J.M. Darhower
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2014 by Jessica Mae Darhower
All rights reserved.
To anyone who has ever believed they found their Prince Charming, only to realize he wasn't the hero you thought he'd be.
This is for you.
A single finger slowly traces the curvature of my spine, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. Despite my best attempt at pretending to be asleep, I tremble at the feather-light touch, unable to contain my reaction.
My breath hitches.
Why must he do this to me?
I hate myself for it, almost as much as I hate him. And I hate him... boy, do I hate him. I've never hated something or someone so much in my life before. I hate his hair, his smile, his eyes. I hate the words he says to me and the raspy tone of his voice. I hate the things he does, the man he is. I hate the way he treats me, the way he affects me, the way his hands inflict the worst kind of pain before somehow igniting a fire within me. It burns deep, raw passion and desire mixing with the purest agony.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I fucking hate it.
Once he reaches the small of my back, his finger pauses, before tracing a line along the waistband of my panties. I can feel my body coming alive, heating, like he's expertly kindling a fire, one only he knows how to stroke.
I want to douse myself in gasoline and set myself ablaze, melting away in the flames just to escape these feelings, but I know it's useless. Even as a pile of ashes, I'd never get away. He's a force of nature. The wind would carry me right back to him.
The air feels thick, like it's filled with the blackest smoke, or maybe my lungs are just too stiff, strained along with every muscle in my body. I want to scream. I want to pull away.
I want to run away.
But I don't, because I know he'll just catch me if I do.
He did it before.
He'll do it again.
I keep my eyes closed as his finger trails up my spine again, willing myself not to feel it. It doesn't exist, I tell myself. I'm asleep. He's asleep. This is nothing more than a dream. Or is it a nightmare?
He's not really touching me.
Except he is... I know he is. Every traitorous cell inside my body is coming alive from that touch, every nerve ending sparking like live wires. If this isn't real, nothing is.
I almost wonder if that would be preferable.
His finger reaches the nape of my neck and once again pauses, this time for longer. Five, ten, fifteen... I count the seconds in my head, waiting for his next move, trying to think ahead, as if this is a game of chess and I can plan a counter-attack.
It's pointless, even wondering. He's already captured my king. Checkmate.
Once more, his finger follows the path of my spine, making it halfway down before deviating. It explores the rest of my back, going every which way, making shapes and forming patterns along my warm skin like I'm a living canvas and he's an artist.
Despite myself, curiosity gets the best of me, and I wonder what he's drawing. It feels random, nonsensical, but I know this man. Everything he does is for a reason. There's always method to his madness, meaning behind every word, a point to his actions.
And it's usually never good.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to make sense of the movement of his finger, as it seems to dance along my back. Is he drawing me a pretty picture of a life he once promised, trying to make the lies seep through my skin? Could he be writing a love letter, swearing to do better?
Or maybe it's more like a ransom note.
I wish he would draw a rope so I could pull it from my flesh and hang him with it. I'm sure he deserves it.
I pick up on the pattern eventually, noticing his finger following the same continual trail, looping and curving. I envision it as he does it, realizing after a moment that he's spelling out a lone word in cursive.
Vitale.
His full name is Ignazio Vitale, although once, not so long ago, he urged me to call him Naz. And it was Naz who charmed me, who won me over and made me melt. It wasn't until later that I got to know the true Ignazio, and by the time I met Vitale, it was far too late to just walk away.
If I ever even could've…
"Ugh, that's it." A book slams closed across from me, so hard the entire table shakes. "I can't take it anymore. I quit."
I don't look up, my eyes scanning a section of text, only vaguely absorbing the words. I've skimmed through it a dozen times, the book glued to my side the past few days, like maybe the information will sink in through osmosis.
"This is just way too complicated," the voice continues, interrupting what little focus I'm struggling to keep. "Half of it doesn't even make sense."
I flip the page in my book as I mumble, "Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple."
"Who said that? Pluto? I'm telling you, Karissa, that shit's not even in my book!"
Those words draw my attention away from my work. I glance across the little round table at my friend, Melody Carmichael, as she rocks the wooden chair back on its hind legs in frustration. "It's Plato, not Pluto."
She waves me off, making an, 'oh, who really fucking cares' face. "What's the difference?"
"One's a philosopher, the other's a cartoon dog."
If she can't keep that straight, she's screwed come test time in, say, oh... thirty minutes.
"Yeah, well, I'm inclined to believe the damn dog makes more sense than the old planet-y bastard," she says, shifting through her thick stack of notes. Philosophy, our last class of the day, our last mid-term as freshmen at NYU, and she's reached her breaking point. Typical.
"I mean, listen to this shit," she says, reading from her notes. "Many men are loved by their enemies, and hated by their friends, and are friends to their enemies, and enemies to their friends. Like... what does that even mean?"
I shrug. "Means people are people, I guess."
My gaze goes back to my book, my eyes scanning the text again.
"And it wasn't Plato, by the way," I say, answering her earlier question. "It was Dr. Seuss."
"Seriously?" she asks. "You're quoting Dr. Seuss now?"
