I’ve still got money from selling the car, though. I can pay my rent for a bit. And I can get another job too. It’s not like they’re going to stop needing waiters any time soon. Besides, now, if I’m not working, I can catch up on some schoolwork and get that done.
So that’s what I do. I go home, I get into my pajamas, and I study until I fall asleep.
The next day I go to school, study, then at some point, fall asleep.
The day after that, same. And the day after. And the next one.
I don’t hear from Sam. I tell myself I shouldn’t be surprised. There was a big gap between seeing him and hearing from him in the first weeks and I guess men who stalk and fuck womenwhile being international psychological superstars aren’t exactly the type to be consistent in contact.
It’s not like we’re dating. I followed him to Vegas, and he fucked me, but that wasn’t anything serious. That was two crazies being kind of crazy.
I tell myself I’ll see him when I next go to his class. It’s on Monday. I daydream about the dark sexual tension between us, the fact that nobody else in the class knows what goes on.
Monday comes and I am in class early, center front row, wearing a cute little skirt and a cardigan that’s tight enough to draw attention from pretty much every guy on campus. Sam won’t be the exception, I’m sure.
The door opens and a woman wearing a long floral skirt and neat black blazer walks in. She has black hair and black-rimmed glasses and she is very clearly not Sam.
“Morning, class,” she says. “I’m going to be taking over lectures for the foreseeable future, as Dr. Rollins has been called away unexpectedly.”
I feel like I can’t breathe. What the fuck is going on? Did he just leave completely? Fuck me, put me on a plane from Vegas, and walk out of my life forever?
The rest of class passes in what I can only describe as a panicked blur. I try to tell myself that it’s a good thing if he’s gone because he’s a vicious, dangerous predator, and I still don’t know what the fuck happened to Dave.
Then I tell myself he was the hottest person I ever met and I will literally never have sex that good again in my whole entire life. Then I tell myself that he’s probably not gone, he’s probably just off on a tour murdering people. And then I get a bit jealous that I’m not worth putting a European murder tour on hold for, and then I tell myself I’m being entirely insane and loop back around to this is for the best. If he’s lost interest, that means I’m safe.
At the end of the class, I approach our new lecturer. Her name is Mrs. Bloom, and she is very pretty and middle-aged and I bet she is good at her job. From what I managed to pay attention to while she was talking, she seemed to have a good handle on the subject.
“Professor Bloom? I was just wondering,” I say, trying not to sound suspiciously wound up or nervous. “Is Doctor Rollins not going to be coming back to the college at all?”
She looks at me with a gaze that I find uncomfortably knowing. “This class has been transferred to me,” she says. “I’m sure it’s disappointing to lose such a high-profile lecturer, but I can assure you…”
“Oh, I’m not worried about how good you are,” I seek to reassure her. “I just wondered what happened?”
“It’s a private matter,” she says. “Don’t worry, I’m very familiar with the material, and you will do just as well now as you would under him.”
She has no idea how well I do under him.
“Oh, okay, thank you,” I say, gathering my books up tighter in my arms.
I leave class, reminding myself that he’s been away before and come back, but this feels worse for some reason. It’s like he owes me better than this, right? Or I guess not. Do predators worry about their victims’ feelings? Does he care about me at all? Or do I stop existing the moment he no longer needs me for anything?
I know it’s absolutely mad to think that someone I first had sex with because they broke into my house and forcibly seduced me is going to be the love of my life, but I’ve paid enough attention in class to know that I’m attached to him.
This is a good thing, I loop back on myself. If he’s gone, then I can move on, and everything is fine.
After a long and frankly, quite boring day, I get home, sling my books on the table, and slip in a puddle of blood on my kitchen floor.
Wait, what?
Looking down, there’s a good-sized small pool of what I am guessing is human blood unless someone broke in and sacrificed an animal.
I have that horrible hot and cold prickly feeling that accompanies every single hair on my body standing upright.
I go to my bedroom. I should run back out the front door, but there’s a sort of locking in that happens when shit gets weird in your house. It’s like I need to see what’s around the corner.
Sam is lying on my bed. He’s bloodied and fast asleep. He’s wearing a white shirt, but it has been ripped to shreds. There are bandages on his chest and torso, but they’re bleeding through. His breathing looks pained and shallow. There’s bruising aroundhis left eye, and his nose looks broken and reset, and someone has punched him in the mouth for sure.
I should call the police. I should call an ambulance.
