Chapter Two

 

 

One of my sketchbooks was missing.

I hadn’t noticed it until now and that meant it could have been missing for hours. Arms folded over my middle, I tried not to rock myself as I stared at the neat stack of sketchbooks.

There should be three.

The big one that I used at the beach—the one with all the images of naked people—mostly men, most of them of Lobo. A smaller one that I used if I had the urge to draw a sunset or maybe the beach after a storm. And an even smaller one that I kept to use if I had a panic attack. I’d draw ugly sketches then, usually of my ex-husband, the way he’d look as he hurt me. Then I’d burn the images, or tear them into shreds. An oddly cathartic form of art.

There should be three.

There were only two.

And the one that was missing… Oh, shit.

It was the worst one to have lost.

After getting back from the beach, I’d gone straight to the shower, locked myself inside and had a mini-breakdown. Then I’d gotten ready for the day and spent my entire time working. Several rush jobs had kept me busy, which was good because I didn’t have much time to think and it was better if I didn’t have to think.

But now it was late and once I’d started to go through my regular routine—had I checked the locks? I couldn’t remember. I checked them once, and then went back and checked them a second, and third time. Then I couldn’t remember if I’d put everything in its spot because things looked off.

That was because things where off—the missing sketchbook.

Maybe he’d gotten in—

“No,” I whispered to myself, shaking my head almost violently. That wasn’t it. He hadn’t gotten in and none of his hired thugs had, either.

I checked everything over just in case and then I checked the security cameras.

Nobody had been inside, all day. Except me. I spent thirty minutes going over the feed and then I went over it again, focusing on just the windows and the doors.

I stood in my apartment, going through the compulsive little routines that let me think I had some modicum of privacy. Drawing all the curtains. Powering down all the electronics, especially the five cell phones. Yes, there were five because right before our second anniversary, he’d taken my phone and now I worried he’d break in and do it again, cutting me off from the outside world. If I couldn’t call for help—

“You can. Stop it,” I said, shoving a hand into my hair and fisting it. The phones weren’t the problem. My missing sketchbook was.

A sob ripped out of me and I pressed my fingertips to my lips.

Those sketches were the one thing that was mine. Losing even one of them was like losing a piece of my soul.

Closing my eyes, I made myself think about where I’d seen it last.

I’d come home from the beach and I’d been so upset, so flustered from seeing Lo— No. His name was Jinx. I’d met him. Seeing him had flustered me and just that was enough to make me need a drink. I’d almost taken a glass of wine into the shower with me, but I’d made myself settle for a pot of tea once I dried off.

If I drank in the middle of the day, I ended up sleeping, and then I couldn’t sleep at night. But I had met him.

I hadn’t checked my sketchbooks. I must have left it…at the beach.

What if he saw it?

Oh, no. Horror and shame flooded me. He’d think me pathetic for sure. If he’d seen it. Those desperate, pathetic little renderings. And what if he felt offended? That was even worse. What was I thinking—

Stop it. It’s art. You never meant for anybody to see it, I chided myself, trying to get a grip before the shame spiraled out of control. No, I’d never meant for anybody to see it, but I still felt naked, thinking about it out there. Naked, and exposed. More exposed than I’d felt in a long time. Years, in fact. It wasn’t quite as bad as it had been during the exams at the hospital, but it was far worse than you would think, considering all I’d done was lose a sketchbook.

Silly as it was, knowing I’d left it where others could see it, I felt violated. It was wrong of me to feel like that. I’d been violated. Exposed. Stripped bare. There was no reason to feel like that over a sketchbook.

Even if it did have every private and personal thing in it, thinking of it as a violation… But it was more than a sketchbook. It was my freedom. Where I could slip away from myself.

Now my escape was gone.

Moving to the window, I pushed the concealing curtains back and stared outside. And even as I did it, I saw a flash of movement from the apartment just across the street, two doors down. My despised shadow, watching me, even now.

