The Stranger I Know (Dark Romance) (13 page)

I'm flushed and my face is only burning more by the minute. His eyes, combined with his words overpower any shame I can feel.

"At least," he continues. "I used to think all of those things. But you called me. You brought me to the same bar I dragged you to. You barely looked at me before sitting down. That flare inside you is gone."

I'm silent. I press harder against my lap. A hand slips between my thighs. Tell me... James... how fucking bad I am. How much of a disappointment I am. How disgusted you are with me. How you'd rather smell burnt flesh over my perfume. "I don't know what happened to it," he says as he gazes at the recognizable handful of customers. "But it's gone." He takes a drink of his gin, I've smelt it by now. Like a forest. "You don't need to beg for me to stop, Marcy. You bringing me here and barely saying a thing. Your silence is enough. You're someone who likes it rough. A whore who takes it as she's told, however that is, and not one that takes the reins into her own hands. One that just walks away from anything that scares her. That genuinely scares her. Not petty things like the post office fucking up your mail."

Where is this all coming from? His eyes are fixed on a distant wall. His voice is dark and full of acrid smoke, his words like teargas. I squeeze my eyes shut to fight him away, make him disappear, but it's useless. What's happened to me?

"There's no more need for you to meet with me. I'm going to be in talks with your boss all week to finalize the deal. We'll figure something out that's mutually acceptable. I just thought I'd humor you — I thought you could handle some pressure — but you can't."

He finishes his drink and stands up. He slams the glass on the table before staring down at me. I glance up and hope tears haven't welled in my eyes. I haven't cried in years.

He won't move. Like he's waiting for something. Some kind of reaction. I keep my face fixed in stone, I can't give him that satisfaction, even if he already has it.

"See you later, Marcy, it was fun."

He leaves the table and walks out of the bar. I catch his outline walking past the darkened window.

I'm still sitting. My hands still crumpled in my lap like torn napkins. He's right. I did cower when Stacie confronted me. He was saying it like he knew. I didn't fight when I first met him.

But I am not weak.

I stand up in a hurry and sling my purse over my shoulder. I rush to the door and slam into it. The pressure from the heater inside forces me out the door in an instant and into the bright light; reflected by all the snow and only darkened by wet asphalt.

He's turning the corner at the intersection. I run after him, my heels threatening to buckle or slip with every step. I'm practiced. The signal changes and he starts crossing the road.

I'm right behind him. Can't he hear my heels? I keep going, past the sidewalk and into the road. He's just beyond on the other side.

"James!" I yell. My voice is hoarse from the cold and running. My pace slows and I walk around a car that had parked in the crosswalk. He stops and lifts his head up, before turning on his heel and facing me. I can't read his expression from here.

I step out of the crosswalk and catch up to him. His eyes follow me, but he says nothing.

"You're wrong."

"About what? You begging?"

"No, about my cowardice. You're just fucking with me. You probably spill that kind of speech to every woman you meet."

"Well?" He's standing close to me. Or am I standing close to him? He was stopped when I approached. Through the cold and my deep breathing, I can smell his scent. His black suit perfectly fitting him. His strong jaw and dark eyes. My breath catches in my throat for a moment and our eyes lock.

He leans down and kisses me.

I'm shocked. Before I can push him away, his hand slides up my arm and cups the side of my face. I lean into him, embracing his warm lips against my chilled ones. I exhale and inhale between each kiss, but he draws them out. I feel limp. I feel soft, like butter.

Isn't this what my dream was like? When he was there? All the images that kept pushing themselves to the front of my mind?

His thumb strokes my cold cheek. I clutch the front of his suit to hold myself up, his head only tilted enough to kiss me. I let out a small sigh as we release from our embrace.

But... The Stranger.

Does it matter?

"So you aren't a failure after all, Marcy Stone."

My face burns from the cold and his touch, but I feel it thaw a little. "I don't beg either."

He chuckles a little and walks away. He raises his hand as if to say good-bye.

I'm left standing on the salted sidewalk. The snow piling up in my pulled back hair. The water melting on my face. My heels dirtied. My heart confused.

