Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) (9 page)

I sunk into the hard plastic-covered mattress beneath me, my bones going soft as the climax ebbed. He let go of my hip, finger by finger, as he pressed a hard kiss to my knee. Then he pulled himself up to his full height and dragged his hand slowly across his face, cleaning me off of his chin. I wanted to talk to him, badly, but my eyes were starting to droop. I was so tired but I wanted to touch him. I wanted him to touch me, but he took a step back away from the bed.

“Come here,”
I mouthed, annoyed that I couldn't speak. He was looking at the ground, so I tapped my knuckle against the side of the bed. He glanced up, looking at me through his dark eyelashes, and my heart jumped in my chest. I could be half-dead and I would still respond to his body language. His big shoulders were hunched and he had a violent, dark look on his face. The veins in his arms and neck were prominent. I would have recognized it from a mile away. He was horny and he wanted to fuck. He wasn't satisfied by licking my pussy, not even close. But he was keeping his distance and I wanted to know why. At the very least, I wanted him to look at me. To touch me.

I stretched my fingers toward him, but that was all I could do. I rolled my head, resting my ear against my shoulder and tried again.
“Elliot,”
I mouthed.
“Come here.”
My legs were still pushed open like he'd left them, and my gown was still up around my waist. If he wanted to, there was nothing stopping him from fucking me. But I wanted him to let me go first. I wanted him to take me home and pretend that none of it had happened. I could forgive him, especially if he got down on his knees and grovelled.

He stepped closer to me, but he didn't look at me. Instead he pulled down my gown and gently arranged my legs under the sheet. I was growing impatient and crabby then, but my mind was sluggish. I wanted to sleep, at home in my own bed. But he was ignoring me. He wasn't listening.

“Go to sleep,” he said, running his hand down my thigh. I yanked it away from him, wanting to get his attention. He scowled and grabbed my leg, pressing it into the mattress. “Don't be difficult,” he grumbled. “You need sleep.” I shook my head slowly, lifting my leg into his touch. I tapped my knuckle on the rail again, more insistent. He moved fast like a gunshot and grabbed my hand, his long fingers wrapping around mine almost painfully. He took a deep breath and glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes. His face was half-lit from the light above my bed. One side was completely in shadow from my perspective. At that moment, dread washed over me. It felt like someone had died. It felt like I was back on my parent's patio by the pool, dripping wet and watching Elliot stab my former fiance over and over again. The feelings were crystal clear, despite the fact that so many years had passed and so much had happened since then. I felt like I needed to move, to run, to scream, but I couldn't. The world was changing but I couldn't do shit to stop it. I can't explain it, really. I just knew that something was very wrong.

Unfortunately, I was right.

I really hate being right sometimes.

“Daisy,” he whispered, tightening his grip on my fingers. I shook my head. I didn't want to hear that name. Daisy only came out in emergencies. Daisy didn't exist unless shit was about to go down. Daisy was a panic button.

“No,” I said, forgetting I couldn't talk. The word came out in an ugly, painful croak and tears immediately sprung to my eyes. He let my hand go and the blood rushed back to my fingers but I still reached out for him. I didn't want him to go. I didn't want to fall asleep and wake up alone. The thought of not being beside him was almost too much to bear. That's how far gone I was. I was so damn needy I almost want to puke when I think back on it. I was so needy for him it was disgusting. I don't think it was love though. It was sick and needy and pathetic, but it was never love.

He took my face in his hands and I felt my whole body leaning into him. His warmth was comforting, even if it was fleeting. “Stop being so goddamn stubborn,” he said, his voice harder. I glared up at him as a tear rolled down my cheek. He caught it with his thumb and swiped it away.  “Close your eyes,” he repeated. His Texas twang was thick and I could tell he was as tired as I was. So I took pity on him and did what he asked. I closed my eyes and settled into the hard pillow. Within minutes, I let myself drift. I fell asleep like that, with his big warm hands stroking my cheeks and hair and his smell surrounding me and the climax he'd given me still throbbing in my brain. I think I probably fell asleep with a smile on my face, like an idiot.

That was the last time I saw him in the flesh.

