Is this the same line he uses to lure in the star-struck wannabe actresses who waitress on the sunset strip when he propositions them to come play hostess for his weekly poker game with the Hollywood elite?
Probably. But I’m not falling for it.
I yank my head toward the door, almost falling over. My head spins so fast when I hear the deep timbre of a gigantic man standing on our top step, a child’s hand attached to each of his. And I swear he’s growling, looking right past my mom at me and Jenson.
The man is huge, ginormous, and dressed in an all-black skeleton spandex bodysuit with white bones. Even his face is concealed with black paint, and the kids he’s got with him match him to a T. So, so cute, that for a minute I forget I’m pinned to a wall against my will.
But my eyes narrow as I more carefully take in the toddlers he’s got in tow, noticing something is a bit…off...when it comes to them.
“I’m over here,” Jenson says, the tip of his index finger finding the bottom of my chin as he not so gently guides my face square with his, trying to regain the eye contact I’m reluctant to give him, not wanting to encourage him in any way.
Why does mom just ignore this, even though it’s literally happening not ten feet from her, right behind her back? And it’s not the first time. Or the second.
I wish my real dad was here. He’d put an end to this. But unfortunately, his protective instincts led him to run inside a burning home when I was just a girl. He won all kinds of awards from his fire department and the city because he was able to get everyone out alive. Everyone but one. Him.
And I’ve never been the same since, and clearly neither has my mom, who’s been bouncing from man to man until she hooked the whale that is Jenson Brooksby. At least that’s what it seems like to the outside world. The dysfunction within her Versace wallpapered gilded cage isn’t fooling me one bit.
“Look, Jenson,” I say with feigned excitement, motioning with my head toward the front door despite his attempt to keep me from doing exactly that. “They’re super cute and all three are matching. You can’t pass up this photo op. Probably the last one of the night, not to mention a good segway into reopening a dialog with Johnny Depp starring in that indie flick you wanted to make. What was it called?Skeletons in the Closet.”
He mumbles a string of obscenities under his breath and before he can turn his head to look where I’m motioning I hear a pistol cock, my mom scream, and Jenson’s hand comes off my jaw as he turns just as the oversized trick-or-treater steps through the door frame, tosses the two kids to the side, and wraps his huge mitt around my mom’s mouth, muffling her screams as he kicks the door shut behind him.
Our security system engaging, but not in the way we need. No alarms go off, instead, the thing is now set, but with us trapped inside with the perpetrator.
Mom keeps screaming, and even starts kicking but the man just tilts his torso back, my mom bicycle kicking the air as the intruder keeps the gun pointed squarely at my stepfather’s head.
Everything is happening so quickly that I can’t even process it, the adrenaline overload is too much.
Jenson grabs me and pulls me in front of him like a shield, seeming to forget he’s way bigger than I am, and it’s like holding up a pea to protect a carrot.
I should probably do something, but I can’t. My entire body goes still as my feet turn to stone as I stand there rooted in place, taking in the sight of what’s going down. Strangely a smile tugs at the corners of my lips, the excitement in this part of town completely new to the sterile area, and most definitely to Jenson’s life who’s revealing what everyone already knew to already be true. He’s a scaredy little bitch.
I’ve heard of people peeing themselves when they're terrified and the smell coming from behind me reaffirms that urban legend that’s suddenly proving to be a lot more than a myth.
“Let go of my wife or I kill the girl,” Jenson says. My eyebrows knit at his comical reply and the big man in the skeleton outfit completely ignores him, instead dropping down to a knee, pulling zip ties out from his boots, and hogtying my mom like this isn’t the first time he’s done this before.
He stands, looks at my stepfather, and then smirks before his giant strides eat up the space between us.
Jenson’s arms extend, still grabbing me by the sides, as if putting distance between him and me is going to allow him to hide behind me, which he tries, squatting down.
I just watch as this mystery man moves past me, in a blur. My eyes take in the sight of the ‘kids’ he came out trick-or-treating with, realizing now they’re nothing more than very good molds of real humans. Scary and creepy, just like Halloween is meant to be. But it’s not meant to be like what’s happening in real-time inside the confines of my mom and stepfather’s home.
I spin on a heel, my eyes drinking in the visual of the man’s thick back muscles as he makes quick work of zip-tying the owner of the house, just like he did my mom.
Even down on one knee, the man is still almost taller than me. His wide shoulders are more than twice my girth, his neck almost as thick as my thigh, and his body like a work of art.
I should probably jump on his back, try and take him down, but all I can do is admire him. Admire his balls for what he’s trying. Scratch that. What he’s doing, very successfully.
Logic kicks in and I throw myself at him before he goes to stand. This is my only chance if there ever was one. Trying to wrap my arms around his thick back, I completely fail.
He stands as if I’m nothing more than a five-pound weighted vest, a mosquito that he doesn’t even feel, and unable to lock my hands around him I lose my grip, scrambling to try and climb him just before the tips of my toes find the floor as I slide down his back like water on a duck.
Then the rest of my feet make contact with the floor.
He turns, towering over me as he stares down at me from behind his mask. Even with the mask on I can see those dark eyes turn a shade of gray as they pierce into me so hard I feel like he doesn’t even need that gun he’s got with him. The daggers his orbs are throwing are more than enough of a weapon, but not to hurt me physically. But to subdue me physically by taking control of my body in another way. In a very unexpected part of my anatomy.
There, where only he’s ever been able to bring forth such a sensation.
“You,” he growls, his eyes narrow as I watch his pupils dilate as he stares at me so hard I feel like I’m going to melt. I know my skin is turning red without needing a mirror to see it, my insides feel like they’re cooking, and moisture is forming at the junction of my legs.