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Closing the door behind me, I pause. It's coming back, the paranoia. Why am I so easy to set off? My hand shakes; in fact, everything does. Reaching the bed without stumbling comes as a surprise. The need for my protective measures intensifies. Wrapping myself in the blanket, I shove my phone in a drawer, close it, and snuggle into my cocoon.
I’m sureheread that article. He had to. Snickering at how dumb they made me sound; livid at how easily he got exposed…pleasured that his ‘love’ was publicized for everyone to see and know. For everyone to know him as my lover at some point in my life. Bile burns my throat, and I have difficulty swallowing it back down. My eyes close tightly.
An article can't be the reason for me to shut down completely. This is a situation I've experienced too often. He is here in New York.
This time, I'm not entirely on my own; that has to count for something. It isn’t only him and I. It's him against everyone who knows my name. No matter the varying opinions.
Seeking comfort, I bury myself deeper into the blanket.
Tomorrow, I'll need to inquire with Evan about melatonin. Sadly, I won’t be sleeping tonight either.
Chapter eleven
Fragrance of Fear
Ifinallyfallasleepduring the early morning hours, and Evan is already gone when I awake around noon.
A new outfit sits by the foot of my bed.
“Did he see me sleeping?” Embarrassing. But I shake off the weak haze of sleepiness, shower, and get changed into a fresh set of clothes. A white T-shirt and black sweatpants. It's comfortable though big, like the other clothes he let me borrow.
Yet, these smell less like detergent and more like him—that familiar aftershave.
I want to bring the scented cloth to my nose, but my fingers let it fall back over my frame.
Stop that.
“Yeah, I should get started on painting."
The balcony is my first choice. There was no way I’d risk splattering Evan’s floors with paint. I grimace, remembering my old apartment's colorful, textured floorboards. Then again, dirtying his balcony isn’t exactly a better option. I search for something to protect the smooth concrete and settle on taping some trash bags together.
“Good enough,” I express, staring down at the square I Frankenstein-ed together. If it works, it works.
I set it up as usual. But it isn’t as expected. Not withhimlooking up at me from the streets. I know he's scheming some plan to get past the police, the guards, the doors. I know that he’ll figure out how.
At least I have some work to focus on—painting Evan Blackburn.
I try not to let my nerves get the best of me. Everything I hoped wouldn’t happen happened. And I hope thathewon’t find a way in.
On the other hand, I am living in Evan’s penthouse. I feel guilty, finding this turnout almost worth the turmoil I had to endure. I was so lonely. I would’ve taken anyone who wasn’t that disgusting monster, and this is a better outcome than I ever could’ve imagined. If I was tormented either way, I might as well take whatever positivity I can with it.
A billionaire. It's ridiculous to think about. I'm trapped high up on a balcony, painting. All I'm missing is long, blonde hair.
Painting Evan isn’t nearly as daunting as before.
I begin with a classic portrait, something easy. He's already stuck in my mind, so I sketch him onto my canvas, enjoying the fresher New York air up on the balcony. After my ass starts to hurt from a few hours of sitting, I need to busy my mind with something else. Cleaning isn’t something I often do.
It's embarrassing to admit, but cleaning is a productive distraction as a last-minute guest in Evan’s home. Not that there's much to clean. Everything is already spic and span, but it smells more fragrant after mopping with a lavender-scented cleaning product. I stop in front of his bedroom door. I shouldn’t go in there and won’t. I'm just curious.
“Keep moving,” I verbalize aloud for my feet to unstick from the floor.
Evan left another plate of food for me. It was a breakfast sandwich with homemade biscuits hugging eggs, avocado, and whatever else. It was still untouched past noon.
“Wow,” I mouth, lugging out the heavy plate. “He can bake, too?” What can’t he do?
I feel terrible for still not craving the appetizing meal, but I sit down and force a couple of bites down my gullet to keep myself alive and receive a sense of accomplishment as I manage to clear the plate. I wash it, then return to another room.
Muffled dings from the drawer I trapped my phone in ring much too frequently. I turn it off, but that doesn’t stop my mind from filling in the silence with the false sound of notification alerts. I know they are piling up—hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of comments about me. I don’t know how I keep myself from checking them. I managed to resist.
