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He already had his chance, and he wouldn’t get another one. Not now, at least.
This time, I'm not alone. Security guards protect the billionaire’s penthouse building with their lives, and if they don’t catch him, the multiple cameras stuck in every corner of every hall will. I'll be safe for tonight. Hopefully, I'll be able to sleep.
“If I would get out of the shower,” I scold myself. My thighs stay stuck together. A quick rinse-off with water, and I’ll leave. The water reached between my legs, going down the drain with a light tinge of orange before it became clear again.
Blood.
Not a lot. But too much in the first place. Struggling to hold back tears, a painful lump swells in my throat. The urge to strike something or to immerse myself in painting intensifies, yet all my supplies remain behind. Is it worth it when I can buy new stuff? It’ll be expensive.
“Fuck,” I huff, my sadness turning into frustration. Yet, tears return.
Too much thinking is happening. I shut off the shower, yearning for sleep, desperate to escape the memories. I dry myself and don the clothes Evan kindly lent me. It smells clean, like detergent and softener, and it is still warm to the touch.
Stealthily emerging from the bathroom, I enter my temporary room, fold my soiled clothes, and carefully position them on the nightstand beside the guest bed. If it weren’t for the fact this wasn’t my place, I would’ve thrown them in the trash. They’ll have to lay next to me for the night. When I sit on the side of the bed, I sink in far enough to know it is soft yet firm enough that I won’t drown in the mattress.
Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, I decide I don’t want to lie down. I don’t want to be unconscious or vulnerable, not tonight. Remaining seated on the side of the bed, I watch as the sun rises.
***
Evan walks past my door. He pauses for a second before he moves on. Does he think I'm still sleeping? Probably. Or maybe he didn’t want to disturb me. Not wanting to remain solitary, I shake off the unease in my legs and cautiously crack open the door.
Right as he's on the brink of turning the corner into the kitchen, I spot him.
“Morning,” he chirps.
It takes me much longer to find my voice, “Morning,” I croak.
“Did you sleep?” His choice of words catches my attention: "Did I sleep?" rather than "How did I sleep? The sagging, dark circles around my eyes most likely told him that before I did.
He compresses his lips, “I can grab some of your things from the apartment,” he offers. It was odd. Why is he being so kind? Understanding the reason doesn't escape me, and it sucks.
“Uh…yes. Just my art supplies.”
“Okay,” he voices, “I’ll be in late. Try and rest; I’ll leave your breakfast in the fridge,” and he disappears into the kitchen. My heart skips a beat.
Ignore it like every other potential love interest. Like every other man you’ve ever had an interest in. It is to protect me. There were days when I wondered if it was an unconscious punishment I subjected myself to. To makehimthe only man I’ve ever loved and ever had a chance to love in this lifetime. My sense of danger outweighed the short-lived crushes.
Retreating back into the room, I lock the door and resume my spot on the side of the bed. Rest isn’t something I get today. Too many mistakes flood my mind. Growing too complacent, I found myself getting overly enthusiastic while conversing with unfamiliar individuals who appreciated my artwork. Validation crumbled my walls much too quickly. After all those years. After all those meltdowns and months of my life spent locked between four walls, shaking under blankets or in the closet, the rest of the seconds made up years of me looking behind my back.
Crazy thoughts consumed me as I reflected on the past three years. The belief that I had successfully escaped him and that he had given up seems absurd now. As soon as I was stupid enough to believe something great could ever happen to me without consequences, he proved exactly how naive I was.
My fingers grip the bed sheets. I should delete all of my socials right now. Live like a hermit. It’ll be better than risking my safety for short funny videos and strangers’ unsolicited opinions. Better than me making the most obvious trails for him to follow.
“Lead him right to you, why don’t you?” Instinctively, I reach for my phone on the nightstand, “Where’s my phone?!”
Launching myself from the bed, I pat my pockets down, knowing full well the weight of my phone isn’t in either of them. Dammit. It was left behind at the apartment unintentionally, a consequence of the overwhelming emotions I experienced, leaving no room for second thoughts.
This is good, I suppose—a first step to being offline. However, reaching out to my clients is essential. They need to be informed that I won't be taking on commissions any longer. New York City is compromised. It's time to find a new identity, a new city—no, a new country. Now, with the police more actively involved, am I allowed to do that? Nearly indifferent to the situation, I lack confidence in their ability to accomplish anything meaningful.
Now is the time for my departure. Security, cameras, keypad entrance, nothing matters. Evan is gone. I'm in the penthouse alone and won’t stay alone waiting to find out if he manages to slip past them all.
If I leave without warning…he might report me missing.
Excuses.
Tiredness has not washed over me like I wish it had. Nor has hunger or any kind of motivation. My brain decides it is the perfect time to conjure up the memory of him over me, indulging and smiling.
I shrink my arms in and hook my foot on my ankle, lying there with my eyes squeezed shut until the feeling of him on top of me fades.