"He was sort of a philosopher himself," I say. "Most of his work dealt with logic and reason, society and human nature. You can learn a lot from his books."
"Yeah, well, I prefer a different philosophical doctor," she counters, dropping her chair back onto all fours, the loud thump echoing through the small cafe. "I think Dre put it best when he said bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks."
Her dead serious tone makes me laugh. "And here I thought you worshipped at the altar of Tupac Shakur."
"Now that man put Pluto to shame," she says. I refrain from correcting her this time, not sure if she really can't recall which is which or if she's just being a smartass at this point. "A coward dies a thousand deaths... a soldier dies but once. That's deep."
"That's Shakespeare," I point out. "Straight out of Julius Caesar."
"No way."
"Yes way."
Melody's eyes shoot daggers at me as she exaggeratedly reopens her book. Despite declaring she'd quit, she goes back to work, doing some last minute cramming. She's damn close to failing philosophy and needs to do decent on the mid-term to bring up her grade. Anything less than a C and she's skipping down the path of probation, straight toward suspension.
Me? While I may not be in danger of failing, per se, my scholarship is a different story. Not all of us c
ome from the loins of wealthy Wall Street bankers like Melody and can afford to piss around. My mother's in no position to help me, seeing how I'm not sure how she's surviving as it is. And my father, well…
Not all of us have one of those.
If my GPA dips any lower, I'm on my own. And if I'm on my own, I'm fucked six ways to Sunday. Something tells me NYU won't take an IOU as tuition payment.
"Whose bright idea was it to take this class, anyway?" Melody mutters, dramatically flipping through pages.
"Yours," I reply. "You said it would be easy."
"It's supposed to be easy," she argues. "It's philosophy. It's like, opinions; there are no wrong answers when it's someone's opinion, right? I mean, it's supposed to be rational and logical, things that makes sense, not this existential science-y bullshit."
"Ah, it's not so bad."
Truthfully, I like philosophy, all bullshit aside. If it weren't for our professor, I might even love it.
"Not so bad? It's way too much thinking."
Rolling my eyes, I close my textbook and sit back in my chair. The words are all bleeding together into a sea of nothingness, bogging up my thoughts and weighing down the stuff I do remember.
I glance around the cafe, trying to clear my mind as I pick up my chocolate mint tea. It's still warm, despite it having sat here for over an hour, ignored.
"Only you, Karissa," Melody says, shaking her head. "We get a freak seventy degree day in March and you still order hot chocolate and wear a goddamn scarf."
Shrugging, I take a sip of my drink, savoring the rich creamy chocolate flavor. I blend in usually, with my normal getup of skinny jeans and sweaters and tall boots. It's not my fault we get one warm day and everyone else acts like it's summertime in the Caribbean.
Melody's personal plan seems to be to see how little she can wear without getting nailed for public indecency. She's currently toeing the line with some tiny shorts and a crop top. I feel obscene just looking at her.
"What's wrong with my scarf?" I ask, reaching up and running my hand along the soft material. It's my favorite.
"It's all pink and stripe-y and scarf-y." She waves my way dismissively as she grimaces. "Pretty sure it's what Aristotle was talking about when he said 'how awful the truth is when there's no helping it' because there's definitely no helping that scarf."
I burst out laughing, so loud it disrupts the people trying to work near us. I cast them apologetic looks as I correct Melody. "Sophocles said that."
Or something close to it, anyway. How dreadful knowledge of the truth can be when there's no help in truth...
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
Melody groans, slamming her book closed for the second time and throwing her hands up. "I'm going to fail this damn test."
Sixteen multiple-choice questions, five short answer problems, and a two-page essay, all within an hour.
I'm in Hell.
Figuratively, of course, although it feels quite literal every time I look up from my exam to the front of the room, my eyes drifting to the sign hanging above the old school chalkboard.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
It's a quote from Dante Alighieri, the inscription found at the gates of Hell in The Divine Comedy. Professor Santino clearly thinks it's funny, but it confirms my suspicions...
The man is Satan.
I bullshit my way through the essay and finish a few minutes before time is up. I turn my exam over, leaving it on the desk, and slouch down in my chair. Santino has a 'keep your asses in your seat until everyone's finished' policy, like we're kindergartners learning to follow rules for the first time.
Moving slowly so I won't be noticed, I reach into the front pocket of my backpack and pull out my cell phone. Concealing it in my lap, I find some mindless game to pass the rest of the time. No sooner I get it open, the gruff, stern voice echoes through the room, startlingly loud after hearing nothing but woeful sighs for the last forty-five minutes.
"Reed."
At first I think Santino is commanding us to read something when I glance up and meet his beady brown eyes, peering at me through a pair of thick glasses. Despite me sitting in the back row of a class with nearly a hundred students, I realize he's talking directly to me—Karissa Reed.
Oh shit. "Sir?"
"Put it away now," he warns, "before I take it."
He doesn't have to tell me twice. I instantly let go, the phone slipping from my hands and dropping toward my backpack without me breaking eye contact. He nods stiffly, satisfied with my compliance, and looks away to call an end to the exam.
As soon as the papers are collected I jump up, grabbing my bag and jetting for the closest exit.
