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“I wasn’t ever going to talk.”
I knew that. I knew it all along. She’s right. I am a pervert. Sick. Only a sick person would do this, would violate an innocent like this. It wasn’t necessary to do what I did. I just wanted to.
But I came to terms with this darker part of me a long time ago. And I’m not psychoanalyzing it now.
The last picture, the one with my hand on her hip, has my attention. The Benedetti family ring is prominent on my finger, my hand big, masculine and rough on her softly curving hip. It’s not even the gleaming pink of her pussy that’s got my eye. It’s how she’s looking at me. Watching me with those dark eyes through that veil of hair. Like she’s seeing me. Really seeing me.
I stare at them. I can’t look away. What I see, it’s not what I expect. Not hate. Not even fear. Something else. It has me curious. It’s almost as if there’s something familiar about her.
I can still smell her if I try. Was she aroused or is that just my sick brain at work? Making something up that wasn’t there. I wonder if she’s thinking about it now. If she’s lying in bed with her fingers between her legs remembering my hands on her. My eyes on her. She’d hate herself for it, I know.
I scroll back to the first image. The one of her sitting on the floor, knees pulled up, hands covering as much of herself as she can. Her chin is bowed into her chest, her hair like a curtain hiding her face from me. But if I look close, I see her accusing eyes through that fall of hair.
There’s something about this girl that I can’t put my finger on. Something that’s got me thinking about her long after I should forget.
“Insurance,” I say to myself, standing. I turn on the printer and send all the photos to it. Listen to the slow hum and buzz as each one prints. Watch Natalie’s face as each slowly slides out, stacks on top of the last. When they’ve all printed, I put them in a locked drawer of my desk before going upstairs to jerk off.The next afternoon, I go to her house. It’s a little after four and the shadows are already growing long. Winter days are short. I don’t mind them like most people do, though. I like the dark.
There’s no doorbell so I knock on the crooked wooden door, peeking in through the lace curtains of the window beside it. The kitchen is empty but there’s a light on deeper in the house. I knock again, louder this time.
“Hold your horses,” she calls out as the lock turns and she pulls the door open. She gasps, and the instant she sees me, she goes to slam the door shut.
I grip it, stopping her.
“Pepper!” she calls out.
I’m confused for a moment until I hear a lone, tired bark and the sound of a dog’s nails clicking against hardwood floors. Pepper barks again, sticks her wet nose into the narrow opening of the door. She’s old and not very ferocious from what I see.
“What do you want?” she asks. She’s got her back to the door so I can’t see her face, but feel her weight against it.
“I have something for you.”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“Let me in, Natalie.”
“Why? So you can take more pictures? Freak.”
“That’s done,” I say. “Let me in. Last time I’ll ask nicely.”
“I said no—”
Before she can finish her sentence, I give a shove and hear her small, surprised yelp as she stumbles forward. I step inside. The dog wags her tail and I get a look at the tiny, ancient kitchen, then at Natalie’s startled face.
“You should close the door,” I say to her, unbuttoning my jacket. “You’re letting the heat out.”
“What do you want?”
I reach into my pocket, put the box on the table. It’s a brand-new iPhone.
“Here,” I say. “Upgraded to the latest model.”
She looks at it, confused, then angry. “I don’t need you to give me a phone. I need you to get out.”
She’s wearing an ugly, oversized sweater and jeans. She doesn’t have shoes on and her hair’s wet like she just had a shower.
“I said get out!” she repeats, holding the door wider.
“Truce, Nat.”
“Don’t call me Nat. We are not friends.”
“For Christ’s sake,” I say, taking the door and closing it myself. She backs toward the coat rack beneath the cabinets and reaches behind the array of coats, and a moment later, she’s waving a wooden baseball bat at me.
“What do you want? Why are you here?”
“You’re going to hurt yourself with that,” I say, one eye on the bat while I pet the dog who’s sitting beside me watching the spectacle. “Good girl,” I say to her. “Not like your owner.” I try not to laugh outright at Natalie with the bat, Natalie who has so obviously never had to confront someone like this before.
