Breaking My Own Rules Ch. 05

I was sitting at home, missing yet another day of work, waiting for the locksmith to show up. It always struck me as cruel and unusual that you had to give up some of your paycheck to get something done that was going to cost approximately the same as the wages you gave up to get it done. On the other hand, it was three in the afternoon and I was binge watching Game of Thrones, sucking on my third beer, so things could be worse. I hadn't left the apartment since Saturday. I didn't dare. While I was here I could have the deadbolt and chain lock as a defense against intrusion, since the door lock had been rendered useless by a wayward key. Being homebound was definitely preferable to coming home to -- I didn't know what to call him anymore -- lurking in wait.

Even though I was expecting the locksmith, had told the doorman to send him up, I still jumped out of my skin when there was a knock on the door. I paused the show and went to the door, peering cautiously through the peephole. Short, squat, grey-haired looked safe enough, and there was no one else within range of the peephole. I started on the ritual of undoing all the locks. When I finally got the door open, I peered cautiously up and down the hall. The locksmith merely waited patiently. I supposed he'd seen more than his fair share of paranoid women in the city. I explained what I wanted and went back to my show.

My cell phone beeped and I glanced at the screen. Another text message from the girls. They were sure I was going to back out of our pizza date tonight. When I didn't show up at work, they'd called and texted all morning until I finally gave up and answered but I wasn't about to discuss my love(?) life in text messages, so I agreed to meet them at a small pizza joint. Then I'd checked my phone at least five times for any tracking apps that he might have put on it. I figured by pizza time, I'd have my new lock in place and be able to start feeling safe again. I was also seriously thinking of laying it all out for my friends. So far, I'd only told them the good parts of what had been going on, and even then just enough to get them off my case. But I was obviously in way over my head and in deep need of advice if not intervention. Maybe they weren't the best source to go to, but I could afford them for the cost of a couple of slices of pizza.

I'd spent some time on the internet over the weekend and basically scared the shit out of myself. Everything I'd looked up from stalker to BDSM made me want to run home to Daddy, except there was no way I was going to tell him what I'd been doing. Or letting be done to me. While I might have told my brother, he was deployed again and had enough to worry about just staying alive. I'd also tried searching again for my mystery man's name, or phone number or anything I could think of, but nothing I found seemed to match up. When the locksmith handed me my shiny new key, I decided to leave then. I could use the fresh air, walk to the pizza place and try to figure out what I was going to tell my friends along the way.

When I reached the lobby, I checked my mail, it was all junk and went straight into recycling. I couldn't resist, so I stretched up on tiptoe to look into Dr. Thomas Harker's mailbox. It was empty. When the doorman held the door for me, I tried to sound casual and asked, "Do you know the new guy in 1210?"

"Nah. He's got a car. Enters through the underground parking."

"Oh," I said, but decided to ask the night doorman, too, when I returned. I had been in "Dr. Harker's" car once but I honestly didn't know if I would recognize it again. There was a lot of other shit going on that night to distract me.

Once on the street, I peered every which way before starting off. I must have looked like a paranoid loon. I even took a very round-about way to the pizza place, since I had plenty of time. I still managed to beat the girls there, so I ordered a beer and took a back booth away from the street. I checked my phone. There was a text message I hadn't heard come in. It was from him. It said, "New lock?" When I could breathe again, I texted back, "Fuck you!"

A few minutes later, a new message came through. "Not very nice after all I've done for you." I couldn't think of any stronger way to repeat my last message so I turned my phone off. My hands were still shaking when the girls arrived from work.

Blondie started in before they even took an order. "Is he back? So did you see him this weekend? Was he still there today? Is that why you didn't come in?"

Brunette flashed her a dirty look. "Slow down. Give her a chance to answer." Then she looked at me expectantly. I opened my mouth to say something, but the waitress was walking up.

"Let's order first," I said, and asked for another beer. I did the math in my head. That would be five in one day. Not very smart for a lightweight, but neither did I think I could get through the evening without some bottled help.

When the coast was clear I leaned forward and spoke softly so they all had to lean in to hear me. "Remember when I thought he was stalking me? Well, he was. He put an app on my phone to keep track of where I was."