What the hell just happened?

***

H
as James always felt that way about me? The way he cradled my head and made me almost want to lift a leg up... was intoxicating.

Maybe I don't need the Stranger after all.

***

A
s soon as I walk back into my office, Gwen gives me a look that says, 'what are you doing here?' I forgot that I told her I would be taking the rest of the day off, I was completely lost in my thoughts the entire way back. Autopilot mode, really.

Michael is standing near my office door and his posture is not friendly. He's frowning, his arms crossed and his legs standing shoulder width apart. Almost like he's puffing his chest out.

"Marcy? Come with me."

It isn't a question, but a command. He turns without acknowledging if I heard him and heads toward his office. I hurry to catch up to him and barely slip past his large frame as he closes his office door behind us.

Asking him anything at this point might set him off. I look around his office to try and gauge what's happening, but I feel like I already know. He gestures for me to come closer to him. He goes around his desk and plants his fingers on a folded manilla envelope, before pushing it across the desk in a slow, steady fashion. Some corners of the pages inside are peeking out. Stacie.

"I received this envelope today, Ms. Stone, and a letter with it that suggests the woman in the photos looks just like you. I'd have to agree." He lifts up the envelope and pulls a couple of photos out. Copies printed on a color printer. Not even photo paper.

They are the pictures Stacie showed me last night. There's the masked man between my hips, and my face, upside down, moaning toward the window. Blindfolded and unaware of the voyeur we had attracted.

My face burns red but I frown despite the obvious flush of my cheeks. "And?"

"And for someone such as yourself, this concerns me greatly," Michael says. "I can't have people thinking one of our executives is a whore."

"Who said it is me? A random letter? You're going to believe that?"

He frowns. "They have proof. They said they would release the proof if I asked. I honestly don't need any. I've been needing an excuse to get rid of you." He grins and I notice that his hand is grabbing his crotch. "Unless you want to try and set up some kind of arrangement?"

A question? He is actually
asking
me if I want to fuck him to keep my job? The barefaced shamelessness of it aside, the question is weak. You don't need to ask if you know what you're doing. The Stranger never asked. James didn't ask to kiss me.

Did he forget what happened last time he tried to do this? The tape I have shoved in my desk? Is he really this dense? I feel fire when I breathe, the flames licking the inside of my throat with every heave of my chest. I'm not hyperventilating, but someone will be soon.

"Are you so fucking stupid a donkey could do your job, Michael? Did you forget the conversation we had in my office only a couple days ago? Not to mention when I tore into you in the conference room." He's stiff as a board.

I slam my hand down on his desk and peel the envelope toward my side. His expression has transformed from smug satisfaction to horrified shame. He stammers, the weakling he is, "S-s-Stop, Marcy, please." He tries to reach out to grab my wrist but I flick it away. I shove the manilla folder between my arm and chest to keep it secure.

"Don't you fucking dare to try and touch me." I glare at him for a few moments to let the words penetrate his thick skull.

I turn and try to leave his office, but only after finding the door was locked after we came in. I sigh in disgust and unlock it before pulling on the handle.

Before I step into the hallway, I turn my head toward the threshold, just to make sure Michael can hear me. I don't look at him. "Stacie. I want her gone by the time I come in tomorrow. If she isn't, I'll make sure it's hell to work here." I see him nod a little, but I don't think he gets it. "Even if you fire me or make me quit, there are way worse things I can do. If Capital Inc thinks they're buying us, then maybe they are? Maybe for almost no money at all? Think about that. Also, it's illegal to spy on people. Idiot."

I step into the hallway and let the door slam behind me. I don't know why I couldn't think of all that when Stacie bumped into me in the parking lot. I was too overwhelmed. I just wanted her gone.

***

I
n my office I squat down and turn my paper shredder on. Sure, these aren't legal documents, but they'll get diced just as easily. I shove the entire envelope into the machine, which chokes and jams. I give it a little encouragement by pushing on the top of the folder, creasing it to give myself leverage. After a few shudders, the shears make short work of the envelope and pictures inside it.