Just then, I didn’t care.

I’d left that piece of me out there.

I wouldn’t sleep.

Not tonight.

I wanted to go out there and look for it.

But I couldn’t.

It was already dark. And as much as I needed my sketchbook, I couldn’t brave the dark.

 

 

When you live in dread, time trickles by so slowly. That was the next twelve hours. Slow second by slow second, miserable hour by miserable hour.

I worked through the night. I paced. I checked the curtains, twisted the locks, went through each routine where I had to check the windows. Once, twice, three times…and it still wasn’t enough. I didn’t feel safe. I felt naked and there were times when I felt so dirty and filthy and the three showers I took that night weren’t enough to make me feel clean.

There are numerous names for what’s wrong with me.

I have post-traumatic stress syndrome, but considering everything that had been done, that was to be expected.

I had developed OCD. It didn’t happen overnight. It became more apparent in the days after I came home from the hospital, staying first in a shelter for battered women, and then in an apartment one of the counselors had helped me find. The therapist I’d started seeing asked about weird habits—did I check locks, ever find myself getting up out of bed to do that?

It didn’t occur to me that it was weird until she pointed out that it was interfering with my sleep, and then my daily routine. Absolutely, that counts as weird.

She explained it was a coping mechanism, a way to make myself feel safer, but we had to keep it under control. The anxiety was sort of expected, as was the post traumatic stress disorder.

I have a more simple term for it all—I’m just messed up.

My ex saw to that. Just as he promised he would.

But those sketchbooks are my way of fixing myself.

I had to get it back. Nibbling on a piece of toast, I hovered near the window and watched, waiting for the sun to rise.

Outside, it was still dark.

And that piece of me…was it still there?

I was already dressed and ready to go when the sun finally made its appearance. My stalker was on his porch, as if he’d sensed a weakness, a break in my routine.

I had my bag packed with my sketchbooks, including a new one…just in case. I expected I would need it.

It was everything else that took time. Checking the locks. The front door was locked. The back door, I’d lock on the way out.

But I had to check the windows. All tight. Nobody had touched them since last night, but I went over them just in case. All the latches were sealed. Sometimes I thought about painting them shut. But that would make them ugly and I liked to think about what it would be like if I ever felt brave enough to open them.

I checked the windows again. Then I moved to the back door, the bag hooked over my shoulder, the strap lying between my breasts. The mace was hanging from a quick-release carabiner and I could get to it in a second. All the locks, top to bottom… “Let’s go,” I muttered. Top one, okay. Middle, okay. Bottom two? Check. I checked them again. One more time. My hand slipped on the doorknob and I lost my place, had to start all over again.

Swallowing the knot in my throat, I clattered down the stairs, the wooden soles of my sandals clanking too loudly.

He was following me.

I don’t know how he’d known I’d slid out the back door, but he was following me.

I walked faster.

I had to look for my journal.

I didn’t matter that I knew I wouldn’t find it.

The beach was a clean one. People came in and cleaned it every evening and there was never any trash when I visited in the morning. It didn’t matter that I knew my sketchbook wasn’t trash. I’d left it behind and they’d take it and throw it away.

I knew that…logically. But logic didn’t matter. Its soft, gentle voice didn’t have a chance to even whisper to me as I rushed across the stand.

“It’s been a whole day,” I told myself. “It’s been one whole day. I won’t find it.”

I made myself say it as I rounded the bend that led to my spot. I said it out loud because I needed to prepare myself.

Swallowing the knot, I braced myself to look at my bench. Knowing it wasn’t going to be there helped a little. But I had to get ready. My gaze skittered past Lobo. He was out here even this early?

Wow.

Hardly anybody was here this early.

Just a few people walking their dogs, me, my stalker…and Lobo.

Maybe he lived in one of the little homes that littered the beach like a bunch of colorful children’s toys or maybe he just loved the beach as much I did. Sometimes he was in the water, swimming. A few times I’d seen him with one of the boards—not quite long enough to be a surfboard, but I didn’t know what they were called.

