The next morning, my face was stiff. The slightest moment hurt. For a deluded instant I couldn't understand why I felt so. The pain was gone, right? Why was it back now?
When I sat up, groggy, and looked around at the sunlight-filled room—with the white carpeted floor and the expensive furniture—I remembered. I had to smile at my own forgetfulness. Of course it wasn't gone. It never would be.
After hasty ablutions laboriously performed, I looked in the bathroom mirror and smiled some more. The sun was shining through the window. The sky was a clear azure. I could have bet there were birds chirping in the trees somewhere miles below. It was just the perfect day.
Time to hide from it.
I was very thankful today that Tasha was a right bossy bitch. She had made me go on a shopping spree once and wasted mountain loads of my money to buy makeup—metaphorically, of course; if I had that much money, I would already have buried myself under it and died.
Pulling out the concealer that hadn't been touched since the store employee shoved it into a bag—thankfully it was still safely stowed in my duffle—I used two fingers to slather the paste over my cheeks and under my chin. With the cuts bandaged, I could almost imagine I hadn't been mauled hours ago.
Once sure I had done as good a job as I could ever be expected to do, I combed my hair too, then put everything away and stepped into the corridor.
I hobbled towards the girls' room, only to find it empty. The armchair was vacant too. Granny must have taken them to school. Hopefully, someone had gone with them. Hannah's doll lay on the sofa like a dead body; a good thing too, for if Granny had let her take that to school, I would have ripped her head off—Granny's, not the doll's.
Stepping into the kitchen, I got myself some bread and jam to make a sandwich. I was famished, of course, but didn't want to wait anymore to make something elaborate. Time for that would come after I had something in my stomach. As it was, at the moment it seemed very likely my belly was busy digesting itself.
Food done, I was just about to take a bite—my mouth watering in anticipation of the taste about to burst on my tongue—when Mr. Rodwell walked out of his room.
He was shirt-less.
I dropped the sandwich—thankfully, it fell back on the plate. But at that second-long moment I won't have noticed if it had fallen on the floor. Or even if the whole apartment had spontaneously burst into flames.
Mr. Rodwell was a work of art—or I was just biased. As he walked across the room, his gaze on the tablet in his hands, oblivious to my presence, the muscles of his tanned abdomen rippled. And not the disgusting tan either. This was a perfect tan, one that isn't acquired by sitting in the sun but rather by working in it. I wondered what work he did, even though I could have made safe guesses if my mind hadn't been so distracted. His biceps, as finely defined as if sketched with a pencil, stood prominent yet not grotesquely bulged. His feet were bare, an old pair of jeans clinging to his hips as if delivering a very special kiss.
Only after I had taken all of him in, and a bit more for good measure, did my body allow me to screech. "What are you doing? Why the hell are you naked?" I threw a hand over my eyes.
There was a very long silence. I imagined he was taking in the sight of me too. "Miss Mahal? I expected you to be asleep yet. Nice day, isn't it?"
"Nice day? Nice day? That's what you say when you walk in naked as the day you were born?"
Pause. "Naked? I don't know what you're talking about. I am appropriately dressed."
"Appropriate?" I sputtered. "You think you're dressed appropriately? Is this how you would go to work too?" I turned my back on him, grabbing the counter for support.
"Why would I go to work this way? This isn't work outfit."
"Then how's this appropriate? J-just put a shirt on, okay? Right now."
"Wait...you're acting like this because I am not wearing a shirt?"
I sighed and rubbed at my face. "Yes. Wow, you're so observant. What was your first clue?"
I didn't have to look around to know he was frowning. "This is my house, Miss Mahal. I can dress any way I want."
He was right of course. This was his house and if he did in fact want to walk naked in it, he could, with my opinion being of consequence only as much as that of the hobo down the street. I knew my reaction was not normal. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew it. This wasn't my homeland. This wasn't a place where boys were taught to button up their shirts if they saw a living, breathing woman even yards away. I. Was. Not. Home. But he was. This was his environment, and if this was how he did it, then I had to live with that.
I knew all this, but my mind was still tender from the shock of yesterday, not to mention rationally pissed at the callous way in which he had dismissed me, telling me my part in this tale was over. The moment something had started to not go my way, my hands had begun to shake. Sweat peppered my brow and my chest hurt so much it was difficult to breathe.
I was going insane.
Duly aware as to my internal caprices, yet I pushed the reasonable voice out of my head and let the anger set in. Why did he have to pretend to be so clueless? Why did he have to do something like this every time?
"You listen to me, Mr. Rodwell," I snapped, screwing my eyes shut. My head had started to throb. "I know this is your house, but you are also the one who invited us here to stay. And I am not letting my daughters live in a house where a naked man walks around whenever he sees fit!"
"Miss Mahal, I am not that stupid. The girls are at school."
"Okay, then," I said. "I am here. And I don't want you to be like this."
Silence again. So long that I began to think he had gone away.
