Cellar Door (30 page)

Madonna

The moonlight streaming into the bedroom gives the room an illusion of tranquility that, for the moment anyway, obscures the overwhelming sense of danger and suspense that is keeping me awake. Liam’s home is beautiful in a dark, ominous way. It’s as if the life within its walls has drawn me in over time until I’ve become one with it and can no longer leave. I can’t imagine myself anywhere but here in the arms of this strangely devoted madman with an insatiable appetite for dominance and submission.

I toss the covers back and get up without disturbing Liam. My feet pad across the soft carpeting to the bathroom. The room’s harsh light emphasizes the light bruising around my wrist from Liam holding me down earlier. It’s crazy that I find enjoyment in the things he does to me, but I do, and I’m not ashamed to admit that he’s taken me to a place I don’t think I can ever come back from—a place I have no desire to escape.

I long for my stalker to become a thing of the past. When that drama is finally behind us, perhaps we can forge a life together where we can invite the darkness in, all the while knowing that it will leave at our command. I like the idea of us having a place where we can revel in the crazy, the obsession, the deviant sex we both crave.

I celebrate the dominance Liam exercises over me, but I loathe the control my stalker has over me. I hate him and if given the chance to kill him, I will. It isn’t Liam I want to escape from, it’s the fucked up stranger who has taken over my life without my consent.

This guy hiding in the shadows is nothing more than a coward as far as I’m concerned. Hell, I can even respect Lance with all his dysfunction -- at least he’s straight-up about who he is and what he does. But ‘hoodie boy’? He needs to be taught a lesson and I would love to be the one to do it.

I toss around the idea of doing some writing but decide I need sleep more. Maybe later. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t write—probably go crazy.

I slip back into bed and close my eyes, welcoming the sweet sleep that will overtake me in a moment or two. I never see his hand lock onto my throat at lightning speed but I do hear his hoarse whisper in my ear.

“Planning on killing me in my sleep?” I know he’s referring to the gun beneath my pillow.

“No, Liam. I plan on killing my stalker. I was here alone. What else was I supposed to do?”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of a gun being so close to you while I’m asleep.” As his breath tickles my ear, I can feel the fear crawling up my spine, the same fear that always comes when I don’t know what Liam is going to do next. The sick thing is…I like it.

Liam

I’ve made a habit of watching her while she sleeps. It soothes me. She seems to be the only thing in my life that offers any measure of stability and I’m determined to hang on to it. I’ve never considered myself to be a desperate man…until now.

Things haven’t been the way I thought they would be. When a traditional courtship was no longer an option because of the stalker’s deadly intentions, I brought her here to save her life and
make
her love me. I had visions of her in the grips of Stockholm syndrome, utterly dependent on me. I wanted to be her everything, her provider, her protector -- most of all, her fucking lifeline. I just never expected that she would, in turn, become mine.

“I love you, Madonna.”

My disclosure floats like a mist, hovering there in the stillness. She doesn’t stir so I let out the breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. Yeah, I don’t like feeling vulnerable. In the end, though, I suppose that doesn’t matter. We don’t choose who we love. One thing’s for sure: falling in love may make other men go soft—me, not so much. If anything, it’s only fanning the flames of my obsession. This poor girl might be in more danger now than she was when I first brought her here.

My phone ringing pulls me out of my thoughts. I’m surprised when I recognize the voice on the other end as being Agent Turner.
Great. Just what I fucking need, a call from the man who wants to put me away.

“Agent Turner? Surely you meant to call my attorney and dialed me by mistake. You know perfectly well that I’ve got nothing to say to you.” My voice is flat, all business. Fuck him and fuck being nice; we aren’t buddies or pals and I’m not one for faking it.

“You’ll want to hear this. Would you mind putting your phone on speaker so your girlfriend can hear our conversation?”

Madonna’s up on one elbow, listening intently. I’m sure hearing Turner’s name was enough to wake her up. The sound of his voice has got me on full alert.

