The nightmares had started again. Last night. Exploding through the haze induced from too many benzodiazepines, which Mia took nightly to keep the nightmares in their coffins.
Outside of her boss, Zander’s, east coast office, she attempted to rub the fatigue from her eyes, squared her shoulders, and knocked. “Mr. King?” she said, peeking past the teak wood door. She clutched her work tablet in her right hand.
The city skyline, currently shrouded in a light February snow, loomed through the windows spreading across the two back walls.
“Are you ever going to stop calling me Mr. King?” he said, looking up from his computer with a wry grin. “Do I have to give you another raise?”
She forced her wooden lips to stretch into a smile. “You just gave me one. A generous one, I might add. But, old habits are hard to break. When we’re in the office, it seems respectful to call you Mr. King. It gives this place a touch of class, you know?”
He smirked. “EXcape hardly lacks class, thanks to you. You’ve helped make it the best billion-dollar outdoor adventure gear business a guy could own.”
Mia sniffed. “It’s not my doing. You’re a world-class adventurer. You insist on top-notch everything.”
“Which is why,” Zander said, giving her a pointed look, “I hired you.”
“So you keep reminding me.” A small warm glow burned in her chest from the compliment. Proud of the work she did for Zander’s self-started business, she poured her life-blood into her job, working way too many hours, practically living in the penthouse office in Manhattan. It kept her bank account happy, her chic apartment furnished with stylish accents and furnishings, and her closet packed with designer clothes. It also kept all the dark memories lodged in her brain from escaping. If she ever stopped working, they’d leak into her sleep and haunt her. Like they did last night. I need to put in more hours here at work.
She trekked across the floor in her leather lace-up Miu Miu shoes with four-inch cork soles, which added nicely to her petite height of five-foot-one. Traveling a familiar path, she weaved around his burnt orange Italian sofa and chairs. “I’ve finalized the catering and the clean-up for the after-awards Grammy party tomorrow night. All the T’s have been crossed and the I’s have been dotted.”
Zander had requested she put together a party for Marked Love. The members of the band were his good friends. He often insisted on dragging Mia to the band’s and EXcape’s co-mingled events—outdoor adventures which Zander loved, backstage passes to Marked Love concerts, and social time at their favorite bar, Crow & Wicket.
She endured said co-mingling because he was her boss. But, hanging out with musicians flirted with the edges of her locked vault of memories. Strike that—hanging out with guy musicians was like hanging out with flesh-eating spiders—she adored the drummer, Gia. She and Gia had just clicked from the start into an insta-friendship. And what were the odds of having a matchy-matchy name with one’s best friend? She and Gia shared a cool camaraderie.
Not so much with the guys.
This is probably why the nightmares started—I’ve been spending too much time on Marked Love and this after Grammys party.
Once she reached his desk, she extended the tablet to him so he could see for himself.
He glanced at it and waved it away. “I don’t need to see it. Your work is impeccable. In fact, you’ve been working way too hard. When I leave, your light is still on. I arrive, and you’re already here. You are leaving at night, aren’t you?” One of his dark eyebrows rose on his handsome face. His head cocked to the side, and he studied her.
She blushed and averted her gaze. Being scrutinized by Zander King stirred discomfort in her. Intensity radiated from him at all times.
“What?” she said.
“You look beat. You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. Clearly, you haven’t been getting enough rest. Everything okay?” He rested his high-tech bionic arm on top of his desk. He’d lost his arm in a climbing accident several years ago. Modern medicine, cutting-edge technology, and his huge bank account had restored his ability to climb and adventure with the mind-controlled robotic arm.
“Everything’s fine. I want this party to be perfect, you know? Six-time Grammy winners deserve the best, don’t you think?” She met his gaze, flashing him what she hoped was a convincing smile. Then, the ghost of last night’s dream pinched at her mouth.
“I’m sure it’s going to be beyond perfect,” Zander said. “It’s probably going to be over the top, knowing you. And, we don’t know if Marked Love sealed the deal.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Have you heard their latest album?”
Zander chuckled. “Have I heard it…Effie has it on an endless loop lately. I swear I even hear their songs in my dreams. I’m going to strangle Dante after the awards-show party.”
“They’re good songs to dream about. So sexy,” Mia said. While she skirted friendships with male musicians, music still rocked her world.
“What’s your favorite song? Effie likes Drive.” Zander grinned.
“My favorite is, Come Now,” Mia said. Her face felt like it rested on a furnace. Dante’s voice, coupled with sex-charged lyrics, combined with the skill of the band, had given her lots of opportunities to whip out her vibrator lately—when she was awake enough to use it, that is. Mostly, she entered her apartment, fed the cat, nibbled on some take-out, and crashed.