Right now, he sat there, staring out over the water. As though he’d felt my gaze, he turned his head, and over the distance, I felt our gazes connect. The impact of that gaze rocked through me, heating my blood as it raced through my veins. Shock cut into me as I felt my body respond, all from a simple look. My nipples went tight, stabbing into the sturdy cotton of my bra and between my legs I was wet and achy. Mortified, I jerked my gaze away and focused on the picnic table where I usually sat.

For one minute, I didn’t even process what I was staring at.

Then I reached up and rubbed my eyes.

Lowering my hand, I looked again.

My sketchbook was still there. Sitting on my table.

It wasn’t really mine.

How could I call that rickety old picnic table mine when it was on a public beach? But it was where I always sat, where I’d sat for months. Slowly, I started across the sand, staring in rapt fascination. Had it sat there, undisturbed since yesterday?

It had rained last night. The sketches inside would be ruined.

I touched the cover.

My throat went tight as I eased the sturdy cover up and started to flip through the images. One by one. They were all fine. Nothing disturbed. I came to the last one, still waiting for me to finish it.

The one of Lobo’s hands. I traced the line of his palm, stroking my finger along the sketched line.

I had my sketchbook.

I could go back now.

My heart seized inside my chest when I caught sight of the man who lived across the street. He was standing there.

Staring at me.

An insolent smile curled his lips.

Slowly, I turned around and sat down at the table. My hands shook as I pressed them flat to the old, scarred wooden surface. Closing my eyes, I whispered, “You’re you. You’re free. You escaped.”

Smoothing the long, loose folds of my wrap skirt around me, I reached inside my bag and dug out one of my pencils.

I wasn’t going back inside my damn house.

Not yet.

 

 

The sketch of his hands took up most of that morning.

At some point, the man who did nothing but watch me left.

At some point, more people arrived at the beach.

It was going to be a hot day. I could already feel the sweat gathering at the nape of my neck. Several hours had passed since I’d sat down at the table and my back ached, my hands cramped.

But I was smiling.

My sketchbook had been here.

And I hadn’t let that bastard chase me back into the house. Slowly, I arched my back and twisted, working some of the kinks out before reaching for one of the rags I kept with me so I could clean the charcoal from my hands.

A breeze kicked up and blew my hair into my face. I squinted and put the rag down before finding a clip in my bag. As I was twisting my hair back, I looked up and saw Lobo.

He was sitting one table away.

One.

When he sat—if he sat—it was usually in the sand down closer to the water.

His eyes rested on me. He sat with studied casualness on the picnic table—the top of it, not the seat—hands braced behind him, and next to him were two bottles of water.

I recognized the label. Aquafina.

And I also couldn’t help but notice that he stared at me.

That damn knot that always settled in my throat decided to make another appearance. Slowly, I looked away and focused on gathering up my supplies. I’d had over three hours. I didn’t need to start anything else. Soon, I’d need to get to work on the projects I had up for the day.

There was that one cover… I was going to have fun with it. It was a male/male project and the—

My jaw dropped open.

The wind had blown the pages of my sketchbook.

And on the back of the sketch I’d just finished were the words:

 

If you’re going to spend that much time drawing me, maybe you’d like to get my name.

I’d definitely like yours.

 

He’d seen.

Oh, fuck. He had seen it. That intimate picture, that dream I’d dared to let myself have while I was awake, of me on my knees in front of him. A dream that even now filled me with longing. He had seen.

He had looked through my sketches, just as I’d feared.

I’d definitely like yours.

I moved off that seat quicker than I could remember moving in my entire life.

I still wasn’t fast enough.

Before I’d even managed to shove all my supplies into the appliquéd bag I’d bought at a street fair last year, he was there.

The bottle of water was put in front of me.

The table groaned under his weight as he sat down.

