The Stranger I Know (Dark Romance) (4 page)

I'm not sure I know the difference.

A
fter dropping the package off at the mailroom, I decide it's time to get out of here. Stephanie gave me an odd look, like she was suspicious of something. Besides, my legs feel extra cold without my underwear.

The walk to my car is going to be extra miserable, but for that price, I get this heat in my chest. Like a roaring flame, I cackle and pop at the nearest noise. People on the street stare at me like I'm a stranger, but I don't care. I glare right back at them. Them and the other drivers sliding across the intersections on their cell phones.

I cross into the parking garage and get to my car. After unlocking it with a beep, I grab the door and swing it open. As I sit down in the leather seat and let the heat crawl back into my skin, I feel something metallic against my neck.

My body stiffens instinctively. I try and eye the rear-view mirror, but it's already been turned aside. Useless. My skin shivers, and I feel the rustle of the blade against my neck hair. It's a howling gale to my ears.

There's a deep intake of breath behind my seat. Several times. "You smell divine," the voice says.

The Stranger. I feel myself fall into a hole, the same one that I disappear into every time we meet. I don't know how he does it, but I'm not the same when I'm with him. I hollow out a spot for myself and sit down. I like it there, while he takes over. With him in control, I don't have to worry. I don't have to decide anything. He does it all for me. My Master.

"I received your package," I say. My anxiety has thinned a little, but I can't get the knot out from between my shoulder blades. I try and eye the mirror again, forgetting it's turned away from me.

A pause in the air. "What did you think?" he says. My breath fogs the window.

"I didn't know what to think."

He leans the edge of the blade against my neck, the tip pointing at the window now. I feel him shave a few of my loose hairs away from my bun. "Not an acceptable answer."

I swallow, feeling that heat between my legs pushing into my body. Going without underwear was a mistake, wasn't it? At least having him here confirms what I suspected: he saw my car and remembered it. Now that he's here and I'm thinking about it again, it doesn't bother me that much. I squeeze my thighs together and let out a ragged sigh.

"It piqued my interest," I say, tightening my legs even harder. I bite my lip, though I'm sure he can't see it. "I sent you something back."

"Oh?" he sounds surprised, and I like that. I usually can't surprise him. He'll take me into the bathroom at the hotel and make me do something humiliating, like scrub the tile while he keeps his foot buried in my back. Or he'll make me shower with the water set to ice cold. All things I approve of. I never deny him. I've never given in and needed to use our safe word.

"Yes, I hope it piques your interest as well." I swallow hard. I don't know how long this impromptu meeting will last. I don't want it to. I need to get home, but if we're already together, why not bring him— no. I can't do that.

I eye the skyline out my window and hunt for the hotel we always stay at. His voice comes from behind my neck, even closer now. His breath curls around my throat like a fist. "Are you thinking of taking me there?"

"I..." I never lose my words.

"You were. You know you're not allowed to bring me anywhere without my approval. In fact, I'm disappointed you had the autonomy to reply to my package with one of yours. Very disappointed."

"Sir..." I slip back into myself, but I want to claw at him and keep him from leaving. I can feel him pulling away.

"I'm going to leave now, I don't want to catch you following me, watching me, or even thinking of me."

"Yes, sir."

He withdraws the blade from between the head rest and opens the car door. He steps out and I try and stop my eyes from looking in the side mirror. He told me not to. I grip the steering wheel and clench my hands around it until my fingers turn white and red with pain. I threaten to blister the palms.

His footsteps echo away into the parking lot and I see the vague outline of a man walking to the elevator with his hands deep in his jacket. His collar is pulled up, making him even harder to identify. I don't think I could anyway.

That gruff, brash attitude. He doesn't want me to even think about him.

So I won't.

I start my car and switch it into reverse. Snow starts falling outside the garage and sticking to the buildings. It'll grab my car, too. Good thing I only live across town.

I wonder if that limo that James rode up in will finally get dirty. I need to send
him
a message too. But not a sexy one, a threatening one.