But then again, when does God ever listen to me? "Miss Mahal? Is my being like this bothering you?" he asked, his voice very close.
I whirled around only to find him standing a few feet away, on my side of the kitchen island, gazing at me with hooded eyes. My frozen fingers tightened around the edge to keep from screaming.
"Does it bother you?" he asked again.
My face was so hot Ella could have used it to set something to fire. "Again, what was your first clue, Mr. Rodwell? Of course it bothers me," I spat.
He didn't say anything. Why am I not shutting my eyes? I wanted to, I swear, but it seemed I was frozen in place. I wanted to cry with the frustration of it all. What the hell was happening to me?
"Is it because of what happened to you?" His voice was still so very soft.
What? What happened to me? What happened to me? What was he tal--
Oh, holy shit... He was thinking about before. About Zayn and the others. He thought I was acting that way because he reminded me of them.
But of course, the voice admonished, that's the obvious reason. That’s exactly why your heart's racing like this, why your face is burning and your brow sweating. Because he reminds you of them.
But then why was it that I wasn’t repulsed? Why did I want to touch him? Why did I want to trace the shape of his jaw and find out the exact texture of his lips? Why did I want to bury my fingers in his hair and remind myself of its silkiness, just to make sure yesterday hadn't been a dream?
Why did his eyes looked so vivid, so deep, so blue and green? Why were my fingers inching forward, under their own power, to touch—
I snatched my hand back. "Of course, that's why," I said, backing away. Having only one leg to move slowed me down considerably. "And if you know this, why are you still here? You can't be such an absolute bastard that you don't see you're making me uncomfortable."
He stepped closed. My heart stopped beating and jumped into my throat.
"You're lying," his said, as simple as that, as if this fact was common knowledge.
My eyes widened. "What are you talking about? No I am not. Please go and put something on, Mr. Rodwell." I was ready to beg by now. Why won't he just stop? And why the hell was he still stepping closer?
"You're a liar. You aren't even thinking about them right now, are you?" There was a faint smile on his face. He set the tablet on the counter.
I was breathing so hard my lungs were tiring. "I don't lie," I said through gritted teeth. Only when it serves my purpose not to.
He stepped closer still. "Really? Maybe not to others. But do you lie to yourself?"
"What are you trying to say? That I don't know my own mind? How absolutely boorish."
"As a matter of fact, that is exactly what I am trying to say. How often do you lie to yourself? It must not be very often because you obviously weren't when we were dancing." The corner of his mouth lifted in challenge.
By now, self-defensive anger was throbbing in a thick stream through my veins. I wasn't sure if I had a heart anymore; I had a very bad feeling it might have evaporated. "Yesterday, Mr. Rodwell, whatever it was you did, you're trying to do it again. But let me tell you, I am not your regular slut. Yesterday I was scared about Zayn and my mind was clouded. That will never happen again."
His eyes started burning at the word slut. He stopped moving closer. "Don't call yourself that," he said.
Now that he wasn't moving forward anymore, I felt laughter bubble in my throat. Scary laughter, the kind that makes goosebumps rise on the skin. "But that's what I am, aren't I?" I said. "Isn't that why you're doing this? Because you think I am an easy score? But of course you are different from the rest," I granted. "I see that, you know. You are so very different. Because you aren't going to just take. You will try to woe me first. You will take it slow. Because you are a nice man!"
His face was full of indescribable rage. Now I understood why Geric was so scared of him, why Christopher listened to him. This was no normal man, was it? No, he wasn't.
But I wasn't a normal girl either. I wanted to be, but I wasn't. Not anymore.
Now the question was, did I actually believe what it was I had said? No, I didn't. But, did I want to believe it? Yes, I did. Because lust was the only language I understood. Mr. Rodwell wasn't a man like that. Heck, he had helped me get to Zayn. He had given me his house to stay in just so I could be safe.
But I couldn't understand what it was he wanted. Somewhere deep in my heart, I think I did remember. From the times long gone. Something innocent, something pure and untainted. Something that started with trust and ended with companionship. But I had forgotten that language long ago. I was blind and deaf to it now.
"Don't assume you know what I want," he bit out, each word coated in barely controlled ire.
"But I do know what you want," I retorted. "All men do."
"Don't judge the rest of the world by those people." His voice was quite, his tone anything but.
"But, my dear sir, I don't have any other standards to judge by," I replied with feigned innocence.
"You have to forget them. You cannot hope to move forward if you don't."
"I don't want to move forward. I can't."
"Yes you can. If you would just give someone else a chance."
"I wasn't given a chance. Why should I give one to anyone else?"
"Because you can't do this on your own!" he exploded, fist slamming on the counter inches from the tablet's screen. Lucky tablet. "You have to let someone in!"
"And who would that someone be?" I whispered, not cowed an inch. In fact, his indignation seemed to be fuelling mine. "You?"
He shut up. But his eyes didn't leave me.
"What do you want, Mr. Rodwell?" I asked. A tear rolled down my cheek.
