On lonely nights like these, a bottle of aged bourbon tends to be my best companion. I pour myself a considerable amount, my head slanted with a thousand scenarios running wild in my mind.
Is she still with him? Suppose that's the case, what could they be doing right now? Perhaps talking—getting to know each other—like most normal people do on the fucking dates.
But what the fuck could they be talking about? Is she smiling that same radiant smile I vividly recall? Is she elated being with him, laughing at the silly jokes humorous guys like him make?
Does she think of anything else other than him right now?
I pull the rim of the glass toward my lips and chug the whisky in a huge, bitter lump, eyes on the ceiling-tall window overlooking the glowing night skyline.
Romantic affection has never been my strong suit but I'm sadly living the unexpected nightmare. I cannot rid myself of anxiety and there's something otherworld devouring my heart so viciously making it hard for me to properly breathe. It's difficult to decipher this particular emotion; all I know is that I'm affected by it in the worst possible manner.
Self-control, Adrian.
Let control reign supreme because human emotions are meant to be guarded. At a very young age, they showed us the art of manipulation. I was taught never to let emotions cloud my judgment or dictate my decisions. I've abided and lived by it for more than twenty years, but why can't I let go of this ache breaking every bit of rules and principles imbued within me?
Why does the fact that I'm not the one sitting with her bother me this much? Why can't I accept that she's never been mine to begin with and everything we had back in Las Vegas was nothing but an illusion of what I wish could be my reality, have I been a different man? Why can't I let her live as she pleases and stop using the danger as an excuse to hold her closer?
Another sip of whisky, and my mind feels forged. I drop the glass on the desk and walk to my bedroom upstairs, ignoring the void surrounding me. This place has been cold and empty ever since Arabella walked out of the foyer full of anger and hatred. I don't recall feeling any sort of respite by laying in my bed without her next to me from that day onward.
But fuck control!
When I lay in my bed, the sweet memories we shared here flood in like a strong tornado.
I miss her.
I need her.
For once in my life I want to feel the taste of freedom. I want to deliver my heart from the leash put on it many years ago. Would it hurt to just go for what I desire the most right now and forget everything else? How bad can it be to just listen to that voice of silence compelling me to break free and let the man in boulders quench the unquenchable thirst in him?
Just like that, I get up and fish my cell phone from the pocket of my slacks and call Arabella. I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna say once her voice runs through—if she ever picks the damn phone, that is—and for once it doesn't matter how pathetic that sounds for a man like me. I don't care about the danger either, for my desire is far too strong to be ignored.
"Adrian..." Arabella answers almost instantly in a very quiet voice, and my breath hastens at the mere sound of my name on her lips. "Adrian, I—"
"Listen, Arabella." I swallow tightly, pacing back toward the window while running my hand through my hair like a confused jerk I am. "I suppose you're still with Ellington right now and I'm the last person you want to—"
"No!" she snaps. I hear her breathing heavily as she adds, "I think someone is in the house, Adrian. I can't find Camilla, I can't find Isla..."
"Wait up, hold on!" I retort, my senses back at their usual prospect. While rushing toward my dressing room to grab my jacket and keys, I say, "Where exactly are you, Arabella?"
"I'm home," she whispers. I grab a brown leather jacket, and a long-forgotten motorbike key from the key compartment, my attention on her voice. "I'm inside Camilla's bedroom; she's not here, but the front door was open. I was about to call her but then the lights went off and... I don't know. I just think there's someone else here.."
"Calm down, Arabella. Camilla and Isla are at the hotel with Mario. She had an urgent business to take care of." I rush out downstairs, heading toward the foyer. The next sound of her breath is filled with relief, but I'm still worried about her safety. "Now listen to me carefully. How many people do you think they could be inside?"
"Um, I don't know. Maybe one or two; there's no sound but I'm sure someone is upstairs," she answers intelligently, almost sure of herself,
I don't doubt her.
Arabella has some talent for utilizing her five senses to perfection. However, her inability to respect danger is what I'm worried about.
"Now, I need you to hide in that room and stay still," I tell her.
"But—"
"For once, Arabella, do as I say, damn it!" My voice rises uncontrollably. I suck in a sharp breath and add, "Please don't do anything to draw attention. Just stay still unless otherwise." I touch the Ground button, letting the elevator begin.
