The Stranger I Know (Dark Romance) (17 page)

He lets go of my mouth and peels off of me, jumping from the bed to the floor, his cock still dribbling. I keep my eyes locked on him. He won't look at me though, he's distracted. His breathing is heavy. Between breaths, he pulls at one of my cuffs to undo it, freeing my hand.

He says, "You liked that didn't you? I know you wanted it."

"I wanted it? After you ignored the safe word?" He only lets a dark smile cross his face, but that is pale snow next to my fury. My hand slips free from the leather bracelet and the chain links clink against the wooden headboard and that's when I snap. I grab the clock radio I stared at earlier that night, and chuck it at his head. He's so close, I practically punch him with it.

He jumps back after it smacks him and his mask falls off his face. He shields himself to keep his identity hidden. I laugh a little at his fucking attempt.

"Fucking James! You think I don't know? That I wouldn't fucking figure it out!" I shout.

I've already moved my hand up to his scalp. His hair is short, but not too short that I can't get a good grip on it. I pull hard, bringing him tumbling onto the bed face first and nearly knocking his head against the bedpost. I almost want to. I could just bash his skull in right here.

"James!" I repeat again. "You fucking cunt!" He stares at me, his guarded eyes wavering between shock and confusion. His hair is still threaded between my fingers. I dig my nails into his scalp. He lets out a small whimper, but it's for show. He isn't that weak. I lift him with what strength I have and push him away. I undo my other hand cuff and both my feet. They're easy once you have one hand free.

"You fucking did this to me," I begin, turning around on the bed on my knees and narrowing my eyes at him. My body is sticky and dripping. My mind is a swirling tornado.

My prey is reeling. "You've been screwing with me, forcing me to do shit at work. Fucking with my life and career so I'd come and see you as this façade." I gesture at him as if I'm revealing a masterpiece of shit at a museum. "You betrayed me. You lied to me when you said we would agreed to stay separate and you wouldn't pursue my identity. Worst of all. You fucking ignored the safe word."

"It wasn't a safe word. It isn't a safe word when you abuse it to fuck with me." He straightens his posture and stares down at me, his weakness or surprise having faded quicker than I thought. "It makes sense now. You never used it before. I don't know why you'd abuse it all of a sudden. I'm the one who should feel betrayed." His vanity is revolting.

"You fucking came inside me! You think you should feel betrayed? Oh really? Then how about we switch roles here for a minute. I'll lock you down to the bed, ignore your only pleas for mercy, real or not, and shove that lamp up your ass." I point at the one near the entrance of the room. It's a kitschy and armless Venus statue. "Maybe I'll even leave the lightbulb in."

"You're insane."

"I'm insane?" I laugh. "Sure. Go ahead, Mr. James Pierce."

He pulls his clothes from the floor and disappears into the bathroom with a loud slam of the door.

His mask is still resting on the ground. I stare at it. It's cracked down the center. Not cheap plastic after all... but actually ceramic. One eye is broken along the seam.

The bathroom door shudders open, pulling hot air from the room, and James is dressed. His eyes avoid me as he crosses to his bag. He throws his extra toys inside, including the cuffs. He zips it shut and opens the hotel door and stares back at me. "I hope it was worth it."

"It was," I say with absolute certainty.

He's gone and the hotel door slams shut with an unnatural force. I know they all do that unaided, but it didn't feel like it was just the door. I recline on the bed, onto the mushy pillows, and bask in my victory. I found a liar and dismantled him in front of his eyes. When he was the most vulnerable. When he thought he was safest.

But something is wrong.

The glory I expect to be feeling has already vanished. There is no sunlight shining down from the ceiling. There is no crowds cheering at my win.

Just the starless night sky.

It feels like a cold lump. I close my eyes and try to think about his look of horror when I threw the clock at him. That devastation when his mask broke off his face. That ugly grimace when I cut into him with everything I had. All the resentment, anger, and frustration from these last two weeks all boiled down into my words.