Pause. "I don't know," he whispered. "What do you want?"
"I don't know either."
I grabbed my crutches from the side of the counter and shoved my arms inside roughly, the sides scratched my arms. Great. More injuries to explain. My hands were shaking; in fact, the whole of me was.
"Where are you going?" He asked watching me sidestep him and start limping toward the elevator, grabbing my purse on the way.
"Out," I snapped.
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to be here anymore."
"You can't go out. It's not safe."
"Fuck you!" I yelled, turning around. "Just plain fuck you, Mr. Rodwell. You can't dictate my life!"
Now, let's just be clear here. I am not a cursing kind of girl. Yes, I do curse with Tasha all the time, but that's for fun. The only time when I used a curse in conversation with anyone else was in moments like these. When I felt like someone was pulling my insides out through my mouth.
"Zara, stop."
I pressed the button. The elevator's doors opened instantly.
"If you follow me, Mr. Rodwell," I said as I got on and turned to look at him, "or get anyone else to follow me, I might jump in front of a car in panic. Not that I want to, but I don't know what I would do anymore. I am not thinking straight. Please don't follow me." I sounded dead to my own ears.
He froze in the middle of the living room—where he had reached in his mad dash after me. I pressed the button for the ground floor.
The doors closed and he still hadn't moved—though I did notice his hand inch toward his pocket and pull out a phone.
***
By the time I was down I had cried all the tears there were in my body. I was a dry husk. Hobbling out of the building, I walked down the street, my feet dragging. I had forgotten to get my abaya or coat. People around looked at my sallow face and red-rimmed eyes and shuffled to the sides, giving me a wide berth. A little old woman paused, the only one to do so, and looked at me with concern, but there must have been something on my face for she didn't come near and she didn't utter a word.
At the corner of the street I flagged down a cab.
"The river," I told the driver as I slid in.
"Er...where on the river, love?"
"Anywhere," I snapped. "Just not in it." There must have been something in my tone for him too, as there had been something on my face for the old woman, for he started moving without saying a single word.
After a long and aimless journey he decided to drop me off at a nondescript cafe by the waterfront, since I clearly wasn't going to give directions. After paying up, I wandered along on the paved stones, taking in the scenery and breathing the dubiously sweet and doubtfully pure river air. A slight breeze blew over my face.
A little child ran past, her feet bare and her hair unruly, smiling at me as she turned her head to look. Stopping by a teen boy of about fifteen, she muttered something in his ear. The boy looked at me and smiled too. I smiled back. He ran off, the girl right behind him.
I sighed.
Did I feel at peace in this calm and beautiful surrounding? Decidedly not. Because I never would be at peace anywhere. The only reason I had run out was to get away from that infuriating, bastard of a man.
What the hell did he want with me? Couldn't he just leave me alone? Couldn't he see that if he didn't, I would do something much worse than just touch him? And I didn't want to! I wanted a normal life. I wanted to send my daughters to college and live till a ripe old age with Granny, when she was a hundred and fifty—hopefully still alive—and I was... fifty? I wanted life to go on.
Drowning in these pointless and ever-circling thoughts as I was, I didn't notice the time until the sinking sun's rays glared into my eyes, making me shield them and look up.
The evening was thick and orange around me. Birds chirped in the sky, homeward bound. Only a few people were left walking, some clearly in the same boat as me, crying to the river and sharing secrets with it, while others hurried along, no time to take in the scene or look around, too eager to reach wherever it was they were headed. A tiny girl of about five waved at me from behind a tree.
I took a deep breath, judging it time to go home too. Granny and the girls would be back by now, sick with worry. I wondered what Mr. Rodwell would tell them when they asked about me. Oh, I just made advances at her and she ran away. Whoops, my bad...
I crossed the street to the other side but didn't hail a cab. All through the day, I had been walking and then resting and then walking again. Now, I rather felt like walking. Better to expend all the negative energy in me before I got back and exploded all over someone else.
My phone rang. I didn't bother with it. It was either going to be him—who had taken to calling every other hour, probably to make sure I actually hadn't thrown myself in front of a bus—or it would be Tasha. I didn't want to talk to anyone. It would stop ringing in a few seconds anyways.
The streets were getting emptier and emptier the further I walked and the darker it got. I had a faint clue as to where Mr. Rodwell's house was, and I quickened my steps. It wasn't that far. I knew this because I knew for sure the cabby had driven me in circles around the whole city to rack up his meter before he had gotten tired and dropped me off.
A dark van drove past. It seemed like the day for dark vans. I had seen three today already.
I am so very stupid.
I guess I deserved it when one of these dark vans—they were one and the same, of course—stopped beside me on a deserted curb, a hand shooting out and the cloying, sweet scent of chloroform taking me to la-la-land. I would have liked to say I resisted, but I couldn't be sure.
Just before I blacked out for good, the edge of my eye caught long brown hair disappearing around the corner.