Page 55 of Executing Malice
“No.”
I expected the refusal and still, I blink in surprise. “Why? You’ve seen ... all of me...” oh God ... oh God... “but you won’t show me your face?”
The urge to throw up settles at the back of my throat. A ball of bile lodged at the base of my esophagus. It burns tears of shame in my eyes that I will back but know it’s a losing battle.
I let him bare me.
I lay before him naked and vulnerable. Blindfolded. I don’t think there were other people in the basement, but what if he was recording me? What if this is some sick prank for hits on social media? No one just cuffs a person to a table and eats steak off their stomach if it wasn’t some weird thing for views.
“Laila...” He slips off the bike and I flinch.
I retreat. “Don’t.” I fold my arms. Not in defiance, but security as all the warmth leaves my body shivering in the settling sun. “I ... don’t touch me.”
The wedge of silicone lodged deep in my body feels suddenly violating and humiliating. I want to rip it out but can’t with so many people still moving along the sidewalks.
“Just tell me who you are,” I beg, searching the visor through a welling of tears.
“Not yet.”
“Why?” I growl through gritted teeth. “I know you’re not from Jefferson. There is no one like you here. So, who are you?Why are you doing this?” I bite my bottom lip. Shift from my right foot to my left. “Do I know you?”
There’s a good chance he’s not from my past. I don’t know why someone from before would do half the things he has, but if he’s not, I will have to explain why I don’t remember my life before eight years ago. It’s not a romantic or cute story. I don’t want him thinking I’m broken. He’s already stripped away enough of my pride.
The worst part is the fact that he hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t answered a single question. He’s simply watching me.
Grinning? Is he pleased by my pain?
Is he sad? Is he thinking? I don’t know. I don’t know anything when he’s just standing here watching me.
The keys bite into my clammy palms with the tightening of my fists. With the bubble of paranoia and fear surging up the back of my neck in a cold sweat.
“Are you toying with me?” I take another retreating step. “Is this some sick game you’re playing?” Nervously, I cast a glance over the thin cluster of people going about their business. “Is this some ... some kind of prank?”
Nothing.
Not even denial. Nothing to indicate that I’m overreacting.
So, obviously, I’m right.
This was all some elaborate joke at my expense. Here I was thinking I found a guy I could actually be with, and he used me.
“Don’t come near me again,” I warn him. “Don’t park here. Don’t come to my house. If I see you again, I’ll make sure your body is never found.”
Without waiting for a response — because fuck whatever he has to say — I pivot on my heels and march to my car. I’m about halfway when I remember the helmet. I consider whipping it at his head, but that means turning to see him again and I can’t when the first tear hits my cheek.
Instead, I chuck it into the empty street. The hollow clatter as it rolls away barely muffles the shattering of my heart as I throw myself behind the wheel.
I don’t look in the rearview. I don’t look to see if he’s following me. I put the car in drive and hit the gas like the devil himself is trying to catch me.
And maybe, he is.
Maybe he rides a bike and carves women’s hearts out with his silence.
Whatever he is, he’s out of my life. I’ll make sure of it. I won’t even tell Reed about him or what he’s done. I can’t, but also because I want to be the one to drop his body into the lake.
I reach my house with zero memory of the drive. It seems like I blink and now I’m in my driveway, staring at the front of my house. At the white shutters and Mom’s empty flowerboxes because I do not have a green thumb to save my life. I study my home with a growing tightness in my chest.
I’m not going to cry.
