that look like he does.

Sterling waltzes into the room and starts to wind himself around my ankles, meowing up at me.

“Aww … he’s talking. He’s such a cutie.”

He takes yet another drink, and opens a small pantry door, pulling out a bag of cat food. “He’s hungry. This little fucker eats nonstop.”

I take the bag out of his hand and fill the cat’s dish, laughing at how quickly he runs over to start devouring his food. “Don’t call him a fucker. He’s just a kitten. Maybe he was starved as well as tortured.”

“Shit, I never thought of that.”

I put the food back in the pantry and spy more alcohol in there, way in the back.

I turn around and eye him. “Why are you drinking so much?”

“This is nothing. Trust me.” Thin red veins are spreading in his eyes, and his words are starting to slur just a little bit. The fuck is he doing to himself?

“Do you have a drinking problem?” I demand, folding my arms across my chest.

He laughs. “I have a lot of problems.”

Irritated, I take the bottle away from him. “I won’t stay here if you’re going to drink.” I pour what’s left in the bottle into the sink, hoping it doesn’t put him in a rage.

“What the fuck?” he yells. “Why did you do that?”

I back away from him a little. “I refuse to stay here if you’re going to be drinking. My father was an alcoholic. Forget it. No way in hell am I going to let you put a finger on me or be wielding knives and tying me up, or whatever crazy shit you plan to do if you’re drunk or high. You said I had to trust you and there is no way I can do that if you’re drinking. I can’t go there.”

We engage in a stare-off for a few minutes. His eyes are dark with anger and his fists are clenched at his sides. The fact that I don’t know anything about him or what he could do to me quickly comes to the forefront of my mind.

“You keep fucking walking away from me,” he finally says.

“And?” I prod, raising my eyebrows at him.

“And what? I don’t like it. Don’t do it again.”

“Fine. No more drinking or I’ll walk home.”

He sighs, and blows out a breath, running his hand through his hair. “All right. If it bothers you that much, I won’t.”

“It does, and thank you.”

“Come here.”

I don’t budge.

“Come. Here,” he repeats.

I relent and step forward, stopping a few inches in front of him. I crane my neck to look up at him and he touches my cheek. “Why do you run off?” he asks, his voice low and soft, his eyes fighting to close.

Shrugging, I lean against the warmth of his hand. “I don’t know, really. I’m constantly feeling like I have to run away … like being someplace else will somehow make me feel better. It never does, though, and I usually end up just crying or getting mad at myself. I don’t know how else to explain it other than my brain and my heart feel lost.”

He stares into my eyes for a few moments and I know that he understands. Finally, someone understands. “We’ll even you out and you’ll feel better.” He leans down and kisses me. “Come into the bedroom with me. I need to measure you.”

I let him lead me to the bedroom, but I’m confused. “Measure me?” I question. “For what?”

He pulls the T-shirt over my head, as if it’s just the most natural thing to be doing. I step out of my panties, hanging on to him for balance.

“I’m going to buy you something,” he finally says.

Well, that piques my interest. What could he buy me that I would need to be measured naked for? I recall reading about a psycho that kidnapped a woman and kept her in a box under his bed for weeks, taking her out only to abuse her. A flash of fear rips through me at the thought of that happening to me.

He goes to his dresser and comes back with a cloth tape measure, and begins to measure my height, my chest, my waist, my hips—almost every part of my body. He types it all into a note program on his phone.

“Okay, you’ve really got my mind going. What are you going to get me?”

He slides his hand between my thighs. “It’s a secret.” His finger presses up between my already moist lips. “It will take about a week to get here once I order it.” He slowly slides his finger in and out of me and bends down to kiss my neck, sucking the base of my throat. I lean back, stretching my neck to feel more of his mouth on me. His teeth graze my skin, sending shivers down my spine.

“Spread your legs for me,” he whispers, and I obey, spreading my feet farther apart. I run my hands up his arms and grip his shoulders as he pushes two fingers inside me. He pulls my hair, stretching my neck back even more, and ravishes my flesh with his lips and tongue. “Take your hands off me and put them behind your back.”