The mask is still on the floor. It's face down. I climb off the bed and kneel down to pick it up, which is just enough force to fully separate the two pieces of ceramic. I hold the broken half up, the one with a cracked eye socket, and press it against my face. The clay is cool to the skin. The mask is too long for my face, but I walk into the bathroom and look anyway.

A quarter of white clay and three quarters of me.

I should feel better about this.

That was the whole point.

***

B
ack at home I rinse off in the shower. The bathroom at the hotel was too oppressive. The atmosphere was choked with grief and anger, and no amount of airing it out would solve that. Even opening the windows to let the cold snowflakes drift in and out did nothing to alleviate the lump that hasn't gotten any smaller in my ribs.

My ass is sore. The hot water only makes it throb. I gently pat the skin to test how tender it really is. Quite.

Medusa. A creature that turns men to stone with a single glance. The only one of the three sisters that was mortal. Her own gaze destroyed her.

But he fucked with me first. He said he wouldn't pursue my identity and that I would be safe from intrusions. Wearing a vibrator all day long. Thinking about it now, it makes sense why the intensity of it grew when I was with James that afternoon.

He had the controls on him the whole time. That prick.

I smack my fist against the tile in my shower and make it ache. The ache turns to a throb, and I smack my fist into the stone again. It scrapes my knuckles and the hot water finds a way to make the cuts burn even more. I relish it. I'm glad of the pain. I deserve it for being...

Petty.

I'm not petty. I lost my job because of him. No, I blackmailed my boss. And James offered to take care of Stacie if she was becoming an issue. But it doesn't matter, because he still was the one who instigated the whole thing. I never saw the Stranger more than once a week before I met James Pierce. It all lines up now.

I have done worse to other people. I did worse to my boss. To my coworkers. To my ex lovers. I've never felt much remorse or even regret because in my mind, they had already been exposed for what they were: petty and empty.

But I never felt that way about the Stranger or James. I hated one and loved the other for what they were: a sex animal with no strings or identity attached, and a confident juggernaut that could shut me down. I turn the tap and let the faucet drip dry before moving again.

James thrust himself into my dreams, my thoughts, my desires. The Stranger satisfied those things, but only because it was James in the first place?

Was it all a game the entire time? One huge game of submission that I was supposed to pick up on? Did he not realize how I am in real life — why we started meeting in the first place? Essentially he tried to out dominate me outside the bedroom, and that isn't how I work. That isn't how I play.

That isn't how I play at all.

I pull my towel from the rack and dry myself off methodically. Each foot, ankle, leg and arm at a time. The towel goes back on the rack and I slip into my bedroom. With no lights on, the moon is bright against the untouched snow in my backyard. It's looks less like the ground is frozen and more like time itself is.

I climb under the covers. Nestle my head against my pillow.

And realize I don't feel victory, remorse, or regret.

I feel guilt.

T
he next morning comes abruptly. The light blinds me, the first time I've seen the actual orb of the sun in what feels like months. It's always been overcast. I shield my eyes and climb from my bed, still rolling the thoughts and events from last night in my mind.

I have to find him and do something. Something I've never done before. I've never had a reason to, because I've always been justified. I've always been right — no matter what the reality is.

I have to apologize to him.

It won't fix anything, but it might make this lump in my ribcage shrink, just a little to keep it from feeling like I'm going to burst. I dress in comfortable, but non-business attire. A scarf is the last thing I grab before heading out the door to my car. In my car, the folder I have on James Pierce, including where he works.

It'll be easy to find him.

***

I
pull into the parking garage of the address listed in his file. It's a skyscraper with a parking garage attached. I find the first open stall and park in it. I climb out and adjust my sunglasses. They give me some kind of anonymity, which almost feels ironic.

The directory is listed near the elevator in the foyer. I find his company's name, but it can't be right. It's one floor. What company only has... one floor?