My throat was dry and I hated how much I really wanted to grab that bottle of water.

“My name is Dillian.”

His name. He’d given me his name.

That meant—

I swallowed. What did it mean?

Nothing. It meant nothing. I needed to get out of there. But instead of getting out of there, I shot him a look, swallowing around the damn lump. My voice came out huskier than normal. “That kid the other day called you Jinx.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw him smile. “My last name is Jenkins. Some of the guys around here call me Jenks. Nickname. Dillian Jenkins. Jenks.” Then his lashes drooped over his eyes and that smile changed. “Or, if you want, Lobo. I don’t really mind. What’s your name?”

I slid the strap of my bag into place, settled it so that it ran between my breasts.

A quiet sigh drifted to me as I turned away.

Abruptly, I stopped. I hated this. Hated being so afraid. He’d seen those intimate images I’d put to paper and it hadn’t bothered him. Or maybe it had and he’d decided not to let it. I didn’t know. But he was over here talking to me and that had to count for something. I couldn’t keep running away. I was so fucking tired of it. Reaching into the bag, I ripped out the sketch of his hands. I couldn’t quite manage to talk normally just yet, but I could do that. Scrawling my name in the bottom right corner, I told myself it counted. Signing it was almost the same thing, right?

He was rising to his feet when I turned and put it down, using the water bottle to keep it from blowing away.

I didn’t wait to see if he took it.

 

 

I didn’t go back on Friday.

I couldn’t stay in my house, but I wasn’t ready to look at Jenks either. Dillian didn’t seem to suit him and I couldn’t call him Lobo now that I knew his name. But Jenks worked. Jinx worked better in my mind, but I wouldn’t strip a person of his name.

I knew what it was like to be stripped of something as basic and vital as your identity. I wouldn’t do it to anybody else.

Since I had to go somewhere, I went to a new art supply store I’d seen mentioned online. It was on the other side of town and my stalker couldn’t follow me.

As much as he knew my routine, I knew his.

He had weekly appointments on Fridays.

I suspected he had to check with a parole officer. I didn’t consider myself as being judgmental. Seth was the one who helped me figure it out and he’d volunteered to help make the guy leave me alone.

But I’d said if it wasn’t that man, it would be somebody else.

At least I knew this devil.

So he’d watched along with me and told me the man was an ex-con. “Once you’ve done time, you get to know the type. He’s the type. He’s probably meeting a parole officer on Fridays. I don’t like this, Shadow. I don’t like it at all,” he’d said.

Neither did I.

But it was routine and I’d take routine over something unknown any day.

The art store was a bit of a flop. The selection was limited and more focused on pottery and jewelry making, but there was a bookstore next to it. I found myself staring at the books displayed in the window and yearning.

It had been a long time since I’d let myself read.

I could even remember just when I’d stopped.

Age twenty-two. I’d finished cleaning the house and it had been three-thirty. He wouldn’t have been home for another two hours and I should have had almost thirty minutes to read before I had to start getting ready. There was so much I had to do before he came home.

But he came home early that day and he found me climbing up off the couch with a book clutched in my hands.

I hadn’t been properly ready to greet him.

My fingers trembled as I reached up to touch my cheek.

Yes, I knew how broken bones felt. In the arm. The ribs. The face.

I stared at the books in the window, all but shaking with fear. Then I walked into the store. He stopped controlling me when I made that happen.

That time was now. I used to love to read. I’d find that in me again.

 

 

It was past midnight before I was able to settle all the books in their places. Getting back inside the house had taken too long and I’d been late. Twenty books didn’t seem like a lot, not when I hadn’t bought them in so long. But it was a lot and I couldn’t sleep until they were all in their place.

I hadn’t been able to do it earlier though because I had to work.

I had to start work at one and I couldn’t deviate from that.

So the books would wait until later and later meant after seven because that was time to eat. Then it was time to get ready for bed but I couldn’t get ready for bed until the doors were checked and the windows.

