I BANG ON Simon’s door like a madwoman. What if he is not home? What if he locked my door and left? I can’t stay in this hall. I have nowhere else to go.
He opens the door within minutes and I am treated to the sight of Strung Out Simon. It is ugly. In the background is a girl, her body draped across a black leather couch that looks to be a Big Lots special. His jaw works, back and forth, his bloodshot gaze shooting from me to my door, me-to-door, me-to-door, no doubt wondering how in the hell I escaped.
“You were late,” I gasp, my vision blurring, my hands coming up and gripping the door frame. I think I’m crying. How do four sentences with Derek turn me into such a girl?
“I… I’m sorry.” He looks at my door again. And me.
I want to, despite the breaking of my composure, pull out my gun right now. This asshole is a worthy subject. But even I, in my manic state, realize the stupidity of that. Morality and eyewitness aside, Simon is too close, I need him. And what I really don’t need is him, and the crack whore behind him, to know that I am psychotic. “Unlock the fucking door,” I grit.
The idiot looks down, at his own doorknob, which rests, unlocked, in his hand. His cheeks flex as he tries to understand. Behind him, the girl starts to laugh, a pig squeal of a sound. I close my eyes and try not to think of death.
I shouldn’t have left.
I should have cammed like a good girl, then went to bed. Simon should have locked me in. I want to kill him so badly, it physically pains me.
“Unlock MY apartment,” I growl, pointing with a hand to my door. “NOW.”
“Oh.” He digs in his pocket, moving through the doorway, too close to me. I don’t like the smell of him, don’t like how his stare brushes up my outfit like he can see through it. I step back and wrap my hands around the two items in my pocket.
“You know you’re ringing,” Simon says, smiling as if he is funny, his hand taking too long to pick out the key. I stare at his key ring and wonder if, shoved far enough down his throat, it would choke or kill. “Your cell?” he adds helpfully, as if I don’t know that my cell phone is ringing.
“Unlock my door before I kill you.” The words break out of me in a barely controlled stream of rage.
He squints at me as if deciphering the words, while his right hand turns the lock and the door cracks open. I shove past him, slamming the door the moment my feet enter the sanctuary of my apartment. “Lock it!” I scream, my eye at the peephole.
He looks up and down the hall as my hand closes around the gun. Shakes his head before twisting the key in the opposite direction. I sink to my knees as I hear the tumbler move, my hands pulling out the cell and engaging the call.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m home. I’m locked in.”
“Jesus Christ!” Derek thunders into the phone, the emotion greater than I have ever heard. “Do you have any idea what… what I’ve been picturing?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, my voice unable to reach much further than that. “I’m tired, Derek. I need to sleep.”
“We need to discuss this, Deanna. Where were you when I called?”
“I’m in the apartment, Derek. I’m safe. So is everyone else. I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s not good enough—”
“I’m going to bed,” I interrupt. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Promise me.” His tone makes me pause, makes my thumb stop in its journey to the “End Call” button. It is pleading, concerned. I love it.
“I promise,” I mumble. “Tomorrow morning.”
Then I end the call, pull the gun out of my sweatshirt, and crawl, with filthy feet, into bed.