As always, life dealt me a cruel hand. As the saying goes, the house always wins. I'm continually being dealt a shit hand. But I guess I make my own bad luck. I still think of him before I go to sleep. I still think of him when I wake up. I still remember how it felt to sleep by his side and fuck him and kiss him. The wanting doesn't go away, the
need
.

But life doesn't stop, no matter how much you might wish to freeze time.

Knowing what I know now, I never should've closed my eyes.

Chapter Seven

I
didn't look away from the TV as the doctor or nurse bustled in and grabbed my chart. A soap opera was on, but I wasn't paying attention. My mind was elsewhere, of course. A million questions were running through my head and my skin and scalp was itchy. I needed a shower. My wrists were still strapped, so I couldn't even scratch at myself. I tapped my head against the hard pillow and stared at the TV screen like a zombie. When was I going to see him again? When was he going to come for me? What was he doing right then, at that second? Was he being safe? Was he thinking of me, too? I wish I could say that I don't still ask myself these questions at least once a day, but that would be a lie. Two years later and I still ask them.

“Rachel?” a male voice asked, surprising me from my stupor. I rolled my head to look at the speaker and squinted. He was a doctor, a good-looking one at that. And familiar. I furrowed my brow, running through my memories, as he stepped right up to the bed with a smile on his face. He certainly acted like he knew me.

And then it dawned on me.

Mitch.

Mitch, the fit doctor who always met me in fancy hotels and fucked like the long-distance runner that he was. Mitch, who was slightly balding but had good enough genes elsewhere to make up for it. Mitch, who I'd taken my first pictures with and sent in blue letters to a prison in Texas. I can't say I was happy to see him, despite the friendly smile on his face. A little too friendly.

I smiled back because it was a reflex.

“I can't believe...” he trailed off, his eyes running down the length of me and back to my face. “I haven't seen you in months.” I shrugged lightly and smiled again, trying to remember what kind of person Rachel was. What persona had I put on when I fucked him? Was I an innocent girl or more raunchy? It was getting increasingly hard to keep all my past lives straight. “Don't try to talk,” he said, glancing down at my chart. His smile faded a bit as he read through the information. I watched his face, wondering what he was thinking. The name on my chart was clearly not Rachel. “Well,” he began, flipping through the pages. “What do we have here?” he asked softly. I tapped my knuckle on the bed guard, trying to get his attention. He glanced up and I shook my hands, the leather strap slapping against the guard loudly. He cocked his head and I knew he knew what I wanted. “You promise to be good?” he said, returning my chart to the wall. “The nurse made a note that you've been difficult.”

I opened my mouth and sighed innocently, shrugging lightly. I tried to look as sympathetic as possible. I mean, I was pathetic after all. I was tied down to a hospital bed without the ability to talk. I was pretty low, at that point. He stepped closer to the bed and reached down to touch the leather strap around my left wrist. His touch was soft, gentle. He pulled at the Velcro of the strap, the ripping sound a shock in the quiet room. I pulled my hand free as soon as I could and pressed it to my throat, gingerly feeling the rough gauze bandage there. I could feel how my neck was swollen. It was sensitive, but it didn't hurt. I'd had my pain meds for the day.

Mitch moved on to the right arm and before I knew it, I was completely free. I could leave anytime I wanted. I could go home and everything could get back to normal. I knew even as I was thinking it that I was being naïve. Nothing about my situation was normal. I couldn't talk, I didn't know when I was going to heal. I didn't know when I would be able to go back to work. Everything was a big mystery.

“I'm going to check your signs,” Mitch said, pulling his stethoscope over his head. “We're keeping you here for your own safety, you know.” He pressed the earpieces of the stethoscope in place and then leaned forward and lightly pulled my gown down over my shoulders, exposing the top of my chest. I darted my eyes to his face, wondering if he was remembering what I was remembering. The first night we were together in the hotel, he'd undressed me so gently and softly I'd almost wanted to rip my clothes off for him. I'd been hungry, then, and horny. He was a means to an end, but for him, so was I. And he'd liked it, after all.

He'd liked me.

