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“But, I can tell you how I feel. I love you Lennox. More than I want to live, more than I care to live, I love you. I’ll love you until you break my heart. I’ll give you the broken pieces of my heart as a goddamn offering to you, because you own it. Whole, shattered, alive, or dead; you own my heart no matter what condition it’s in. I’ll stay with you until you figure out how to feel. I’ll stay with you even if you never do.”
I blinked, breathing his words in. No one had ever made that kind of declaration to me. I didn’t k
now what to say.
“Now, let’s go to bed.” Vic offered his hand, not giving me a chance to respond. I took his hand, letting him lead the way.
Fucking Vic, loving Vic, and living with Vic are all entirely different entities. Fucking Vic is hot, mind-bending, and sometimes universe-expanding. Loving Vic is all-encompassing and at times spine-snapping with its intensity. As for living with Vic, well, let’s just say it’s a journey.
You would not believe the quirks he has.
For instance, a towel can never touch the ground. Ever. If it does, it is immediately put in the laundry hamper. No ten second rule with this guy. A towel cannot be used twice, either. That one I sort of understand, but still, I’m of the “I’m clean when I get out of the shower, so my towel is clean too,” mentality. Sue me. One time, Vic caught me picking up a towel off the ground and putting it on the rack—he almost burst a blood vessel.
However, instead of bursting a vessel, he punished me . . . sexually. Sometimes, I drop towels in his eyesight just so that happens.
Another idiosyncrasy that he has: You can’t let dishes soak. They have to be cleaned and put away the minute you finish using them. What about those stubborn cooked-on cheese and grease stains? Vic doesn’t care. You will stand there and scrub until they come off. No soaking, ever. At least, not in front of him. A lot of my living here consists of doing things without him knowing.
I’ve never been in a healthy relationship before. Dean was my first healthy relationship, and I think we all know how “healthy” that was. I don’t know the rules. Do I tell him everything? Do I tell white lies? This is all new to me. I don’t want to mess anything up with Vic.
Yes, Vic is slightly obsessive-compulsive. Maybe more than slightly. He’s also ridiculously stubborn. He’s trying though. He doesn’t let his anger get out of control around me, and I know better than to push him now. (I’m looking at you, missing dishes).
He gives me a new cellphone every week and takes away the previous one I used. He says it’s a burner phone, something the bad guys can’t track.
Every now and then, I hear him yelling on the phone in a different language and I hear my name. It sounds weird and foreign when said against the backdrop of a different language.
So, I guess the threat against me is out there. It’s real. A part of me yelled out that he was making it up, like he had used it as an excuse to get me back. A part of me still yells that out. I wouldn’t have been angry, either. Well, I that’s not entirely true. I would have been angry, but I would have understood.
The magnetic pull I feel with Vic is so intense that I could understand if he had lied to get me back because I’d have done the same to be with Vic. I think that’s bad; to need someone so much you’re willing to break rules and values to have them. Sometimes, I think I should leave him before we do something one of us regrets. That will never happen though. We’re stuck together, like a kinky covalent bond.
I sat against Vic’s headboard, staring at the blank TV. I hadn’t returned to work. After Dean had dropped the Bethany bomb, I didn’t know what to do about it. I’d been given a break after the Regal event, and now I’ve been calling in sick ever since. I really have no fucking clue what to do.
I’m still not entirely convinced Bethany had anything to do with what happened. Sure, she’s a brutal and, at times, crazy boss, but is she psychotic? Can I imagine her plotting with Dean to rape and murder me? No, I can’t. Bethany gave me a job here. She helped me out when I needed it. Of course, all of that could have been an elaborate plan. Wait, Zoe is the one that had gotten me the interview with Bethany . . .
Listen to me! Elaborate plans, crazy siblings, traitorous friends . . . I sound like Dean. The easiest way to find out if Bethany is Dean’s sister is to tell the police. If I bring up Bethany’s role to the police, though, it brings up questions about Dean—as in, where is he? And then I’m stuck trying to explain away his absence. Which, in turns, means I’m stuck trying to explain Vic. So, all I can think to do is hide in Vic’s house.
I don’t want to bring Bethany’s possible connection with Dean to Vic’s attention, either. What would he do? Vic wouldn’t kill her, right? This is the part of our relationship that I stumble and fumble over. I feel like we both have too many secrets from each other.
It sucks.
I picked up the remote and turned on the TV, flipping channels to find something mind numbing to watch while simultaneously trying to dull my senses and kill the questions in my head.
Occam’s razor says the simplest solution is often the right one. Well, the simplest solution is that Dean made everything up. He was off his rocker and most of what came out of his mouth was a deluded fantasy. Including the nonsense about Bethany.
I’m almost out of PTO. I can’t keep calling in sick to HR. (No way was I calling Bethany directly, and because I no longer have my old cellphone, Bethany can’t call me.) Even if she wasn’t involved, I still can’t stand the connection Bethany might have.
The Regal buzz will wear off and people will forget about me, and then bye-bye job. I need to come up with a plan, and soon.
Or, I could just let people forget me.
“What are you doing?” Vic asked, coming out of the shower. Bethany and all other worries fell out of my head. With a towel wrapped around his waist, I’m practically drooling.
“Melting,” I replied, turning off the TV. “It’s so hot in this house.”
“I think it’s cool in here,” Vic said, dropping his towel. I stared, mouth agape. It was like looking at a real-life statue of Michelangelo's David, but better—Vic has a bigger cock.
Vic padded toward me, his movements slow and steady like a big cat on the hunt. His cock grew with each step. He stopped in front of the bed, cock now fully erect. “Your mouth looks empty.”
“Will you fill it?” I asked, tilting my head.
