I Know What Love Is (11 page)

It was the middle of the day and the bar was empty. The blond bartender glanced up at me, a smile on her face.

“You need a drink, big man?” she asked, her eyes bright. She was pretty, but she was nothing compared with my Daisy. My girl was everything. She was all I saw. Stupid me, I still thought I had a chance of finding her. I nodded at the bartender and took a seat at the end of the bar, my eyes darting to the door, as if my girl was going to come walking in.

I drummed my fingers on the oak slab as the blonde sidled up to me. “Whiskey. Straight,” I grumbled, not bothering with niceties. She nodded, her smile fading a bit, as if she sensed I was like a powder keg, about to explode. She poured the drink and slid it to me, then made her way to the opposite end, keeping her distance. I didn't blame her. I wasn't exactly good company.

I rolled the glass between my palms, staring down at the amber liquid, trying to form a plan. She lived close to The Mermaid, I knew that much. I figured she'd been walking home when I snatched her. I could feel her. She was close. I darted a look at the dark hallway in the back, where I'd backed her up against the wall. I could almost feel her breath on my face and her lips on mine. I stood, almost like a zombie, and walked toward the back hallway.

The darkness was calling my name, in her voice. I could hear her whisper in my ear. As I ran my hand over the wood panelling on the wall, I could hear her moan. I pressed my forehead to the cool wood, telling myself that I was going to find her. I was going to find her and make her suffer for the shit she was putting me through.

Then I was going to make her love me.

The ladies' bathroom was empty when I walked in and flooded with light from the single window. I went to the sink, my eyes searching. I didn't know what I was looking for until I found it. A long black hair, curled on the tile floor below. It was hers and to me, it was proof. Proof that what we had was real. It had happened.

I wasn't ready to give up.

I don't think I'll ever be ready to give it up.

Two cops were standing by the bar when I returned to my drink. The Mexican one glanced my way, then turned his gaze back to the blonde bartender. I sat on my stool, eyes on my drink, but my ears open. My gut told me that the cops had something to do with Daisy, somehow.

“
So when was the last time you saw Joan?”

“
Jo? A few hours ago,” the blond said.

“
Her mother said she couldn't get ahold of her all weekend. Called in a missing person's report.”

“
She left her purse here, right under the counter. Probably had her phone in it,” the blond continued. “She said she'd been with a friend all weekend.”

“
You got a name for this friend?” one of the cops asked. I shifted my eyes to watch the exchange, not able to resist. The big one with the crewcut leaned closer to the bar, his eyes on the blond's tits.

“
I don't know. She didn't mention that,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “It was a guy, though.”

“
Well that's all she wrote,” Crewcut scoffed and glanced back at his Mexican partner. The Mexican shot a look my way and I didn't bother looking to drop my eyes.

“
She was real banged up, though,” the blonde said, snapping her gum. “Looked like she'd been beat up. Said she was in a bike accident.” A shiver of recognition went through me. They were talking about my girl, I realized. I tried not to let the shock show on my face, but I don't know how successful I was.

“
Hmm,” the Mexican cop murmured, his eyes still on me.

“
Are you going to go over and check up on her?” Blondie asked, her voice lower, like she didn't want me to hear.

“
We already stopped by her place and she wasn't there,” the Mexican said. “If you hear from her again, you let us know.” He pulled his eyes off of me and slid his card across the bar. The blond took it and nodded.

“
Don't be shy, now,” Crewcut said, still leering. I turned away and tossed back my whiskey, trying to process the new information. My eyes caught my own in the huge mirror behind the bar. I looked haunted. I could see the rage under my skin, like a dark sickness. I watched the cops exit behind me, the bright sunlight slicing through the room when they opened the door. As it closed behind them, I pulled out my wallet and tossed a few bills on the oak bar.

It was then that I noticed the pictures.

Polaroids were taped along the bottom of the mirror. There were pictures of the blonde bartender with the name 'Chels' written on it in black marker. There were pictures of other bartenders, a few I recognized. I stood and leaned closer.

“
Stupid cops,” the blonde murmured. Then she stepped around the bar and went to the door, watching the cops as they left. “They don't give a shit about her.”

I looked from picture to picture, my eyes scouring every face. I knew she would be there, and sure enough, I finally found her. In a picture taped to the bottom right corner of the mirror, my girl smiled back at me, her bright eyes flashing and her hair dark around her face. She had her arm around the blonde and she wore red devil horns on her head. At the bottom of the picture 'Jo and Chels, Halloween' was scrawled in black.

She'd lied to me.

Her name was Joan.

It was like the clouds opened up and the rain poured right on my fucking head. I hopped the bar and grabbed the picture off the mirror without another thought.

“
Hey!” the bartender yelled behind me. “What are you doing?”

“
Taking a souvenir,” I murmured, tucking the picture in my back pocket.

Chapter Nine

T
wo years.

Two long years.

I hadn't seen Elliot, in the flesh, for two years, although I'd seen flashes of him everywhere I went. He was lingering at the end of the block when I drove to the grocery store. He was sitting in the corner at the coffee shop. He was in the shadows beneath my window at night. He was always there, always at the edge of my subconscious.

I left Austin the day I escaped, packed my clothes and left everything else. I threw my bags in my car and was gone within the hour. I retreated to the safety of my parents house in Dallas and I didn't speak about Austin.

Ever.

When I showed up on my parents' doorstep, looking like hell, there had been questions, of course. I told them that I'd been in a bike accident and then went upstairs to my childhood bedroom and slept for a week. When I finally emerged from my hibernation, my body was healed and I went on with life like I'd never met Elliot. I got reacquainted with a boy I went to high school with and we began date. It got serious quickly and, before I knew it, we were engaged. For awhile, it was like I was completely normal again. And yet, I wasn't. I never would be again.