Melody's waiting by the hall, her expression vacant, like there's nothing left inside of her to offer. It amazes me, how the pursuit of wisdom tends to turn people into shells of their former selves.
"How'd you do?" I ask.
"I made out about as well as Dante did with Bernadette."
"Beatrice."
She waves my way. "Well, there's your answer."
We shuffle out of the building and into the bright Manhattan afternoon. Melody's expression shifts once we're outside, the shell-shocked look fading as she puts it behind her.
I admire her ability to brush everything off.
Tilting her head back, she closes her eyes and smiles, bathing in the warm sunlight. "I need a drink. We going to Timbers tonight?"
I scrunch up my nose. Melody reopens her eyes, catching my expression.
"Oh, come on!" she says. "It's gonna be bitchin'."
"Like, totally," I mock. "Gag me with a spoon."
Melody laughs, elbowing me. "I'm serious, we have to go."
"Why?"
"Because it's eighties night!"
"So? You weren't even born then."
"All the more reason to go."
Ignoring her, I pull my bag off my back. I look through it, shifting books out of the way as I seek out my cell phone to give my mother a call to check on her. She wanted me to visit this weekend, but I'm in no mood to take the long trip… not to mention the lack of money for bus fare. I unzip the little pockets, searching, my stomach sinking when I don't find my phone anywhere. "Shit… shit… shit…"
"What's wrong?" Melody asks, pausing when I stop, dropping the backpack to the sidewalk to root around for it. "Lose something?"
"My phone." I groan. "Santino yelled at me for using it so I dropped it in my bag, but it's not here."
"It didn't fall out, did it?" Melody asks, looking behind us, down the block toward the building. "Maybe you left it in the classroom."
"Maybe," I say, zipping my bag back up and slinging it over my shoulder. "I'm going to go look for it. I'll meet you back at the room."
I'm off before she can even respond, taking the same path we took. I keep my eyes peeled to the ground in case it fell out during the walk. I slip back into the building, navigating the hallways on my way to the classroom. I approach, about to walk right into the room, when Santino's voice rings out inside. "I know what you're here for."
Brow furrowing, I step into the doorway, words on the tip of my tongue. He has my phone? He's sitting at his desk, the stack of midterms piled up around him, pen in his hand as he stares down at some unlucky bastard's paper, assaulting it with red ink. Please don't be my test.
I start to speak, the words 'my phone' slipping from my lips when another voice cuts through the classroom. "Good, because I'm in no mood to have my time wasted."
The voice is all male, deep and raspy, the kind that commands attention, each and every syllable oozing coolness. I immediately silence, my gaze sweeping through the classroom, seeking out the source. A man lurks near the corner at the back, not far from the only other entrance. Everything about him matches the huskiness of his voice—tall, broad shoulders, not bulky but undoubtedly solid, like the thick, sturdy trunk of a gorgeous redwood tree, a black suit perfectly hugging his frame. Although formidable, there'
s a sort of ease to his stance. He doesn't just sound confident.
He knows he's in control.
I take a step away, slinking back into the hallway when the man's calculated footsteps start through the classroom, toward where Santino sits. I consider leaving, maybe coming back later, not wanting to interrupt whatever this is, but man… I really need my phone.
And damn if curiosity doesn't have the best of me. What does this man want?
"I don't have it," Santino says, his voice casual, like the intimidating man doesn't at all affect him. "I haven't gotten my hands on it yet."
"That's not the answer I wanted to hear."
Before Santino can respond, a soft buzzing resonates through the quiet room, vibrating the floor. My gaze darts that way, spotting my phone under the desk I sat in to take my exam. Relief washes through me at the sight of it, replaced quickly by a swell of anxiety. The man turns his head toward the sound, giving me a brief glimpse of his profile. He seems to pause that way for a moment, listening to my phone buzzing, before turning around completely to face the doorway.
To face me.
I dart out of sight, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping.
Strained silence passes until my phone stops buzzing, whoever it is hanging up.
"I'll be back for it," the man says after a moment.
"I know." Santino's voice is so quiet I can hardly hear it. "I know you will."
Footsteps start through the room again, heading my way. Panicked, I turn, trying to tread lightly as I bolt down the long hallway, turning the corner and pausing. Contemplating, I hunch against the wall, bending down to absently shift through my backpack, pretending to be occupied with something. I hear him as he makes his way down the hall toward me, toward the front doors, my heart thumping hard in my chest at the sound of his calculated footsteps.
He leisurely rounds the corner near me. My eyes shift that way, staring at his shiny black dress shoes, my stomach sinking when they slow before coming to a dead stop right in front of me.
"Yours?"
I glance up, catching a glimpse of his face for the first time. Holy fuck me, it's not what I expected, yet it's everything I ever anticipated from someone so striking. He's older—thirty, at least, maybe pushing forty—but his skin has a youthful glow. There's a dusting of hair along his jaw like he hasn't bothered to shave in a few days. His brown hair isn't short, but it isn't long either, a tangle of wayward curl pushed back on his head. He either spent a long time perfecting it, or he rolled right out of bed that way.