Maybe I can take a page from the Stranger and send James a noose. Then James might consider hanging himself before I'm through with dismantling his company to the bare bones and engulfing those in flames, too. When I'm through with him, he'll be nothing but ash.

***

I
t's only Monday and I already want to give in and contact the Stranger on the new phone number he gave me. I'm sure it's a burner phone, since he changes his number every couple of weeks. For what reason? So people can't track him? Are people tracking him?

The only people I know who use burner phones are drug dealers. While I don't really dabble, you meet specific kinds of people when you work in my industry. You have to appease them, even if that means bailing them out of jail, getting some records sealed, or buying the gram of coke in the first place.

The things these people make me do. I love it though. The thrill it gives me over them, the power I hold. I can get anything I want when I'm on the outside of the bars and they're on the inside. They'll do anything to keep their families, board members, or supervisors from finding out. And really, aren't those all the same thing?

I kick off my heels and leave them upside down and fallen over in the entryway. As I stroll into my house, I hang my purse up on the coat rack with my jacket, and peel off an extra layer of clothes I wore today. In my bedroom, I think about the package I sent to the Stranger.

I draw a hot stream of water into the bath. I need something to thaw these muscles, thaw my mind, and defrost my skin. I stare into my mirror and almost past my reflection, as I unsheathe the pins holding my hair in place. Each one gets dropped on the counter without any applause. Each one pulled free loosens my bun, and a little more hair falls to my shoulders. Why do I keep it so long when all I do is pin it back?

I can't have a short haircut. It doesn't fit me and it puts me in a different slot of women. The men need to see my hair slicked back and a bun hidden from view. The more I look like a man with breasts, the more they respect me. As disgusting as I find that. There is some latent eroticism I'm not quite ready to explore lingering in those ideas.

When the mirror starts to fog, I know my bath is ready. I shut the tap off and climb into the steaming water. Each inch I submerge feels better than the last, the scalding easily confused with a chill. I don't care.

With my shoulders completely under the surface, I lean my head back against the edge of the tub and let out a long sigh. I feel the steam curl away from my face and then return again.

***

A
fter bathing, I head down into the kitchen, still nude. My house is a little large for just me, but I like it. The wide floor spaces and vaulted ceilings are comforting. A kind of insulated isolation. I crack the seal on the freezer and pull out a facial ice mask and slip the band around my head. I ascend the stairs into my bedroom.

I shut my bedroom door and move to the bed. It's also too big, but that just means there's more for me to enjoy. I climb under the covers and shut the light off. The ice is just the right temperature to lull my body into sleep, while keeping any signs of age at bay.

While I also have to look like a man with breasts, I also can't look like a woman over the age of thirty. Thirty is the exact age I want to be. I can't be over thirty. I can't be forty. Numbers between that or higher might as well not exist.

The mask warms and I'm still not asleep. Shit.

I groan and reach a blind hand out to my nightstand. The blindfold brushes up against my fingers, and I swipe at it. I release the ice mask from my head and set it aside, before replacing it with the blindfold. I have to layer it several times to keep it from being too long and getting tangled up in my arms.

With my eyes shut to the pitch blackness, I run my hands down my body. My sheets don't hinder me. I imagine the Stranger coming into my room, breaking in, maybe, and climbing into my bed with me.

Then he'd whisper in my ear and my toes would curl. I slide my finger between my thighs and feel how wet I am. I clench my eyes shut behind the blindfold and try to recreate the feeling of the cold metal blade against the back of my neck. The sound of my hair being cut away from my skin. I relish it, and find that sharp ringing just as I stroke my vulva and run my fingers between my lips. My face flushes without my consent, and I imagine the Stranger keeping the blade held against my nape, while he reaches around my car seat and blindfolds me with his gift. Then he'd drag me into the back of my car, and have his way with me in the parking garage.

Gray daylight.

Windows bleeding sound.

My cries only muffled by his powerful hand.