"But that's been like, two months ago, hasn't it," Exotic said. She was checking her makeup in a mirror as she spoke. I guess if I were that gorgeous, I'd be checking it out every half hour, too.

"Well, he's back. He put a contact on my phone. Dr. Thomas Harker..."

"I told you it was Tom," Brunette proclaimed.

"And he called Friday night," I continued, ignoring her. "And when I got home, he was there. He stole my extra key." Suddenly, I had their undivided attention, not an easy thing to do with that trio.

"Did he screw you?" Blondie demanded loudly just as the waitress walked up with our drinks. I wanted to slide under the table but then I considered what the floor under the table probably looked like.

When the waitress left again with a bemused expression, I took a big swig of beer and said, "I don't know what to do. He won't leave me alone."

"Why would you want him to?" Blondie asked.

Brunette scowled at her. "Because he's creepy. Jeez, haven't you been listening?"

"I haven't told you the worst of it," I confessed. Another swig for strength. I lowered my voice even further. "He's in to bondage and dominance. Kinky stuff. You know, BDSM."

"He's a sadist?" Blondie blurted out as the waitress walked up with our pizzas. Suddenly I didn't care what the floor looked like, but Exotic reached over and gripped my arm, preventing my slide to oblivion.

"Honey, are you okay? Did he hurt you?" she asked.

"No. I mean, yes. Ah, I don't know. It's hard to explain."

"I had a guy once, used to like to spank me," Brunette said. "Not real hard. It was kinda hot."

"See," I said. "And remember my cop friend? He'd get out his handcuffs. I mean, it was like an adrenalin rush. And then when you'd come, it would be, well, better. More intense. It's like that with..."

"Tom," Brunette supplied helpfully.

"Yeah, like way more intense. But it's escalating."

"More intense is good," Blondie said. "Isn't it?" She wrinkled her brow.

"But the..." I searched for a word. "The foreplay is more intense, too."

Blondie was obviously hopelessly confused, and Brunette and Exotic weren't far behind her, from their puzzled expressions. I took another swig of beer. "It's gone from spanking, to paddling, to cropping. I don't even want to know what's next."

"Cropping?" Blondie asked.

"Jeez, didn't you watch Fifty Shades like ten times?" Brunette hissed at her.

"I was just watching Jamie," she hissed back.

I rolled my eyes, and I could see our waitress whispering to another waitress. Why had I thought this was a good idea? Brunette gave up on Blondie and turned back to me. "So he's punishing you?" she asked tentatively.

"He has all these rules. They're impossible to keep track of. And impossible to follow. I'm always screwing up."

"And he's always punishing you," Exotic concluded.

"Yeah. And then rewarding me. Jesus, I feel like a heroin addict."

"What you need is some methadone," Brunette stated.

"Huh?"

"A plain vanilla guy. You don't get nearly as high, but it takes the edge off. Friday night, we are going to find you a plain vanilla guy. Right, Girls?"

They had found something they all agreed on, which was, as usual, to go out partying. I groaned, but it was better than any solution I'd come up with. Now if I could just keep my head down till Friday. "All right," I proclaimed. "So that's decided. Now tell me what's happened at work today." That discussion filled the next hour and required one more beer.

By the time I headed for home, the sun hadn't gone down yet, but the shadows were long in the city. I didn't meander as much this time. My apartment was a little over a mile away and while I wasn't exactly tipsy, the beer had made me tired and eager to turn in early. If anything my paranoia had ratcheted up. I peered around every corner and kept an eye out behind me, too. I literally breathed a sigh of relief when I reached the steps to my building. The night doorman wasn't at his usual post, but I chalked it up to a bathroom break and swiped my passcard to open the door, checking yet again to make sure no one was following me.

As I waited for the elevator, I pulled my phone out and looked at its blank screen. Should I turn it back on? Tomorrow, for sure I would change my number. I thumbed the on switch as I stepped toward the opening doors of the elevator. I was vaguely aware of someone on the car and started to step back to let them off. They moved past me as I stared at my phone waiting for it to boot up. Then I was being pushed into the elevator. "Hey," I protested, dropping my phone. "God damn, if that screen is broken, I swear..."

