Sam considered telling William, but why? He couldn’t do anything about it. And apparently she was all sound and fury, signifying nothing. Sam didn’t want some irritating but harmless pest ruining the first chance she’d had at a viable relationship for the first time in... ever. It was only an email. If it happened again, she’d tell William about bibliogirl081569—or Sam would handle the Rabbit herself.
As William pulled into a leafy parking space near some picnic tables, Sam thought of something her mom, Jill, used to say, during her stint as a realtor between husbands three and four:If a property has one thing wrong with it, buy it; more than that, run. William had the Rabbit—but that wasn’t his fault; anyone could attract a stalker. And Sam thought of another front seat, long ago: She’d been driving, Hank riding shotgun, and she’d just picked him up from the motel after the owner called. He’d passed out again, and he smelled like the bottom of a garbage can, cigar and vodka and blood—it was the first time she had known addiction had a smell. She’d poked him awake in front of the emergency room, and Hank had come to and said blearily,Well, I guess we better go in. He protested against Sam coming in with him because he didn’t want to expose her to the gashes on his wrists when they unwrapped the towels—as if Sam hadn’t already seen them in the motel, as if her sneakers hadn’t made squelching noises in the carpet soaked with Hank’s blood. She’d driven home by herself after leaving him at the hospital, which was the hardest thing she’d ever done, and cleaned up and put on a red turtleneck and gone straight to a book club at Barnes & Noble, where she’d concentrated as hard as she could to smile and understand her readers’ usual small talk—I loved your book!, Will you sign it for me?—all the whilethinking, If they only knew. Worrying the whole time that although it was impossible—she’d showered, she’d changed—she still had a comma of Hank’s blood on her cheek, dried under her nails.
Now here was William, in his beautiful clothes and expensive car, with his extra suit and healthy snacks, smiling at Sam. Taking her hand. Saying, “Everything all right?”
“Sure,” said Sam. “Why?”
“You just seemed a hundred miles away,” said William. “As you are right now, in fact. Far too distant from me. Come closer.”
He tugged her braid, and then they were kissing. William cupped Sam’s breast, ran a thumb back and forth over the hard nipple beneath the cloth. She gasped and reached for him across the seat. Why were gearshifts in such awkward places?
“Jesus,” said William against her neck.
He detached from her and put his glasses back on, then opened his door and got out to come around to Sam’s. Sam heard gulls crying, the pound of waves, smelled the damp and salt.
“Walk with me, milady? I’m craving air. And hand me my briefcase, please?”
Sam retrieved it from between her feet, and William extracted a prescription bottle. He shook out a pill and swallowed it. Painkiller?
“You hurt your knee,” Sam said, for he was limping.
“Skiing injury,” he said. “It’s why I no longer run. Except to chase stalkers.”
He took Sam’s hand and folded it into his elbow as they walked slowly through the empty parking lot to the fort. It was a big heap of crenellated stone, hanging out over the ocean as forts tended to do. It was closed, the entrance chained, and for the first time Sam wondered if it was quite wise, coming to an abandoned site with a man she didn’t really know, not having told anyone where she was going. She’d texted Drishti from the hotel—Hey, D, you there?—but gotten distracted. Was it too late to take out her phone and start sharing her location?
Yes, because William was helping Sam up onto the narrow walkway that led them around the fort to the ocean. Sam clung to him as the waves crashed beneath them onto very large, pointy rocks. William guided them to a nook beneath an arrow-slit window, then stepped behind Sam and put his arms around her. The sun was setting, the ocean in front of them dim, nothing between Sam and death except William’s arms. Along the shore she could see lights coming on in other, more horizontal beachside venues.
“This might be a good time to mention I’m terrified of heights,” she said.
William’s hold tightened. “I’ve got you,” he said, and rested his chin on Sam’s head in a way that had already become familiar. Sam leaned back against him.
“Why do you call her the Rabbit?” Sam asked.
“Hmmm?” said William into her hair. One of his hands remained firmly on Sam’s stomach, pressing her safely against him; the other was on the move, stroking her nipple, then down her rib cage, then lifting her shirt.
“Your stalker,” said Sam. “Why do you call her the Rabbit? Is it because of her teeth?”
William’s hand stopped, a starburst of heat on Sam’s hip.
“Good Lord, no,” he said. “That would be cruel. It’s because I imagined a woman who looks like that doesn’t enjoy many lovers, so I wished for her a good relationship with her rabbit.”
“She has a rabbit?” Sam said. Then she got it. “Oh. You mean her vibrator.”
“Yes, exactly!” said William, and Sam felt him laugh. “The best pet a girl can have.”
He rested his chin atop Sam’s head again, swaying them slightly.
“The world can be so unkind to ugly women,” he said. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, lovely Simone?”
He eased out from behind her, obscuring the darkening view.
“Watch out!” Sam said.
“I’m safe,” said William. “So are you. There’s plenty of room—see?”
Sam peeked at him standing on the very edge of the walkway, then squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.
“That’s right,” William said. “Don’t look, if that’s easier.”He kissed her.“You’re safe with me, Simone. I swear it to you.”
