Pen Pal(32)

Except my fingers decide they’d rather draw something else.

The tree takes shape first. It’s a tall evergreen with a crooked tip and scraggly lower branches. Then the rocky strip of shore emerges. A dark sky filled with ominous clouds is next, followed by soaring sea birds and windswept water.

The figure appears last.

Tall and gaunt, the man peers out from behind the trunk of the tree, his eyes hidden by the brim of his hat, his teeth bared in an ugly grimace.

A hostile grimace.

A truly frightening one.

My heart beating faster, I set down the pen, sit back in the chair, and stare at the drawing.

Something about this man is familiar.

I can’t decide what it is, but I feel as if I’ve seen him before. But where?

When the doorbell rings, I jump. I’m on my feet before I remember to look at the video in the app. When I grab my cell phone off the desk and navigate to the live feed, however, the front porch is empty.

Aggravated, I say loudly, “Cut it out, house!”

As if in response, the desk lamp flickers.

I freeze and stare at it in trepidation. My pulse and blood pressure rise along with my anxiety. The moment stretches out until I feel as if my nerves might snap from the strain.

I don’t know what exactly I’m waiting for, but whatever it is, I’m already scared.

Then a text arrives with its cheery jingle, and I jerk so hard, I drop the phone.

I stand with my fingers pressed to my temples for a moment, trying to catch my breath, before I bend to retrieve the phone from the carpet. My hands shake so badly, I’m embarrassed for myself. But when I see the message, I exhale in relief.

You didn’t call me. Now would be a good time to fix that.

“Oh, Aidan.” I sigh, shaking my head. “You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?”

I dial his number and try to pretend I don’t already have it memorized.

He picks up after one ring. “Hello, beautiful bunny,” he says in a throaty voice.

“Hello yourself.”

My tone must have been less than enthusiastic because after a beat, he says, “You’re mad at me.”

“Mad is too strong a word. It’s more like annoyed.”

“What did I do to earn the ire of such a sweet little rabbit?”

Irked at the humor in his tone, I say tartly, “Maybe you need a time-out to think about it.”

“And maybe you need a spanking to remind you who you’re talking to.”

“That threat would hold a lot more weight if you weren’t laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing. I’ve been obsessing about your perfect little ass all day. How pink it got when I spanked it. How you moaned.” He pauses. “I wonder how loud you’ll moan when I fuck it?”

Ah, yes. Here comes that flush of heat spreading upward from my neck to settle in my cheeks as it does every time the man opens his mouth and says something to me.

I clear my throat of the frog stuck in it. “Are you asking in a professional capacity as my roofer? Because if so, I think I might need to lodge a complaint.”

“With who? I own the company.” His voice drops. “And there’s no professional capacity here, baby. Don’t get it wrong. This is all personal.”

I’m sweating. Why am I sweating? Christ, I’m roasting alive.

Pulling at the collar of my shirt, I say, “If it’s so personal, why did you leave without saying goodbye yesterday?”

“Come over here, and I’ll tell you.”

Stalling for time, I ask, “Where’s here?”

He says softly, “You know where. And don’t bother wearing panties. They’ll only get torn to shreds.”

He disconnects, leaving me even more disoriented and shaky than I was before he called.

I hesitate, undecided if I should go to his apartment.

I know it’s not wise. I’ve had two glasses of wine, I have work that needs to get done, and he’s a slippery slope I’m sliding down at lightning speed. A beautiful distraction from the wreckage of my life.

The dangerous thing about distractions, though, is how quickly they can grow addicting.

“And haven’t you been through enough already?” I whisper, staring at the framed picture on the wall of Michael and me on our wedding day.

It was a glorious afternoon in May. The sky was cloudless for once, and the scent of honeysuckle perfumed the air. Standing beside me in a tux on the steps of the church, Michael gazes down at me. He’s smiling widely, handsome even in profile, one arm wrapped around my waist.

Wearing a frothy sleeveless gown of silk and lace and holding a bouquet of pure white calla lilies, I stand next to him, looking directly into the camera.

Unlike Michael, I’m not smiling.

I recall how nervous I was that day. How my stomach was twisted into knots. How hard Michael squeezed my hands as we recited our vows. Later, he said I was so pale and trembling, he thought I might pass out right there at the altar.

I never told him that I threw up before I walked down the aisle. That’s not something you want your spouse to remember. It’s not something you want to remember yourself, either. There’s no place for such things on what’s supposed to be the best day of your life.

And so I locked it away, so effectively that particular memory hasn’t surfaced since.