When my bodyguard opens the front door to our building, I stay a few feet behind, straining to listen to anything strange. After a few seconds, my throat clogs and something falls atthe pit of my stomach. A shiver runs up my spine, strangely pleasant, like a soft caress on my nape.
“Miss Ventura?” Milosh calls out for me and I shake myself out of the weird trance I just got in, but not before one last look at the street. A beautiful red motorcycle is parked further away from the entrance. I cant my head to the side and resist the urge to stalk towards it, to glide my fingers against it. A clearing of a throat makes me jump and I walk inside, unsettled and with hairs rising on my arms.
Back into my flat, I lock myself up, turning the pink lock Irina got for me. With a hand on my hammering heart, I breathe in and out through my nose, trying to calm myself down.
I shake my head at my enthusiastic imagination.
This new environment is truly doing something to my head.
After my evening routine consisting of the coldest shower, moisturiser, and my essential oil diffuser with lavender-camomile blend, I switch off the lights and get in bed. The light post is right in front of my window and shines bright light into my eyes. I get up again and find the switch to lower down the electric blinds. They only go down a few inches before they stop.
I try again, raising them up, then pressing the button. They don’t fall down, stopping at the same spot they did before.
“For Christ’s sake. Of course something’s already broken. It was too good to be true.”
Going back to my bed, I shift and turn around to avoid the light.
Sleep doesn’t come straight away. My hands glide against my upper thighs. The raised skin there is a reminder. A mental place I never want to be in again. I’ve felt alone after my parents died. And guilty. And alone again in crowds of people I called friends. Yet, there is a safety in this self-imposed loneliness I chose for myself. In the darkness, I don’t have to hide the grief and the tears that fall to my pillow, or pretend like I don’t need nor wantsomeone to take care of me like I wish my parents had taken care of me.
I text my family goodnight in our group chat and they all answer immediately, helping me breathe easier. Unfortunately, the text to Diane remains unread. Maybe she’s busy. Probably with her husband all over her, as he usually is.
From my place on the bed, I can see clearly the dish plate I used for keys. I don’t know what compels me to get up and remove my keys from the keychain before I bring it into bed with me, toying with the grooves in the wood of the helmet, the wine glass and the wheel.
I fall asleep with it clasped in my hand.
SIX
TOMA
My jaw clenches as I watch Lucie through the window of the large auditorium she’s in for her social psychology class.
Day three and already, the flies are swarming her, smelling her sweet flower scent. The boy talking to her is distracting her now. I know she’s annoyed because she pulls on a strand of hair in a repetitive motion, but she’s not telling him off. He gives her his best dashing smile and I want to crush his mouth and make him swallow his teeth.
Then, he hands her his phone and Lucie rolls her eyes, giving in.
Oh baby.I’ll have to punish her for this. By the time I’m done with her, she’ll never fake a smile ever again. And especially for people who don’t matter.
When the class ends, the guy waves at her and exits the auditorium. Gemma is on duty today, and even if I don’t like her or her husband, I have a pressing matter I need to take care of before I resume my watch of sweet Lucie.
The way the boy walking in front of me remains unaware of my presence even as I enter the bathroom after him is laughable. Not everyone is born and bred for vigilance like I am, but awareness of one’s surroundings still should be a quality ayoung man pursuing a girl like Lucie should exhibit. Two strikes against him.
The half-mask I wear obscures my face as I pull him by the collar and slam him against the bathroom door. He lets out a squeak and I’m tempted to bash his face in for the weakness.
“What are you doing, man?”
“Your phone,” I growl and open my palm up.
He scrambles to put the device in my hand. “Here. Here. Take it. I don’t need it. Let me go.”
I pocket it and open my butterfly knife, pressing the blade to his throat. He whimpers. “No, no. I don’t want to die.”
“You’re not not going to. If you do exactly what I tell you.”
“Anything, anything.”
I almost roll my eyes at his fear. And he thought he had a chance with Lucie Ventura? Pathetic.
“Stay away from Lucie.”