I climax and arch into the air. The tucked in duvet is pulled free from the foot of the bed, and I collapse back into the wet mess I've created from my sweat and pleasure. I roll aside from it and mentally note to change my sheets the next day. I don't even remember to take the blindfold off.

I fall into a void of sleep. It carries me away from my racing mind and I embrace it. Besides the stays with the Stranger, it is the only time I really get to myself.

Technicolor and pastels swirl in a reality I know is real. I move along the ground without seeing or feeling my feet touch it, but I trust it is there. The Stranger is there, too, and I feel the presence of a third person, but I can't see or hear them. The Stranger, cloaked in his black outline and mask, embraces me. A part of me feels dead in his arms. I can't embrace it with the third man standing there though. It is definitely a man.

The Stranger takes the blindfold and slips it around my face. I close my eyes and when I open them again, there's nothing but the dim outline of two studio lights and people in the room. Two people. I try to look between them, but I have no control over my body.

The Stranger pushes me onto the bed, and the third man encircles me, coming along the side. I want to push him away, but I can't, because the Stranger won't let me. Each time I try to reach out, he grabs my arms and stops me. I try to fight his strength, but it's useless. He peels his mask off, as he sometimes does when I'm blindfolded with him. I still can't make his face out. It's covered in shadow.

The man at the edge of the bed fondles me, his hands exploring my breasts, touching my nipples just enough to make me shiver, and hovering down my belly and brushing my thighs. I fight myself and him at the same time. Two sets of hands embrace me, their rugged textures feeling my thoughts, my feelings, my fears. I squeeze my eyes shut and let them. I can't stop it anyway.

I'm exposed to two Strangers. One I know, the other, I don't. Every facet of my personality, my dreams, my nightmares, my personal monologues. They're all there. They're taking them. Piece by piece, their hands take a part of me away, as if I'm a jigsaw puzzle to be solved and put back into the box. The pieces turned upside down and the image forgotten from age and crinkled edges. Nothing fits together anymore. Too many times were they forced together incorrectly.

The men vanish for a moment and I catch my breath, even though it still feels like I'm suffocating. I open my mouth wide and air sucks in, and lips find mine. I open my eyes and the blindfold is gone, and James' face is on mine. I try to push him away, but my arms go straight through his body. His tongue fights mine, and I join in without consent. I can't control myself. I feel hands inside mine, like I'm a glove, and suddenly I realize the Stranger is leaning over my shoulder. His arms are tucked inside my own. I can see his arms twitch and mine twitch along with them, as he forces me to undress James' button down shirt. His fucking shirt he probably paid five hundred dollars for. No, his dead father paid for. I fight and fight but the Stranger's inside me, he won't let go.

I throw myself out of my bed and my dream, stumbling against the wall and clinging to air as I smack my head on the lamp. It falls and crashes against the carpet. I'm awake, thank god.

I lean down and pick up the lamp, groping the darkness and setting it back where it belongs. I turn it on and feel my neck. Covered in sweat. Great. I'll be a mess if I don't take care of this.

The bathroom's sink runs hot. I splash my hands with it and tidy up my hair. I examine my bruise, but it doesn't look too bad. If I bruised like a peach, I wouldn't have any fun in the hotel. Everyone would know. I'd have to tell them I was in a fight club.

But what the hell was with that dream? I can't turn it over. I don't really want to either. I fill a glass of water from the sink and take two sleeping pills. I won't turn the dream over either.

I crawl back into bed and stare at the lamp, as if it was the one that caused the dream. I slip the ice mask back on, even if it should be called a lukewarm mask at this point. I wipe some splashed water away from my face with the sheet before I fall asleep again. No dreams this time.

***

T
he next day is gray. At the insistence of my morning alarm, I sit up and crumple the bedding beneath my arms.

I dress and pull my hair back into a tight bun again. As I'm observing my work in the mirror, I turn my head and can see the destruction from the stranger's blade. A couple of strands that are too short to be pulled up into the bun have been cut short. It feels as visible as a hickey to me. I put pressure on it and try to pretend that'll make it go away.