Nodding, he drummed his fingers on the polished wood. “You need a vacation.”
Mia’s cheeks continued to burn, remembering the last time she’d taken a vacation—five years ago—with Darion, her horrid, abusive ex. Ever since her escape from him, he’d creep into her life on tip-toes, somehow finding her the second she relaxed into a feeling of safety. He had this uncanny knack of knowing when she’d forgotten about him, thinking him no longer a threat. Then—wham! An odd piece of mail with no forwarding address and no stamp would be shoved into her mailbox, reeking of the perfume she used to wear when they lived together. A threatening text would slither into her phone. A phone call with only deep breathing coming from the caller would surprise her. She must have changed phone numbers ten times over the years.
“I’m fine. I’ll get some rest after this party is over.”
“Yes, you will.” Zander rose and stretched, before rounding the desk to stand before her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked intently into her eyes and said, “Next week. Cancun. Dante’s taking everyone in the band, and we’re invited, too.”
Mia shook her head. “I don’t think so…”
“I insist. Full week vacation, with pay. There’s no excuse.” He lifted his hands from her shoulders and leaned back against the desk, folding his arms.
“Really, Zander, I don’t need a vaca…”
Zander cut her off. “It’s been decided. You’re going. I need my best assistant all next week.”
She took a deep breath and said, “Yes, boss.”
“You’ll enjoy it,” he said.
“If you say so,” she said, turning on her heel to glide away. I hate vacations. Darion made sure of that. And vacationing with guy musicians, no matter how close they are with Zander, sounds like a prison sentence.
Her and Darion’s last trip ever had been to Tahiti, on her dime. He’d criticized her from the second they stepped foot out of the house to the minute they returned. Her hair wasn’t right. She’d put on two pounds, and her swimming suit didn’t fit right. Her makeup was messy. The resort wasn’t located on the best part of the island. She’d screwed up on the plane tickets, so they’d had to sit on opposite ends of the plane.
A satisfied smile tugged at the corners of her lips as her legs propelled her toward her workstation. Actually, the plane ticket mishap was deliberate. I was so sick of Darion’s controlling ways I wanted the seven hours between Los Angeles and Tahiti to myself.
Once she sat back at her desk, she started tapping out a packing list on her tablet. There’s so much to do. I’ll need to arrange care for Max the Manx, my silly cat, pack clothes, ask the cat sitter to water the plants…
Her phone pinged with an incoming message. Absentmindedly, she reached for it, still absorbed in packing details. When she glanced at the number, the hair on her neck and scalp prickled. Oh, no. It’s Darion’s number. How did he get this number? Paranoia quickly flooded her veins. He felt me thinking about him, didn’t he? I shouldn’t have brought him to mind. Damn, damn, damn. Why did I think about him?
Her hands shook, and she dropped the phone on the floor. With fumbling fingers, she picked it up and scanned the text.
Hey, babe, you’ve been stalking me in my dreams lately.
She swallowed, unsure of whether to respond or not.
And then I was swimming in your blood. Literally bathing in it.
Shivers rippled up her spine. Is this some sort of veiled murder threat? Or, a sick joke? Quickly, she thumbed a response. Who is this, and who do you think you’re texting?
Her eyes stayed glued to the little dots indicating a reply.
Who do you think it is, Miss Meow? I think our paths are about to cross again in a whole new way, bitch.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry. Miss Meow. She hated that nickname.
He used to call her that, adding something crude like she reminded him of his old bitch cat when she was in heat. “Only that cat knew how to put out,” he’d add with a sneer. “I saw her, surrounded by boy cats, and, man, was she eager to please.”
By the time she left him, she’d been so closed down, sex with him consisted of her simply laying there and praying he would finish soon.
“How did you find me again?” she whispered. “Why the hell are you contacting me now?” Pressing her hand to her mouth, she lifted her head to stare out the window. Damn it, I don’t want to have to get a new number. Quickly, she blocked his number. Does he know where I work? Where I live? What does he know about my life now? He couldn’t know anything important…could he?
Her mind replayed the rise, fall, and escape from her relationship with Darion. They’d been best friends during their junior and senior years, playing in a band called The Boys Plus One. She was their plus one. She always got lots of accolades for her singing.
After graduation, they’d moved in together.
That’s when he changed. It had happened so gradually, she’d adapted to the abuse, like a frog in tepid water that slowly turned to boil.
She’d gone on to college, majoring in business. On weekends, they’d play at local gigs. She loved being a musician.
