The Obsession(83)

“It’s nice of you to offer,” Dave began, “but I should probably . . . Hey, that’s a nice shot.”

She’d started with the basic band shot. “Yeah, it’s not bad.”

“No, these are really good. Tons better than what we have now. You see this, Trilby?”

“Sweet.” In his ruined shirt, he braced a hand on Dave’s shoulder, leaned in to study. “You got some individuals right here.”

“Nice.” Ky unwrapped the chain. “We can really use these.”

“Aces, but the others are going to be better.” Still barefoot, Lelo squeezed in. “Are they coming up?”

“These are with the Nikon. I’ll switch cards when they run through.”

“Can you email these to me?” Dave asked her.

“You’re not going to want all of them, and the files from the Hassie are huge. I’ll send you a sample of the best of them once I go through.”

She switched cards, waited to see if she’d gone wrong.

“Told ya!” Lelo punched Dave’s shoulder when the shots began to slide on-screen.

“These are— We look—”

“Super cool!” Lelo punched Dave again.

“I thought it was crazy, even stupid.” Dave glanced up at Naomi. “Big apologies.”

“Not necessary. Worth the shirt?” she asked Trilby.

“And then some. These are great. Really great.”

“That’s talent, and that’s vision.” Ky nodded at the screen. “Shouldn’t have doubted you. Xander’s got a knack for spotting talent and vision.”

“That one! Gotta have that one, the one with the dog.” Lelo scrubbed at Tag, who still had the shoe in his mouth. “Band mascot.”

“How about that wine now?” Xander asked her when the slideshow started again.

“I could have a glass—one—before I set up for individuals.”

He took her hand, drew her outside the bay. “And after that, stay.”

“Oh, I really should get back, take a better look at these, start to weed through them.”

He leaned down, kissed her, warm and long in the quieting spring evening. “Stay anyway.”

“I . . . I don’t have my things, or Tag’s food, or . . .” She should take a breath, take some room. Then he kissed her again. “Come home with me,” she said. “When we’re done, come home with me.”

—

He went home with her, and late into the night when whatever dream chasing her made her whimper and stir, he did what he never did. He wrapped her close, and held her.

—

While Xander shielded Naomi from the nightmare, Marla lived one.

She didn’t know where she was, how long she’d been in the dark.

He hurt her, whoever he was, and when he did, he whispered how he would hurt her more the next time. And he did.

She tried to scream, but he’d taped her mouth. Sometimes he pushed a rag over her face, and the terrible fumes of it made her sick, then made her go away.

She always woke in the dark, woke cold and scared, and wishing with all her heart for Chip to come save her.

Then he’d rape her again. He cut her, and he hit her. He cut her and he hit her even if she didn’t fight the rape. Sometimes he choked her until her lungs burned, until she passed out.

She couldn’t remember what had happened, not exactly. When she tried to think, her head hurt so bad. She remembered walking home, being mad, so mad. But couldn’t remember why. And she remembered—or thought she did—having to stop and puke in some bushes.

Then the big car with the camper—was that it? She walked by a camper, and then something hit her. Something hurt her. And those awful fumes took her away.

She wanted to go home, she needed to go home. She wanted to go back to Chip. Tears leaked out of her swollen eyes.

Then he came back. She felt the movement. Were they on a boat? She felt, as she had before, the space tilt, and creak. His footsteps. She struggled, tried to scream, though she knew it was useless.

Please, please, somebody hear me!

He gave her one hard slap. “Let’s see if you’ve got one more night in you.”

Something flashed, blinding her. And he laughed.

“You sure aren’t much to look at now. But I can always get it up.”

He cut her first so she screamed against the tape. He punched her with a fist cased in a leather glove, then slapped her to bring her around again so she’d cry when he raped her.

It was always better when they cried.

Then he used the rope to choke her. This time he didn’t stop when she passed out. This time he finished it, and took her out of the nightmare.

When he raped her, when he choked her, he called her Naomi.





Seventeen




Soaking, sopping spring rains blew in. They made for muddy boots, wet dog, and some dramatic photos.

Naomi worked in the unfinished bedroom with the ugly blue bathroom and learned to block out the scream of tile cutters.

She spent the rainy Monday and started the rainy Tuesday refining the weekend’s work. She’d added the Wreckers to her playlist, used their music while she worked on the band shots.

She switched off to blues when refining the shots of Xander on her deck, went random on the book-in-hand.