IT SOUNDS RIDICULOUS, but I was scared to press that stairwell exit handle. Scared that my dark side would go apeshit when presented with the unlimited opportunities the outside world offered. Scared that a little girl would have to listen to the words I’ve heard for the past two weeks. Scared that she would be afraid and alone while I am out killing strangers, mutilating the body of the gorgeous delivery driver who now stands just a few feet away. I don’t even crack the exterior vent in my apartment, worried about the triggers that might exist, the sounds and smells of normalcy that might awaken my psychosis or, even worse, my memories of what normal feels like. And that is my biggest fear when I step out this stairwell door. That I will taste normal, step on its street, ride in a truck and smile on its face, and not be able to resist. That I will psychologically paint over my situation and convince myself that I can handle it. Lie to myself because I want so badly to return to the world. And then, snap.
After I appropriately freaked myself out, I pushed on the exit handle and stepped into the light.
The sensation of being outdoors surprises me, even with my mental preparation. You don’t realize how much damn activity there is, all the noise and smells that assault your senses, when you do something as simple as stand on a public street. I have been shut away too long. The gritty feel of pavement beneath my shoes, the weight of actually wearing shoes—my feet feel heavy and hot. My nose recoils from the smell of car exhaust, my skin prickles from the feeling of warmth and nonartificial light from the sun, harsh and powerful to my raw senses. My eyes squint and I look around, wanting the cover and protection of a vehicle. Jeremy’s truck is at the curb, and I step unsteadily toward it.
He beats me to the passenger side, pushing a jacket and box off the seat, flashing me an embarrassed grin. I move past him, climbing onto the truck, and sit on the warm vinyl seat. The outdoor world distracts me briefly, a rainbow of colors and sights before me as the beauty of everyday life beckons. Images and memories—rolling on the grass with Summer—hit me, a wave of nostalgia interrupting my focus. Jeremy climbs into the driver’s seat, starts the truck, and a roar fills the air, the truck shaking briefly before settling into a constant vibration. The lack of protection in the truck unnerves me; the missing doors and loud engine are strange to my sheltered senses. I focus, pulling out my laptop and logging into Ralph’s hard drive to look for anything that I might have missed. Jeremy is saying something, a garble of words in the background that I tune out. All of my thoughts and focus center on finding Annie and getting to her as soon as I can. I feel something jabbing me, and I look at my shoulder, following the finger, to the hand, to Jeremy’s irritated face.
“Pay attention—I’m trying to talk to you.”
“Don’t touch me,” I snap, scrolling through files, opening occasional documents.
“Where are you going?”
“I need to visit someone. It is very important that I get there as soon as possible.”
“Why don’t you have your own car?”
“I don’t leave the apartment. A car is an unneeded expense.”
“Why don’t you leave the apartment?”
“This is all a waste of time. Please focus on driving to your car as quickly as possible.”
“I’m not letting you take my truck.”
My eyes snap away from the laptop, alighting on his face. Fuck. This might be a problem. “Why not?”
“Can you even drive?”
“Yes. I’m an excellent driver. I haven’t had a ticket or accident in over three years.” I say the words with a straight face, while my mind rolls hysterically with laughter, clapping myself on the back for my wit. “What do you want?”
“Want?”
God, it was like talking to a parrot. “What do you want in exchange for letting me use your truck?”
His face twists in frustration. “I want to know what’s going on!”
“I don’t have time to explain what’s going on; I can tell you that I need your help. If you won’t let me use your truck, then drop me off at a car rental place. I’ll pull one up on my phone.”
“Let me come with you.”
“Absolutely not. It’s hard enough for me to sit next to you right now.”
The wide smile that crosses his face makes me realize the error of my words. “Not for that reason, Fabio.”
“Oh.” His face falls. “You’re still on that kick about hurting me?”
I grin, despite my irritation. “Yeah. I’m still on ‘that kick.’”
“I can defend myself.”
“Whether that is the truth or not, I don’t have the time or the energy to fight you. I have something else I need to take care of.”
“A date.”
“What date?” I find a folder titled “Annie” and open it, seeing hundreds of photos, the most recent candid ones of a blond girl who in one image wears a pink boa and crown and sits in front of a cake. Annie. My joy at finding her is instantly dampened by the idea that someone would want to hurt this perfect little individual.
“You asked what I wanted. If you take my truck, I want to take you on a date.”
“Not gonna happen.”
We pull into an empty parking lot, clones of our UPS vehicle lining spots to our right. Jeremy focuses on driving, pulling forward and then backing into a spot on the far right. He shuts off the engine and turns to me, his eyes studying mine.
I fight the urge to fidget, my eyes flitting from his to his keys. GO. The command pounds in my head. “Please,” I manage, the word awkward on my lips. It is a word frequented in my cam chats but neglected entirely when the camera is off.
“A kiss.”
I scowl, understanding the negotiation behind the words. A kiss is the last thing I want to do right now. “Four hundred dollars. That should more than cover the use of your truck.”
“No,” he says softly, his eyes on mine—pale green eyes that remind me of a dress I wore in high school. My gaze travels down from those incredible eyes and rests on his mouth, remembering him above me, mouth on mine, hands on my naked skin. GO. I lean forward and sigh, closing my eyes and pursing my lips stiffly.
He clears the hurdle that is my resistance with the first touch of his lips. My body melts, forgetting everything but the feel of his hand on my neck, gripping my hair and pulling my mouth tight on his—his mouth taking everything in smooth, perfect movements. He disorients my world, captures my spirit, and heals a little of my soul, all in the course of seconds—my mouth responding to his, hands releasing my bag and traveling into his hair, greedily pulling and grasping, unable to get enough.
GO. I push him away, my hands lingering on his strong shoulders as we separate, his cloudy green eyes concerned. I breathe hard, my eyes fighting to not look at his mouth. “Please,” I whisper. “I have to go.”
He nods, stretching out his legs, pulling out a key ring, and holding it out to me.
“My truck is the gray Ford, in the back of this building.”
A wave of relief floods me, and I smile, reaching out and grabbing his keys. “Thanks. I owe you one.” I grab my bag and turn, my escape stopped by his firm hand on my knee. I turn questioningly.
He holds out a business card. “The date. Think about it. My cell is on the card.”
I hesitate and then nod, grabbing the card and hopping out. I round the bumper of the truck, flash a quick smile to Jeremy, then take off at a run toward the back of the building.
Jeremy watches her go, her stumbling steps of before gone—urgency now making them strong. His initial diagnosis echoes in his head. She’s hiding from something. It doesn’t look as if she’s hiding. It looks as if she’s running full force to tackle confrontation and eat it for dinner.
He shouldn’t have given in, shouldn’t have handed over his vehicle in exchange for, of all things, a kiss. But she needed it, the urgency spilling out of her, panic interlaced with determination in her eyes. Wherever she is headed, if it is from someone, or to something, it is important. It is certainly more important than the inconvenience of him finding a ride home.
He frowns, thinking about their initial meeting, the madness in her eyes, her bloodthirsty quest for violence. In the course of the last hour, he has overlooked that part of her, pushing it to the side in his excitement at being near her, being acknowledged, included. She had seemed, in this interaction, normal. Sane. Was it a trick? A new take on the sexual deception that she had tried at their first meeting? There is the sound of his truck engine, the rip of tread against asphalt as she leaves the parking lot and turns north, headed to parts unknown. And he hopes, a knot of dread growing in his stomach, that he hasn’t just enabled a madwoman.