He worked at an auto parts store, hoping their band would sign with a fat record deal. But, his attitude became so sour the band grew disenchanted. They still played together, but it seemed like a chore rather than a passion.
Still, she came home from classes happy and inspired.
He arrived home from work cranky and bitter at having a minimum wage job.
She tried to be supportive. She carried a full load of classes, but she always managed to have a meal on the table ready for Darion when he returned.
He criticized her cooking and told her she wasn’t any good at cleaning the house.
He told her to be more adventurous in bed. When guys would look at her, he’d say she asked for the attention.
She begged him to see that he was the only one for her, swearing she didn’t go out of her way to invite attention.
He snapped at her when she touched the thermostat, telling her they couldn’t afford her “frivolous desires for heat.” Yet, at the same time, he often left windows open—in San Francisco, of all places, which seemed to grow fog as an industry. “Wear sweaters,” he’d snarl when she complained.
Constantly cold inside her own apartment, she felt like she should purchase stock in merino wool—she was always on the hunt for a new, warmer sweater.
And then, one time, he physically assaulted her. At first, he’d snap his arm up with the threat of slapping or punching her.
She couldn’t believe he’d ever harm her—until she landed in the hospital with a battered face and a broken arm.
After that, he was contrite and swore he’d never do that again.
But, for her, once was enough.
In the three years they lived together, he wore her down until she barely recognized herself.
Her self-esteem fled.
None of her friends stuck around.
The band disintegrated.
Her world revolved around Darion—pleasing him, staying out of his way, dancing on eggshells whenever he was around. She bit her nails, constantly looked over her shoulder, and her once lustrous, glossy black hair began to fall out in clumps.
Her gynecologist had been the one to get her to leave him.
“Is this what you want, Mia? To be with a man so abusive, you end up going bald from the stress?” Dr. Mateo had told her. She’d given Mia the names of some resources, including women’s shelters, should the need arise.
After that, Mia secretly plotted to leave Darion for months. Going so far as to hide some of her wages from working at a chic downtown restaurant. She’d managed to save enough money to rent an apartment in Seattle…since they’d lived together in San Francisco, what were the chances he’d look there? Only her immediate family—her mom and dad, sister Carly, and brother Jaxon—knew of her plans.
Her heart had been a quiver-bomb of fear when she’d left. One afternoon, she sneaked out of the house with her belongings while Darion was at work. She left no forwarding address, got a new cell phone number, had made sure none of her family gave Darion any info about her whereabouts. She canceled credit cards and used cash to pay for everything. She hadn’t been able to relax for at least six months.
That’s when she started working for Zander. She met him at Pikes Place Market, where she waited tables at a fine dining bistro called One. He and a few of his sexy-hot friends came there to celebrate some rock climbing challenge Zander had won. She and Zander got to talking. And, by the time dessert had been served, she had a new, well-paying job, complete with apartments in Seattle and New York, where both of his offices were located.
But Darion appeared when she least expected it, like a black viper, lurking in the dark. Months could go by with no contact from him. It seemed as soon as she imagined herself safe, she’d get another text on her private number—she changed phone numbers like shoes. Or, another strange piece of hand-written mail would arrive. She even imagined catching glimpses of him around town.
Looking at the device in her hand, she stared at her message window, praying no more texts came through. Should I call the police? Tell Zander? I’ve never shared my past with him. Maybe I’m too paranoid. How could Darion know my whereabouts? Both apartments where she lived were extremely secure. She didn’t have any social media accounts. She stayed out of the spotlight as much as she could. But, then, Zander was a big deal with a prominent profile. As his assistant, she made sure she didn’t appear in any photos for the events he put on. Like this upcoming after the Grammy’s party. I’ll stay in the shadows for that one.
To distract herself, she scanned the party planning list and thought about the Grammy’s. Before Darion, she’d dreamed of working as a music agent. It had been a driving passion. She loved music, and she had a good head for business. I’d be great at that. But, when Darion had ripped the stuffing, heart, and soul out of her with his constant belittling, she’d set that dream aside.
She typed “How to start your own music agency” in the search window. Pausing, she added, a plus sign and then “female musicians” in the search box. She didn’t think she could handle managing guys. Scanning the results, her heart beat a little faster. But, then, reality stepped in to remind her where she currently sat—in Zander King’s high-rise office. He depended on her, paid her handsomely, and paid for her apartments. I owe him my life. It would be a total betrayal to pursue her dreams.
So, with that thought, she closed her laptop, effectively shutting down her desire to do something she loved, choosing security, safety, loyalty, and comfort, instead.