Arabella hesitates before replying, "Okay... but I hear footsteps now."
"Fuck!" I snap.
I hang up on Adrian as my mind can't take any more talk right now.
Silence has never felt this scary until now, but knowing both Isla and Camilla are far from this peril puts my heart at ease somehow. I finally learned to breathe again, holding Adrian's 9MM so close to my chest, letting the muzzle touch the surface of my chin as I waited beside the closed door for anyone bold enough to walk in.
Thank God I had the gun in my purse.
And then the silence turns into the sound of moving shoe steps I heard a few seconds ago, Some sort of click-clack like the touch of heels on the hard floor. It has to be a woman. I'm not sure if it's any relief, but at the back of my mind, I think I'm ready to face her.
White curtains shuffle idly as the wind blows past the half-open window panes, and all I can smell is Camilla's feminine perfume all over the room. I suck in a breath, count my every heartbeat with patience, trying, my best to stay still as Adrian keenly instructed.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Gently, the heels pull closer toward the door.
I hold my breath tightly, and my pistol firmly, eyes shut. If fear was the color of my emotion right now, I'd consider myself normal. But strangely, it's curiosity—some kind of adrenaline rush that sears through me like fire on the flesh—that rides my every thought.
I want to see the person who broke in and know what exactly she—or he—wants. I wanna put her down, pour the rage I feel into her, and maybe free myself from it. Three, two... I count the steps, but they only stop when I expect the doorknob to twitch.
But nothing happens.
Silence returns, and it stays longer than my patience could ever take. I wait for a while longer, eyes wide awake, curiosity highly aroused, Why did she stop? Where could she be? What is she up to? Should I stay or should I go out of this damn room?
For once, Arabella, do as I tell you, damn it! I recall Adrian's warning. I choose to obey. I wait and wait but no sound rises above the silence for at least seven minutes. If I consider myself a criminal or killer, I wouldn't have wasted that much time waiting for my target.
I doubt she's here to kill me.
With that, I tentatively grab the knob and open the door with my gun held closer. My heartbeat beat accelerates, but I hold my composure still, taking small steps with caution until I burst the door wide open and find the slim hallway to the open laundry room empty with no soul left.
Should I go in there? I stare at the quiet room harboring the washing machine and stuff.
Out of the blue, something snaps in the living room, and I head there reflexively,
There's no one here too, but the vast Indutsrual-style window is no longer shut, which means whoever was inside has used it as the exit plan. I rush toward it quickly and look outside where nothing is out of the ordinary; just a dark alley and two huge dustbins in reckless abandon.
I breathe in and out gently, lowering my gun to safety. I think she's gone. Before I can even register the possibility, I hear the front door swing open, and a figure looms in, Agan, I prop my gun, pointing the barrel straight at the person standing in front of me doing the same thing.
Fuck! My breathing becomes uneven.
Gun pointed at one another, what I see next is Adrian's eyes looking back at me firmly yet confused. In turn, relief washes over me, and my legs turn weak as if I'm free from the box of bravery I've locked myself in, thinking that I need no one else to protect me but myself.
"It's me," he says calmly but desperately.
I nod but I don't move.
He flings his gun around, scanning the house swiftly. "You okay?" he asks, glancing at me briefly.
"Yeah. She's gone," I answer weakly, watching Adrian make sure that is indeed the chase.
I still don't move: I only lower my gun, feeling safe with his mere presence. I look at him and my mind empties. I stare at him, and the world around me halts until he charges toward me with worries written all over his face.
"Hey"—he holsters his gun away toward the back of his jacket—"you sure you're okay? You're not hurt, are you?"
I shake my head and answer, "No, I'm good, Adrian."
A furrow appears on his forehead, and I can tell he's still not convinced that I'm safe and nothing bad has happened tonight. We stare at each other, taciturn, unsure of what else we're supposed to say to each other now given our status quo.
To soothe the tension, I casually say, "I need a drink. Can I get you anything?" while marching past him on my way to the kitchen.
Instead of a verbal reply, Adrian grabs my arm and holds me back from behind. I fall effortlessly into his chest and thaw in his embrace when he wraps his arms around me, making me feel the warmth all over me. God! This is not part of the agreement, is it?
His breath burns my earlobe when he whispers, "I don't know what I'll do if anything happens to you, Arabella. I have no fucking clue."