My words, my very breath caught in my throat as he bent to retrieve the phone. "It's fine," he said, handing it back to me. "You should look at it more often."

For a number of floors, I remained frozen to the spot and he was smiling at me with undisguised humor when the doors began to open again. Even when he said, "This is your floor," I couldn't seem to get my feet to move. He held the door. "Unless you'd like to come up and see my new apartment. There's a special room," he said softly. He paused. "Just for you, for us." That finally unfroze my feet and I scrambled to flee and keep as much distance between us as the elevator allowed. I backed away across the hall until the doors closed completely. He watched me the whole time, but made no move to follow.

I fumbled with the new lock on my door until I could yank it open. I slammed it shut, threw all the locks and sank to the floor, trembling. I was still there when my breathing had returned to normal, but I couldn't stand yet. The hall light was shining under the door, I saw the shadow of someone passing, pausing just for a moment, outside my door. Some part of my mind insisted it was just someone looking for an apartment number, but the rest of me, not restricted by rational thought, knew it was him. I struggled to my feet and backed away from the door, all the way to my bedroom then threw myself on the bed and lay like that until sleep finally claimed me.

****

It took all my willpower, but I deleted the five messages he had sent on Monday evening without reading them, then managed to spend the better part of Tuesday morning on hold in order to get my phone number changed, luckily without being caught by the boss. The rest of the week, I slipped in and out of my apartment building as fast as I possibly could. I didn't even check my mail, which was undoubtedly junk anyway.

Come Friday, I was all too ready to find a safe haven with my friends for a few hours. I wasn't holding out much hope of finding that plain vanilla methadone guy, but a few drinks and a safe space was definitely better than cowering in my apartment. We had decided on a new bar that was having a grand opening, so lots of bodies and distractions. Being Friday night, the office was closing up fast, when Exotic dragged me into the restroom. I tried to make a break for it, but then Blondie and Brunette were there, and Exotic had her makeup bag out. I endured the ordeal of smoky eye shadow and too dark lipstick, vowing to remove it at the first chance, but damn, it did look good. Exotic had a gift, so I figured what the hell, go with the flow. All the makeup in the world wasn't going to make me any hotter. Or even lukewarm, for that matter. When I said as much to Brunette as we were heading out, she looked at me askance.

"You don't see it?" she asked.

"See what?" I said, looking around.

"I don't know what it is, girl, but you've changed," she said with a shake of her head.

"Huh?" I said with my usual brilliant repartee.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed the guys at the office checking you out. Hell, even the boss makes excuses to walk by your cubicle."

"You're nuts," I said. "It's just that damn rumor monger next to me."

"Uh, uh, girl. You move different. You're posture's different. Hell, you even talk different. Now, if you'd just buy some new clothes, you'd be the complete package."

"I'd be the complete package living on the street, 'cause I can't afford my apartment and a new wardrobe," I scoffed. But her comments refused to quit rolling around the back of my head.

A short subway hop and we were at the new bar. It was a bustling hive of activity and pounding music. My head started to throb immediately, but I knew a glass of wine would cure that. With some shouted debate, we decided to go straight to the bar for drinks. Even if we could find a table, it would take forever to get waited on. Exotic led the way. As always, the crowd seemed to part before her. She was easily gorgeous enough to pass for a celebrity. Hell, I'd seen people take pictures of her like they were paparazzi or something. We followed along in her wake until we were crammed into a narrow space at the bar ordering drinks from a bartender that only had eyes for her. Whatever, as long as we got our drinks.

A moment later, someone was rubbing against my shoulder. I turned to give him a piece of my mind, and was totally surprised to see him smiling at me. "Hi," he said. "I didn't mean to bump you, it's just so crowded. Listen, my friends and I have a booth, if you and your friends need a place to sit. I just came to get some drinks, because apparently they forgot to hire waiters before they opened."

That made it clear. He was trying to get Exotic's attention, or even Blondie's or Brunette's but I was easier to get close to. Still, it meant a place to sit, so I said sure and tried through shouts, mime and hand signals to pass the information on to my compatriots. When eventually everybody was served, we followed him back to the booth. There were indeed four other guys waiting and it was a really tight squeeze, which I suspect they didn't mind at all. But I was really confused, when he insisted on sitting on the end, beside me, after the girls had already squeezed into the booth. Weak bladder, I hypothesized.