“We’ve had some new evidence come up in your case. I’m not at liberty to give all of the details but I did want to go over one thing with you.” He doesn’t give me any time to respond.
Pushy bastard
.

“We started following the man you claim is stalking your girlfriend. His name’s Greg Holmes—”

I roll my eyes as he tells me what I already know, but I keep the extent of my knowledge to myself. If I’ve learned anything by now, it’s to not talk too much.

“—unfortunately, because he doesn’t have a previous record we don’t have his DNA in our data base.”

Now he really has my attention. “Why are you trying to get his DNA when you’re already convinced mine was found in the dead woman’s body?”

“That’s the thing. I’m not convinced it’s your DNA. Sure, it’s more than enough to lay the foundation for a solid case, but contrary to what you may think, I do want to convict the right person. There’s nothing to be gained from putting an innocent man away. I’m sure you’re already aware that identical twins share the same DNA.”

Yeah, I really fucking appreciate you allowing me to be locked up when you suspected all along it wasn’t me.
Rather than voicing how I really feel, I just stick to the business at hand—finding out the truth before my brother is successful in ruining my career and my life.

“What does that have to do with anything, Agent? It isn’t like Lance could have killed her; we both know he’s rotting away in the psych ward. While I welcome the prospect of you taking the case in a direction away from me, I still don’t understand why you’re having second thoughts.”

Even though I have my own ideas of what my brother has done I’m not giving any information up. I want to know what the agent knows and where this investigation is going. This guy’s really beginning to piss me off. If it wasn’t for the fact that I need him to help me find out what happened, I’d tell him to fuck off and talk to my lawyer.

“Your brother reached out to me and he swears he gave Greg Holmes his seminal fluid to set you up, said they’d stored it in a diluent so it would keep for up to a week. They must not have wanted to take any chances. Greg Holmes killed the girl three days later.”

Why the fuck is my brother getting a conscience all of a sudden?
As if answering my internal question he continues.

“I think your brother has had an attack of conscience now that he knows you’re a suspect in a murder. Sort of a case of ‘be careful what you wish for’. When his fantasy of tormenting you came to pass as reality, he balked. I really can’t say why, except that he seems to find it more entertaining knowing that you’re walking around a free man.”

Yeah, that sounds like Lance alright, take it right to the wire and then have a come-to-Jesus moment.

“Anyway, we’ve been following Madonna’s stalker and the little shit must have gotten wise because when he threw his water bottle away, we thought we had his DNA. Come to find out it wasn’t even his.”

“What did he do, get someone else’s water bottle?”

“It appears so. Look doc, this guy isn’t stupid. To be honest with you, I’ve never seen someone so careful about not leaving their DNA behind. If he smokes, he butts the cigarette and puts it in his pocket. When he goes to a restaurant he only eats finger food. The little fuck goes so far as to take his own drink into a restaurant—hides it in his pocket like a packrat or something. I’d thought I’d seen it all but this is a first for me. One thing’s for sure: he’s guilty of something or he wouldn’t be going to this extent to ensure we don’t get his DNA.”

Madonna

Liam doesn‘t say anything when he hangs up the phone, he doesn’t need to because the intense look in his eyes and the bite of his hand around my throat speak volumes. When did I start craving his brand of crazy? He’s right; I could never be satisfied with vanilla sex anymore. I am a woman undone.

“First things first. I know you heard me.”

His voice is a low rumble like the warning of an approaching storm and it excites me. I’ve come to crave this sense of trepidation that is never far away whenever he’s around. The uncertainty of not knowing what he’s thinking or what he’ll do is an aphrodisiac I am hopelessly hooked on.

“Don’t be deceived, Madonna. Loving you won’t make me weak.”

“What will it do, then?” I rasp, unable to resist the urge to know more.

“You tell me. How far will an obsessed man go? Only time will tell.”

His words hang heavy in the air around us. I hope I haven’t been deceiving myself with illusions of a ‘happily ever after’ that will never be.