Then the books.

I found spots for each one. They couldn’t just go on a bookshelf. I had them, but most of the shelves were used for other things. In that hell where I had lived with my ex, we’d used bookshelves for books—boring things, the classics and books on philosophy and finance and history. All educational things that would broaden my world view. The books he’d wanted me to read. The books I hated.

I’d bought books just like them when I moved here. And I used them…to make bookshelves. All it took was scissors, glue, L-brackets and screws. Those precious, hated books that he’d insisted I learned to enjoy, well, I’d finally done it. I enjoyed seeing how they held up the things I enjoyed. Cookbooks and texts on art.

Now the “invisible” shelves also held a few of the romances, including a copy of the Nora Roberts book I’d been reading when he came in that day and broke my right cheekbone. He told the doctors I’d tripped and smashed my face into the coffee table because I was reading and walking at the same time. I’d never finished the book.

I’d gathered up all of my books and thrown them out, as soon as I healed.

Standing in the doorway, I stared at the Nora book and told myself that I would finish it.

One day.

But not today.

 

 

I’m dreaming…

It was the only thing that made sense.

Because in my dream, Jenks was in my bedroom and he sprawled across my bed while I stood across from him with my sketchbook, drawing him.

He was naked.

My cheeks heated as my gaze ran over him, lingering on the muscles in his belly, and lower. He had a thin strip of hair that started low, curling around his navel and then thickening around his cock. And his cock was thick, heavy, growing long and hard as I stared at him.

Blood rushed to my cheeks as he reached down and closed a hand around his length, stroked himself from his balls up to the very tip, the plum-shaped end disappearing behind his fist before emerging as he started the downward stroke.

“You’re a rude little girl,” he murmured.

I jerked my eyes upward. “Wuh-what?”

A wicked smile curved his lips. “You’re rude. Staring at me like that.”

“It’s my dream, I can stare if I want to.”

“And what about when it’s not a dream?”

“That won’t happen.” I shook my head and focused on my sketch. I don’t know why I bothered. It wouldn’t be there when I woke up. But maybe the memory would be. I placed each line carefully and shot another look at him.

My breath hitched as I saw him standing right in front of me, just a few scant inches away.

“What…what are you doing here?”

He reached up and cupped my cheek. “Since it’s your dream, I figured I’d make it worthwhile. You can do more in your dream than look, Shadow. You can touch.”

And then his mouth took mine.

 

 

I woke with the dream taste of him on my mouth.

In my mind, he tasted of the ocean, maybe beer and man.

And the bitch of it all was, now I craved the taste of him for real. That kiss made me remember how long it had been since I’d felt wanted. Needed.

Back in high school, I’d had a couple of boyfriends and I’d dated. I had liked dating. My parents had been fairly strict, but once I’d been forced to go live with my aunt, she hadn’t cared. She actually preferred it if I wasn’t home, and so had I. So I’d dated a lot.

Then there had been that one year between high school and college, and…yes, there had been more than a few boys, some even closer to men. There had been guys I’d dated in college, too. Some I’d really liked. Then I’d met my ex-husband. He’d been older, so funny and charming and sweet, and he seemed…so perfect. He bought me gifts, went out of his way to learn the things I liked, showed up at the art shop where I worked—things that had seemed terribly romantic at the time.

I’d let him sweep me off my feet, and then he’d devastated my life, and had come very close to ending it.

A year ago, two years…the thought of letting a man touch me would have horrified me.

But now I wanted it.

I missed it.

It had been ages since I’d kissed a man. Since a man had kissed me.

Since a man had wanted me.

I’d forgotten what it was like to be wanted. My ex had wanted to control me, to own me, but he’d never wanted me. That damn dream had made me remember everything I was missing.

I almost hated Jenks in that moment.

Moving to the window, I stared outside, watching as the sun danced off the water.

He’d be there.

I shouldn’t go back.

But I knew I would.