Things were a tiny bit quieter in the booth, but I still couldn't make out most of the guys' names, though my friend from the bar turned out to be Steve. I gave him my nickname, Sky, and proceeded to concentrate on my number one headache remedy -- Chardonnay. After seven, the happy hour crowd began to thin, and Steve, who'd been trying to engage in conversation without success, decided on a different tack and asked me to dance. I did the whole "Who, me?" thing, because I was still positive his target was elsewhere in our group, but he just laughed and pulled me onto the miniscule dance floor. There really wasn't enough room to do more than stand in one place and gyrate, but I could handle that, and he followed along, close enough to be sexy but not obnoxious or downright bruising.

When he led me back to the booth, there was a fresh glass of wine sitting, waiting for me. Fortunately someone had finally turned the music down a notch and I leaned into Steve's ear to explain the realities of the modern world.

"Look, I really appreciate this, but in a bar I don't drink anything that I haven't seen all the way from bottle to glass to table." I made the motions of someone slipping a drug in the wine glass.

"Good for you," he shouted, right in my ear. He suddenly reached in his back pocket and pulled out what I thought was a wallet. When he opened it for me, I realized it was a badge case. "DEA," he shouted, so that I wanted to stick a finger in my ear. I glared at him askance and took the case from his hand. My cop friend had taught me how to tell real id's and badges from fakes. His was real. I handed it back.

"I just want you to know that I was nowhere near that meth lab, sir," I said, demonstrably not shouting.

He laughed and gestured across the table. "All my friends, too. You're safe with us."

I took a hesitant sip of the wine, because I really was thirsty, then shrugged and took a big gulp. A few minutes later, several platters of assorted appetizers were served. I dug in hungrily, figuring there wouldn't be much more in the way of dinner for me. I'm really bad that way. No, really, really bad. Which is why I'm built like a, well, light pole. I don't eat enough, but what I do eat goes to all the wrong places.

A while later, there was the proverbial trip to the 'powder room,' in which the girls were all over me about Steve and how he was my Vanilla Man. I made them absolutely promise upon penalty of herpes not to breathe a word about my conundrum. I suspected it might be too late. They were my friends, but that just meant I knew them all too well. When we returned to the table, Steve wanted to dance again, so we went out and shuffled about the floor with only a little more room this time. It was as we were about to leave the floor that I thought I saw 'him.' It was only a passing glimpse. The place was still really crowded. And I was still really paranoid. Never-the-less, when Steve tried to talk me into going for a light dinner at a sushi place a few blocks away, I was feeling highly agreeable.

We walked to the restaurant. I tried not to be obvious as I watched over my shoulder and kept an eye out for low slung sports cars. Nothing. We ended up having a pleasant, light dinner as promised, despite the constant texting of my friends. I was evasively humorous -- or at least tried to be -- throughout the meal and actually had a good time. I was, however, utterly astounded when Steve asked me to come home with him. Part of my brain was saying "Who does that?" but most of it was answering, "Everybody, nowadays."

It didn't take much persuasion, I must admit. The thought of going home, racing through the halls to get to my apartment before 'he' appeared, then hiding there all weekend was less than appealing. Okay, it was downright depressing, so I heard myself saying yes. He may have been afraid I was going to change my mind because he rushed through paying then hurried me a couple of blocks away to here he had a car; a drug dealer's car, he said with a wink, for when he has to go undercover. I asked him if he did that a lot. He gave a snort. "It's way more paperwork than they ever show on TV, believe me." The car beeped and he headed around to the driver's side. Immediately those annoying voices in my head started in.

"That's okay, I can get my own door," the prissy one started. "Jesus, that is so fifties," the feminist one chimed in. "Just get in the car," the practical one groaned with a roll of her eyes. (No, I don't know how a bodiless voice rolls eyes.) I got in the car.

We headed over the bridge to a suburb and stopped at a townhome. It turned out to be small, but neat and tidy. The décor was typical guy, with the focal point being a humongous big screen TV. He led the way to the back end of the house where the kitchen was and stuck his head in the fridge, emerging a moment later to confess he didn't have any wine. I waved it off.