A year passed, uneventfully, and I let myself relax a bit. I told myself that the more time that passed, the less likely it was that he would find me. Unfortunately, a nagging need to find
him
had started pounding in my brain. In the middle of the night, I would get this crazy urge to know exactly where he was and what he was doing.  In my mind, I went over the road map of Austin, trying to remember exactly where his house was. For some reason, I lost all sense of direction the second I got on the city bus. Then I transferred to another bus and my wrecked brain couldn't keep up.

At the time, I didn't care if I knew where he lived. I just wanted to get away.

So I began taking trips to Austin, every few months so it wouldn't seem too suspicious. I would drive around, trying to find his subdivision. I would drive around for hours, looking, but I never found it. It was for the best, I told myself one night after a failed attempt. I knew I was becoming obsessed with finding Elliot. I knew it was unhealthy.

But I couldn't stop.

The next time I drove to Austin, I started looking for construction sites. When I found one, I would park across the street and study at every face. I would memorize every burly man in a dusty hard hat, looking for him. I knew he worked construction, or at least he had when he'd kidnapped me. The day he left me hanging in his garage, he'd had a hard hat in his hand as he left for work. That's really the only thing I knew about him for sure, other than his first name.

What was I going to do when I found him? I had no idea. The plan was not well thought out. It was just my way of doing
something
. No one knew what happened to me. No one knew that Elliot had gotten away with everything he'd done to me. I didn't want him to get away it. I wanted him to suffer.

It was crazy, and I knew it. But I couldn't stop myself.

This was when I made my second mistake.

On a bright and sunny April day, I finally found him. After years of seeing him everywhere, he was suddenly right in front of me. Well, across the street, but it was still too close for comfort. My body clenched up immediately, my fingers gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles went white. For a long time, I couldn't move. I could only watch him.

He still seemed the same. He still
moved
the same. He was just as dangerous as ever, his body as lethal as I remembered. His face was still chiseled and ruggedly handsome, but the mask had lost a little of its luster. He no longer looked like a normal, everyday Joe. There was something dark and twisted lurking under his skin, just itching to get out. The other guys kept their distance and he kept his distance from them. He didn't smile and he didn't joke around.

He looked like a ticking time bomb.

I should have driven off. I should have never been there in the first place. But I didn't move. I just sat there, like a sitting duck. I watched him for at least an hour, until he strolled away from the site, his white T-shirt stained brown with dust. He headed across the street toward me and my muscles sparked to life. I started the car and peeled away from the curb. My foot was heavy, and I put the pedal to the metal as I sped past him. He stopped in the middle of the street to let me pass and I couldn't stop myself from glancing out the window at his white shirt, bright in the sunlight.

Then I took a quick right and drove as fast as I could, wanting to get as far away as possible. Sweat dotted my brow and my heart was racing as I got back on the highway toward Dallas. I was sure he hadn't seen me. Even if he did, I would be far away and untouchable. The whole car ride back, I told myself I was never going to return to Austin. I told myself that it was all over and that I had to stop obsessing. I told myself it would all be okay and that I would be fine.

Looking back, all the shit that happened after that sunny spring day in Austin was completely my fault.

I can admit it
—I was a fool.

Because of my foolishness that day, I will always have blood on my hands. There's nothing I can do about it.

After all these years, I've finally given up on trying to get clean.

*****

I drove home to Austin without incident, thinking I'd dodged a bullet.

I didn't realize how much I'd fucked up until about three weeks later.

As I stood on the porch and waved good-bye as my parents' BMW slowly drove down the driveway, I felt a wave of unease wash over me. The gate closed automatically behind them and I dropped my hand to my side, my smile fading. The sky was cloudless and sunny. The day was beautiful and warm. I should have felt peaceful and relaxed. My parents were going away for the weekend, so I invited my fiancé over for a romantic date. I should have felt excited that Trace was coming over. I had a big night planned for him. I had a three course meal to make and a pretty sundress to slip on. I was going to put on my face and do up my hair. I was going to look real pretty for him. I was going to smile and laugh and be his fiancée. I was going to be normal.

Being normal was exhausting.

I stood longer than I should have on the porch, looking down the expanse of our manicured green lawn. Our house stood on an acre of property at the end of a cul de sac in an old-wealth neighborhood. I could see our neighbors' mansions across the way, nothing out of the ordinary. The street was empty of cars. I didn't know why I felt a shiver of anticipation run down my spine, like a fingertip. Running my tongue over the roof of my mouth, I swept my eyes across the perfect grass once more, then forced myself to go back into the house. I locked the door behind me and punched in the alarm code, like I always did.

In my mother's professionally designed kitchen, I arranged a whole chicken in the roasting pan, stuffing the cavity with lemon wedges, thyme, and garlic cloves. I shoved it into the oven at 350 and made my way upstairs to shower. The house was silent and still, more so than usual. I froze in the hallway, my ears perking up. I listened to the air in the house for a full moment, then continued into my bedroom. I had many rituals like this. I would often stop and listen. I would glance out windows looking for intruders. I always checked my closet and under my bed before I lay down to sleep at night. It was ridiculous, but such was life.

I undressed in my bedroom and then padded into my en suite bathroom. I opened the glass shower door and turned on the water, staring off at nothing while I held my hand under the spray, waiting for it to turn hot. Before stepping into the shower, I returned to the hallway and listened; it was still quiet. The smell of cooking lemons and garlic had already started seeping through the house. Satisfied I was still alone, I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I flicked the lock on the knob as well as the deadbolt I'd installed before I stepped into the shower.