The tips of his ears were red and I knew he probably was taking the same trip down memory lane that I was. “If that hematoma ruptures, you could have a stroke or worse,” he continued, his voice controlled and calm, as he pressed the flat metal piece of the stethoscope to my chest. I flinched at the cold metal as it touched my skin. He looked ahead at the wall as he listened to my heartbeat. “We need to make sure your airway stays open as you began to heal,” he said after a minute. Then he took off his stethoscope and draped it around his neck again. Our hands clashed when we both reached for my gown to pull it up. He retreated, of course, and his ears went a little more red. I covered myself again and he leaned against the side of the bed. “We'll discharge you tomorrow, most likely. So don't give the nurses any shit, okay?” he said, like he wanted to have something to say.  After a minute, he finally looked me in the face. His eyes were kind, concerned. He was worried about me. I didn't blame him.

“Okay,” I mouthed. He nodded and then was silent. We watched the TV together for an awkward moment, neither of us really paying attention. Finally, after what seemed like a long time, he dropped his hand to my arm. There were marks on my wrists from where I had fought against them and the straps had dug in. He rubbed his thumb over one of the pink lines in my flesh.

“Is there someone we can call?” he asked. “Someone to pick you up when we discharge you?” I thought about his question for a minute and then pointed at the fancy-ass pen in the pocket of his doctor's coat. He pulled it out and handed it to me, along with a little pad he unearthed from his pocket. I quickly jotted down my friend Carmen's number. She worked in the cubicle close to mine and we often ate lunch together. I'd gone to her baby shower the year before. She owed me.

“Good, good,” he murmured, tucking the pad back into his pocket after glancing at it. I almost expected him to make some excuse and leave then, but he didn't. He surprised me by reaching toward me and squeezing my shoulder. I furrowed my brow wondering what he was doing, but I didn't move to toss him off. His touch was warm and in that moment I realized how lonely I was. “What happened?” he asked, his voice just as gentle as his touch. “Did someone hurt you?” There was something in his voice that hit me in my chest. I wanted to nod. Shit, for a small window in time, I wanted to tell him all about it. I wanted to yell and scream and freak the fuck out, because everything was so out of control. But I didn't.

For some annoying reason, I began to cry. The tears came before I could stop them and then I was swiping at my face and closing my eyes and my chest was heaving. Mitch stayed there by the bed, though. He didn't pretend he had to hurry off or that he had something to do. He stayed. He was a good guy. He still is.

Too bad I stopped being good a long time ago.

*****

I could feel Carmen's eyes on me as I punched in the garage code to my condo. I'd told her I didn't need her to come inside with me, but she'd insisted on sitting outside in the driveway until I went in the house. I didn't have my keys, so I had to go in through the garage. I don't know why I felt so nervous about it. There were no signs of Elliot in the garage. I'd sold the car  that I'd driven to Texas and back a few weeks ago. There was no evidence in the garage, but it was still nerve-wracking to have someone else so close to my condo. I punched the code wrong twice, but the third time was the charm. The door rumbled up, and I pinched the skin on my arm as it raised. But when it opened, it only revealed my car and my bike and an otherwise empty garage.

I waved goodbye to Carmen, trying to hide my relief. She backed down the driveway and the danger went with her. I opened the door that led to the kitchen and pressed the button to close the garage door. I watched it as it slowly shuddered into place, successfully sealing out the outside world.

The condo was oddly silent. The air was still and smelled slightly stale, like no one had been home. I stood on the threshold, listening for a split second before I stepped inside. I hadn't seen Elliot in two days. He hadn't come back to the hospital. I told myself on the drive home that it was for his own good that he didn't come. It was for the best that he stayed out of sight. It was better for both of us. But I knew that something had irrevocably changed between us. We'd both broken our own rules. I'd lied, true, but he'd hurt me. He'd specifically told me that he would never hurt me again. So he'd lied, too. I was still angry with him, I couldn't deny it. I knew it was an accident, but I could've died.

