LEILA
I can't catch a fucking break, can I?
I stand by the entrance of my apartment, floored. The lights have been turned on and I can see everything. I just don't recognize much anymore. The cushions of the couch are tossed on the floor, my television is missing, and even my lamp—my fucking table lamp is gone.
I've been violated. Robbed.
I must have left the door open when I tossed Grace around and got arrested, and my neighbors either didn't care or didn't want to get involved in the robbery. The fact of the matter is that I'm screwed, and exhausted.
This was supposed to be a date night, but Hector made sure to scare Joseph off. That door has closed. The wrong door has closed tonight. I'm supposed to be laughing and flirting at my date right now. Forgetting my problems.
I walk deeper into the apartment, not recognizing my bedroom which has been tossed. The few luxury belongings I owned, like a set of golden hoop earrings, have been snatched.
I kick my shoes off, walking blindly past Hector to sit on the edge of my bed. I cover my face with my palms and sigh. I won't cry. Can't cry with my ex-boss here.
Fuck Grace. For a moment, I felt bad that she was left behind in the cell, but she brought this onto us by crossing a solid boundary coming to my doorstep.
"Are you alright?" Comes Hector's low voice.
I'm not. I wish I had a helmet I could put on and escape into The Machine.
"Yes," I sigh. "Thank you. I'll call the police. You should get going. It's late."
He shakes his head, surprising me. "I can't possibly leave you alone now."
"I—I'll be fine. The thieves are gone." Although I doubt I'll get any sleep these upcoming days, fearing they'll pop out of my closet.
"You need to stay at my home for a couple of days."
"What!" I shout. "Are you crazy? Move in with you? I can barely stand in a room with you after all the shit we've gone through."
He crosses his arms over his giant chest, unaffected by my insult. If anything, more determination burns in his eyes.
"I need to protect you, Leila," he says so certainly. Like it's scripture. An eleventh commandment he must honor.
I stand up. "You're not a police officer. Newsflash, the only police officer I was romantically involved with was pushed out of my life by you."
He scoffs. "That little man was not going to do much for you."
"You guys are the same height!"
"He didn't fight for you. Just walked away like a little man."
I throw my hands up. "Enough. Point is, we're not moving into the same space."
"Well then I guess I'm staying here, but you'll need to let me buy a bigger couch. I don't think I can lay on the one you currently have."
I rub my temples. A headache is pulsing. "No. You will continue with your life, and I will do the same with mine."
My voice is calm, although what I want to do is scream.
He's crazy for proposing this. And I'm crazier for feeling butterflies in my tummy at the thought of it.
He reaches for a hand and caresses the back of my palm with a thumb. "You won't be at peace here, and neither will I knowing the thieves may be lurking around, searching for more to steal."
I tense at the thought. He's right. They might have taken the valuables I have. But they might be greedy for the one thing I have left: my dignity.
"Please let me help you. It's the least I could do."
I can't look into those eyes of his. They're too electric. Looking at me with concern, like he cares. His words from our last meeting resonate. He told me he couldn't let me go. And although months have passed, he kept his word. He's here. Pushing away the competition. Pushing away the trauma I would surely relive if I slept in here alone.
"I could just stay at a motel for a few days," I mumble, my hand limp in his strong, warm one.
I don't have the money for a motel, and I can't possibly borrow it from him. I don't want to get my family involved, either, because they would demand I return home. I'm used to taking care of my own problems. But this man that stands in my bedroom is hearing none of it. I can see it in his narrowed eyes and squared shoulders that he will drag me away caveman style if he has to.
I can't bring myself to hate him for it. Only marvel in his ability to get things done his way. I can see how the tycoon got his business to the top. He doesn't take no for an answer, no matter how many times I slam the door on his face.
"Pack a bag," he says, completely dismissing the notion of me staying at a motel. "I will call the police again."
I rub my face. This is a really, really, bad idea. But I've said no to the man six times, and each time bounced off a muscular ab on his abdomen.
"Although be warned the cops might arrest me," he says as he bends down.
"What? Why?"
He picks up a thong from the pile of clothes on the ground. "Because I'm stealing these."
I snatch them away, turning red instantly.
He chuckles. "Prepare your things. I will call my maid to have the guest bedroom prepared."
"There's no need! I can take the couch."
He waves a hand. "Don't be ridiculous. You will take the room. It has been unoccupied since I bought the place." His smile falls off his face, and I think it has to do with the mention of living alone.
He steps out to make the phone call, and I look at the mess on the floor.
This is a really bad idea.
— • —
I sit in his passenger side, my luggage packed in the trunk.
My eyes are on my phone. I wonder what the fuck to text Joseph. I'm so embarrassed and guilty to have blown him off. He immediately came running when his coworkers mentioned I was arrested. I have to respect that.
I tap his contact number and send a quick text.
Hey, I'm sorry about tonight.
The text doesn't deliver. He blocked me.
As embarrassing as it is, I can't blame him. I got arrested during our date night for fighting, and then this brute of a man shows up sounding like a jealous ex. Of course Joseph ran away. He's a wise man for doing so.
I sigh and lock my phone, staring out the dark window. Then I close my eyes and try to catch some sleep. I doze off, only coming to my senses when we pull into a driveway.
"We're here," he says.
His home is dark, but I can feel it looming over me. Glowering like it can tell I have no business being here. I lack the money to step inside, and I'm certainly not a booty call.
Hector picks up my bag and sets his hand on my lower back. I'm startled by the warm touch, unused to being touched there—or anywhere, actually.
Memories of our experience in The Machine flash by. Memories of where he was touching me. inside of me.
And now I'm going to share a home with him. There are no job titles, Graces, Josephs, or virtual reality to separate us. I'm in the lion's den. And if he convinced me to come here, I fear what else he can convince me to do.
We go upstairs, and I'm blasted with cold air. We make a few turns, and he enters the home. His maid is in the kitchen—an older woman who busies herself with the dishes.
"Margaret, this is Leila, a friend. She will be staying here for a few days."
Margaret walks out of the kitchen and wipes her hands. "It's a pleasure."
I shake her hand. "Likewise."
"I left you some toiletries in the guest room. Please enjoy your stay."
I smile at her, unnerved by the situation. What must she think of me?
She walks off, and I briefly scan the space. It's very... plain. If I didn't know better, I would figure this is a hotel. Not somewhere a person lives.
"Let me show you to your room."
I follow him around, thanking him for getting the door. He sets my bag beside my bed and tells me he has some other important calls to make.
We share one last heated, loaded glance, and then he's gone.
I walk into the bathroom, needing to splash my face and make sure this isn't a dream. I notice a small basket with toiletries. One particular box catches my attention. Plan B.
Oh my god.
Does Margaret think I'm here as a booty call? How many times has she supplied plan B to Hector's visitors?
I run the faucet and splash my face.
Yeah, I catch a break after all.