And it isn't labeled as a numbered floor. It's a penthouse. I hold my breath. What am I really going to find in there? I press the button, but it doesn't light up. I need a pin to access that floor. The keypad below the floor numbers looks like it's the answer.

I flip over a couple of pages from his file, and finally find some numbers that I saw from before. They make sense now. I punch in the five digits and wait. The "PH" button lights up and the elevator closes to begin its ascent.

If the folder and files are so exhaustive, how wouldn't they have known that his business is listed as a residential address?

I ignore the thought. I already feel like I know the answer. He planted the folder himself. It was his handiwork from the beginning.

How far back does it all go?

The elevator opens on the top floor of the building, right into an apartment. It's lavish, and not only that, but easily twice the size of my condo. Spiral stairs ascend to a lofted area, and as I trace the metal spiral upwards, I see him. James Pierce. He's shirtless but wearing some comfortable pants. Bare foot. His hand is clutching the bannister and he's staring at me like I'm a ghost. His hair is disheveled and a bit damp. Like he just got out of the shower.

"Marcy," he says as he continues his descent. His tone is business-like, as if we are conducting a divorce or something. "What are you doing here?"

I hold up the folder and can't help but laugh a little in humility. I shake my head. "You curated this folder, didn't you? Why else would your company's address be your apartment? You have a house and an apartment?"

He crosses the room over to me, but in a way I still feel how distant he is. He isn't looking at me like he did through the mask. Or through his business personality. Or the night as his house.

It's just him staring at a wall. I can't even reach out and touch him.

"What are you doing here?"

"How long have you been doing this?" I probably sound more angry than I mean to, but... how can't I? I've only had shock after blow after shock to my system for the last year or so now. "Do you even work for a company?"

"Yes. But we aren't buying you out. We never were."

I shuffle in place, but keep my eyes off his sectional sofa. I keep my eyes off his barstools at his kitchen counter. Same style as the ones in his house.

"You have an apartment? We were at your house... are you hiding from a wife?" I dread the answer.

"No," he answers. He turns away from me and walks into the kitchen.

"No work?"

He pulls a glass down from a shelf and fills it with water. After the faucet stops dripping, he looks up at me. "Marcy, it's Saturday."

Oh.

"And you still haven't answered me," he continues. He takes a long drink of the water and sets it down on the counter.

"You didn't answer me either."

He sighs a little, but not in annoyance. "I found out who you really were by accident. My company did receive an embarrassingly low offer from yours, but we knew immediately it was an accounting error. It was something like $11,000 for vested interest in our company. We work with billions of dollars of assets a year."

"I'm aware."

"Yes, well. I took a personal interest in the report because of how boring it can be over there. I popped into your building and there you were. Your black hair. Your attitude, even just through the glass wall of your office. You oozed that confidence I saw flicker inside the woman I met every week. I kept my head down, you probably didn't even see me. You were too busy chewing someone out in your office. I didn't want to believe it could really be the same woman. But my heart knew."

I flush.

He laughs and he fills the water glass, and offers it to me.

"So I called. I made an appointment. I was curious. How much of it was an act and how much of it was real?"

"You found out."

"Yes. But that only..." He trails off. His hands are planted on the counter and splayed out. He's staring past me, out the window. I turn and watch snow start falling. The sun has disappeared behind some clouds, and left the entire room in a shadow of its former self. "Made the pain worse." He swallows.

"The pain," I state. It isn't a question, but a confession.

He doesn't continue. The chasm between us roars.

"I'm here..." I begin. I summon my courage. I can chew anyone out for anything, but if I have to admit I'm wrong, it's the hardest thing in the world. I don't know why — I've always been that way. If someone doesn't like what I offer or what I have to say, who gives a shit?

At this moment, though, I do. "I'm here to say I'm sorry."

He narrows his gaze and he looks from my eyes to my face. My lips? "You're sorry?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

He sighs and steps around the counter to come closer. Our bodies are close to touching, and despite the couple of months with the Stranger, this feels more real than anything I've ever experienced.