Of course, I still wanted him. I missed him. I wanted him to be there when I got home. I especially wanted him to take care of me, since it was his fault I was injured to begin with. It would be weeks before I was back to normal, but I'd be back to work in a couple of days. If he waited on me hand and foot until I was better, I'd forgive him. I smiled a bit as I crossed the threshold, thinking of his reaction to that. I wanted to see him crawl on the floor. I wanted to see him grovel. He wanted him to lick my pussy every night and not have one orgasm of his own. It would serve him right.

I pressed my hand to my bandage as the laughter died in my throat. I kept forgetting that my body wasn't working right. It wasn't convenient at all. I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottled water. I sipped at it as I walked into the living room. I couldn't call out for him, but I was surprised he hadn't come down from the bedroom to me yet. I told myself that maybe he still felt guilty and was avoiding me. But as I walked toward the stairs, I noticed something strange.

The apartment was impeccable.

There was nothing out of place. There wasn't a sheen of dust on any surface. The floor had been vacuumed and swept clean. I backtracked into the kitchen and realized the same was true in there as well. The counters were clear and wiped down, every dish was put away, the trash can was empty. I walked back to the living room, pressing my hand to my throat. My purse was on the dining room table, and next to it was my phone and my keys. I turned on my phone. I had several missed calls from my mother and my brother. I set it down, not able to be bothered at that moment.

I had a bad feeling.

I hurried up the stairs and threw open the bedroom door.

There was no sign of what had happened in there. The bed was made. Everything was in its place. The closet doors were closed. There were no loose shoes or clothes or water glasses or anything out in the open. It was like no one lived there. I crouched down and opened the bottom drawer, where he'd been keeping his clothes. My blood flowed cold in my veins when I saw that it was empty. I ran my hand over the bottom of the drawer, like the clothes would magically appear the more that I looked for them. I could hear a faint jagged broken sound and I realized it was me. I couldn't scream – I could only make that sound. I stood and opened all the other drawers, tossing out the perfectly folded clothes, looking for his. They had to be hidden under my stupid sweaters and mixed in with my underwear, I told myself. He couldn't have just disappeared, I told myself. It wasn't possible. It couldn't happen.

And yet, every sign of him was gone.

There was nothing of him in the bathroom, there was nothing of him in the bedroom, there was nothing of him anywhere else. Even the bag under the bed had been cleansed of his ropes, his chains, his assortment of other toys. I shook my head because I couldn't believe it. I swiped at my eyes, trying to clear them of the tears that were blurring them. I was making the broken sound and my throat was throbbing but I couldn't stop myself. Then I remembered something. I remembered the one thing he might've forgotten. I crawled across the bed and threw open my bedside table. I dug under the post-its and the unopened condoms, my fingers searching for the cool metal of the frame. There's no way he would remember it, I told myself. There was no way.

I searched the drawer over and over again, looking for the childhood photo of him. It was one of my most prized possessions.  It took me a long time to finally admit to myself that it was gone. He'd taken everything. I had nothing left. It was like he'd never been there. It was like he'd never existed. I slammed the drawer shut so hard that the lamp shook then I pressed my face into the pillow. I wanted to scream but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything at all.

He'd left me.

It took two days to fully sink in.

I only dragged my ass out of bed to go to the bathroom or to drink an occasional glass of water. I slept the days away and stayed awake all night, crying until I had no more tears to give. I didn't give up on him. I told myself that he was just laying low for awhile until I wasn't mad at him anymore. Or he was making sure that the FBI wasn't coming for him anymore. I thought up countless scenarios that ended with him returning to me. It didn't happen, though. Two days passed, then two weeks, then two months. He never came back.

Later, much later, after I'd healed and I'd peeled myself off the proverbial floor and forced myself gradually to come back to life, I found the metal box that was usually hidden in the back corner of my closet was sitting on the middle of the bottom shelf. I set it on the dresser and typed in the code –
0923875,
his prisoner number – and opened the lid when the lock clicked open. Most of the money I kept in there was intact. Seven hundred dollars was missing, though. I didn't care about the money; it was just another clue. More importantly, there was a small, folded square of brightly colored paper. It was one of my post-its that I kept in my bedside table and I knew immediately he'd left it for me.