I need to say something.
“I’m going for a run, just wanted to see what you were doing,” I manage.
“You’re running on the treadmill in here?” he asks me, nonchalantly, taking a step closer.
No, I can’t be anywhere near him. I need to leave now.
“I’ll be running in the Park, around the Reservoir,” I tell him, backing away. He takes another step and all of a sudden I know that if I stay I won’t be able to control myself.
I head as quickly as I can to the exit located on the other side of the gym that leads up to 88th Street.
“Jocelyn,” Lance says again, but I don’t stop, my legs pump me up the stairs and before I know it, I’m in fresh air. I start jogging at a slow pace west, toward the Park.
That was really stupid of me, the way I acted back there. Don’t worry, hun, you can say it.
I’m 15 years older than Lance and I’m acting like a teenager. Worse than a teenager. Like a lovesick little girl with a crush.
Except I’m not a little girl. I’m a 35-year-old grown woman who’s acting like a fool in front of her stepson.
You can’t see me, but I’m mentally kicking myself as I enter the park and start running around the jogging path around the Reservoir.
I need to stop ogling Lance around the house. I need to stop lusting after his strong back muscles when he walks around shirtless.
I need to focus. My life isn’t that pretty right now. And that’s probably why I’m transferring this lust onto him. I’m being blackmailed into staying in a marriage to a man who obviously doesn’t love me.
But I can’t do anything or else my father’s legacy crumbles.
I need to stop thinking about Lance and start worrying about what I’m going to do. Maybe this run will clear my head. Maybe it’ll—
I don’t know what happens but all of a sudden I’m falling and hitting the ground. Before I can even register what’s going on I’m being picked up by a pair of strong hands.
“Shut up, or your dead, bitch,” a gruff voice tells me.
Now, as the Mayor’s wife, I’m entitled to NYPD security when I go out. But more out of practicality I’ve never used the protection service. I’m a born and raised New Yorker, I can handle anything.
I open my mouth and raise my hands, and get ready to scream.
Without realizing what happens the side of my face all of a sudden starts to sting and I realize I’ve been slapped.
“No screaming, or you’re dead!” the voice tells me with urgency. “You’re too pretty to kill before I get a chance to fuck you!”
I look around me, desperately trying to figure out what’s happening.
A man in a black hoodie, with his face covered is holding onto me. His skin is dark, but I can’t tell what nationality. He’s got loose sweatpants on and I can smell liquor on his breath.
With one strong grip, he’s holding my hand. The other one he reaches over and places on my ass, giving it a squeeze.
I feel like throwing up as a shudder of disgust goes through me.
The man doesn’t waste any time. There’s no joggers running by me to call out for help, and he starts dragging me toward the bushes.
“Like I said, don’t fucking scream, or this will end even worse than its going to, understand?” he asks.
I can’t move. I realize I should yell. I should kick him, but he’s too strong. And he’s dragging me at an insane angle.
I can’t believe this is happening to me.
But just because I don’t have a good vantage point now, don’t think I’m beaten, hun.