I stand up and snatch my phone off the desk. I still have the rush of adrenaline coursing through me, and I don't question my actions. Even as I watch my fingers dial the numbers.

"James Pierce," his voice affirms when he answers the line. I breathe deep.

Why didn't I call the Stranger? He's who I usually turn to when I'm stressed like this. I'm also not calling him every day of the week like this past one. And after last time... I don't know if it would even work.

"Where are you?" I ask. I can hear him shift around on the other side of the line. The sound of fabric rubbing the other end, and his voice is muffled as he talks to someone.

He holds the phone up again. "Marcy. I had a feeling it was you."

I'm hesitant. My cheeks are hot against the receiver's cheap plastic. His kiss was so surprising. How else can he surprise me?

"Where are you?" I repeat, my voice cracking a little. I clear my throat. I'm never like this. I feel... like I'm begging.

"At work. Why?"

"I need to meet with you."

"About business?"

"No."

He hums a little and I hear his chair creak as he leans back in it. It's a familiar sound. I'm hunched over my desk like I'm hiding a secret, and he's just relaxing in his office. Fuck, the sun is probably out on his side of town, too. That'd be my luck.

"I'm at work, too," I say.

He chuckles, his voice reverberating through the line and into my bones.

"Where do you want to be?" he says

I bite my tongue. Do I really want to say 'with you?' It sounds so idiotic in my head, but my pounding heart demands it. I almost feel lightheaded.

"I'm going to lose my job."

"Oh? I'm about to head home," he says. "I can give you my address."

He wants me to come visit him. I write down the address as he recites it and he asks me to wait about thirty minutes before leaving. He doesn't really ask me, but commands me. Without a thought, I agree and hang up the phone.

My hands are shaking. I clutch my desk. The blinds facing the interior are closed. My office is dark and cold.

James Pierce just invited me over.

I kind of asked.

O
n my way to his house, I can't help but wonder if this is the right decision. It feels like I'm being invited to enter a lion's cage, and I don't know if I'm a meal or not. I reach his house on the outskirts of the city, past the suburbs, where there's more land than sense.

His driveway is long and covered in a soft dusting of snow. Despite the blanket, it's easy to see that the shrubs and grass are well groomed.

Is his commute really 20 minutes both ways each day? I can't imagine that. As I stop my car and shut it off, it rolls before settling against the parking brake. I drop my hands in my lap and stare at them. I'm not crazy, right? The last week has been a complete tornado in ways that are only sinking in now, as I stare at his front door through my dirty windshield. Is he watching me right now?

I shove my car door open and climb out. The steps on his porch aren't slick, because of the deicing salt that's sparkling on top of it. Did he do that... for me? The front door is made of thick, dark wood with metal bars bracing it. It reminds me of a well-used winery barrel.

Before I can touch the cold-looking metal handle, I hear the lock turn and the door opens for me. James doesn't look surprised, and why should he? He's holding the door open with one hand, while cradling a small glass of caramel bourbon in the other. His eyes meet mine above his drink. He smiles, and my skin chills. His look of supreme confidence makes my heart flip-flop from anger and attraction. He's dressed sharply, but dressed down, his tie missing and collar unbuttoned. My hands are clasped together. I squeeze my thumb and I find myself unable to say a single word.

He gestures for me to come in and says," I'm glad you showed up."

I shake my head as a smile overcomes my anxiety. Did I have a choice?

"Me too," I say. He steps aside and lets me in. As I slip past him, our bodies brush together. We make brief eye contact and I avert my gaze. He closes the door behind me with a loud clunk.

His foyer is both expensive and expansive. A glass and gold chandelier hangs ominously above our heads, its size and height so large that it feels like it could fall at any second. The room is silent. He walks past me and down the hallway, his bare-feet are quiet on the stone-tiled floor. I follow him.

In the kitchen, he slips behind a small bar. He sets his drink down on the counter and pulls up another glass, presumably for me. He eyes me and I resist the urge to look away. Why am I suddenly a jittery school girl? I don't know if it helps, but the entire atmosphere feels familiar, in a way I can't put my finger on.