But now, with a glass of wine absent, rage causes my hands to tremble with the reminder of how he left me on the floor, tossing a rose on me like discarded trash and then leaving. I had never felt more debased as a human until that moment. Never more humiliated.
He hasn’t messaged me since. Hasn’t tried to come to me and wave another gun in my face. He just lingered outside the window.
And I stared back.
It’s become our fucked-up routine.
He doesn’t come around during the day, and as long as I’m not letting men feel me up and stick their hand down my pants, he doesn’t text me any more threatening messages.
I don’t tell Daya about our confrontation, and especially not about how that night ended. If my shadow doesn’t murder me first, Daya will.
I was incredibly stupid. A fact I’ve never tried to deny. Especially now.
There’s just no explaining the reactions he pulls from me. I’d love to pretend like confronting a scary man is so like me, but it’s the exact opposite. I work myself into a panic attack if I have to ask a complete stranger a question.
So why is it every time he comes around, I slip into insanity?
“Why are you wearing a turtleneck?” Daya asks with disdain, shoving a bite of her salad into her mouth. We met at Fiona’s to grab a bite to eat.
I needed to get out of the house. Desperately. The smallest things would bring me back to that night. And every time I looked in the mirror, I was overcome with the memory of his teeth sinking into me. And the bite of metal soon after.
I clear my throat. “I’m trying something new,” I
mutter. It was the only thing that would cover the marks staining my body. I had to order several of them in different colors through Amazon Prime, the need for them dire.
I can never let Daya see those marks. Nor could I ever confess the new meaning my stalker gave to finger-banging.
She shrugs her shoulders, looking down at her salad. “Only you can make a turtleneck, mom jeans, and a belt look fashionable.”
I frown down at my outfit, disagreeing with her assessment. I hate this outfit, but maybe I only hate what it represents. Something designed solely to cover the bruises covering my body. Beneath these clothes is a map of purple hickeys.
“What about lover boy? Anything else happen with him?”
I hope the flush crawling up my neck stays down. If it doesn’t, maybe I can blame it on the goddamn turtleneck.
“I’d much rather talk about Gigi,” I say, eyeing the mozzarella sticks sitting between Daya and me. I’ve had four already and I want the last one. Noting my stare, Daya rolls her eyes and flaps her hand, urging me to take it.
I do so with a big smile on my face.
“I have some news on Ronaldo.” Both brows shoot up, urging me to continue. “Last night I was picking through the diaries to see what I could find on him. Gigi would often mention him wearing nice suits and that gold ring, indicating that he was middle to upper class. And there was one entry where he seemed to have gotten jumped. Came in bruised and bloodied but wouldn’t speak about it.
“So, I’m thinking he was involved in crime of some sort. He was very secretive about his life and told her at one point that he wouldn’t allow his dangerous lifestyle to affect her.”
“You think he was like a mob boss?”
I shake my head. “No, I think his boss was a mob boss. When Gigi spoke of him when he was beat up, she made it sound like he was punished for something. She quoted him saying, “it was nothing I didn’t deserve,” and that’s all he would say.
“Gigi had noted several times in entries that she kept asking anyways, concerned for his wellbeing. The last thing he told her was that he had a very strict boss, and he couldn’t know about her.”
Daya nods her head, a spark of excitement in her sage eyes. “I’ll look into crime families in the 40s. See if I can find anyone that might match his description.”
I smile, feeling the same spark of hope. The high lasts for a total of five seconds before Daya's eyes widen, her gaze locked behind me.
My heart drops and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. My shadow wouldn’t show up here now, would he? In front of Daya?
“Hello, ladies.”
My eyes widen along with Daya's. Her gaze clashes with mine and a million things are said in the span of two seconds. Like that we need to be very fucking careful.