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My gaze moves between Aug and Lance, who look equally as concerned as I feel. She’s not here, she hasn’t answered my text, and now we know that Pete knows where she lives.
I look at Aug, who nods, and says, “Go.”
eleven
scarlett
Please let me inside
I study my toenails, the imprint of the carpet burning my ass. I’ve been in this ball of self-preservation and tears in the corner of my apartment living room for hours. Sun spills in the sliding door on my balcony, so I know it’s morning. I knew it was morning when the birds started chirping sometime ago.
But I can’t move.
I’ve made so much progress with Dr. Evans, and Crave has reinstated a base level of safety and security in me when it comes to making adult films. While I can’t say I’m ready for any male-female roles, still, I’ve been feeling and performing like my old self, slowly but surely.
All of my progress feels washed away with one singular wave ofPete.
I want to get up, wash my face, brush my teeth, pull my greasy and tear-heavy hair off my face, and go to work. Soak in the friendliness and comfort of my new studio.
I want to but I can’t. Anxiety and fear overwhelm me.
He knows where I live.
A yelp breaks past my lips as a quiet thudding comes down against my door. I wrap my arms around my knees and blink at the door, waiting for it to be pushed in, waiting for banging, anticipating yelling. My heart jumps up my throat, nausea spreading through my insides.
Another blunt knock at the door has me tugging my knees closer to my chest.
“Scarlett, it’s Cohen. I’m alone. Please… open the door.” His voice is thick with concern, loud and heavy to penetrate the door, but quiet enough to lower my hackles.
“Scarlett, please let me inside,” he says again, desperation lacing the strength of his tone. I blink at the door, remembering Cohen’s palm against my foot, and find myself scrambling to my feet. First the chain then the deadbolt, and after I’ve made quick work of both, I pull the door open.
Cohen stands there, looking exhausted with dark crescents beneath his eyes. Without words, I move aside and he steps in, taking the door from my hand with gentle care. He closes it quietly, slipping the chain into the groove, locking us in.
When he turns to me, his sky blue eyes soft and tender, I break. Trembles wrack my shoulders and knees, and I crumble to the floor in a sea of tears and unintelligible words. Cohen lowers his large frame to the worn apartment floor, and slowly, cautiously, wraps his arms around me. He pulls me into his lap and presses my head into his chest, keeping his hand on my cheek.
With my ear pressed to his heart, I hear it beating, rapid and irregular. The longer I sit in his lap with his arms around me and his hand on my cheek, the more my crying slows, and the more regular his heartbeat becomes.
After a few minutes he drops his mouth to my ear. “Come on,” he says, somehow standing while keeping me in his arms. He takes me down the hallway, nudging my room door open with his boot. A moment later, he’s lowering me to the bathroom countertop, turning the light on to immediately dim it.
His voice is steady and calm, and though he asks hard questions, my pulse never quickens.
“Did he get inside?”
I shake my head, a tear rolling free. “H-how did you know he, he came by?” I snuffle the words.
“He came to Crave. He befriended Otis, that’s the only way he figured out where you are,” he says calmly, and I watch his large hands move through the stream of water, soaking a washcloth.
“Oh my god,” I cry, “he came to Crave?” I hold my head in my hands, a million things running through my mind. I don’t want to be associated with him. I don’t want Crave associating me with him.
“Don’t worry,” he says, voice a bit stern. “He didn’t come inside. I saw him on the monitors and he left before we had a chance to speak.” His large hand comes to my face, hovering over me before he touches. His eyes claim mine, wordlessly imparting safety and care. Then he places his hand on my cheek, pushing the hair back. He repeats on the other side, then brings the washcloth to my face. Slowly, he strokes the warm, soft terry down my tender, tear-stained cheek.
“He... he wouldn’t stop calling and knocking. He knocked on the door, he beat on the door—” I correct, because what he did wasn’t a knock. He kicked, he screamed, he smacked his flat palms to the door. Over and over and over. “He did it for hours. I don’t even know how long.”
Cohen dips the washcloth beneath the running water again, squeezing the excess out before bringing it to my other cheek. He softly wipes away the tears, soothing the sting of my swollen flesh.
“I feel stupid,” I say, now that my nerves are calming. So he came here, he beat on the door. So what? A lot of women have it worse. He didn’t break in. He didn’t rape me. “I’m sorry to scare you, I just...”
“You were triggered by his behavior because he’s traumatized you,” Cohen states, moving the cloth over my forehead. His thick fingers slide into my hair as he holds me steady. I like the way it feels.
