I was once lost to Victor oh so easily, and all too quickly. So for almost a month, I let my instincts come second to the desire that overtook my body at his sensual touch. Even then, Victor had this presence about him. A concoction of oxytocin, adrenaline, pheromones and sex had my mindless twenty-two year old self go dumb over the thirty-something Doctor Victor Finch. He exuded sex, and a plethora of other intense emotions.
The most provoking one being … fear.
As I now gaze at him, fighting the way he controls my movements, his presence rules me. In that detached tone of his, crisp air flows out of his mouth as Victor asks, "Lux, do you fear me?"
Yet, that sexy British accent that drew me to him in the past no longer holds weight. I bite my bottom lip as I glance downward from Victor's thick, jet-black hair. His sun-kissed skin entices me. The angles of his face remind me of a lion, with those full eyebrows and brow lines, even the way they accentuate his eyes. An Italian suit drapes over every inch of his perfect muscles, like it was made only for him – even after all the physical activity of murder only a few minutes ago …
My hand grips the side of my olive green, silk dress that complements my warm, brown tone. Reddish-brown curly wisps of hair fall from the bun on top of my head. My freckled skin feels clammy and my heart is racing, though nobody's chasing us anymore. Even in this expensive Burberry dress, I'm not half as suave as my date, as I try to catch my breath.
We've been running for a while. But at 4'11 and add a few more inches for my shiny black stilettos, it's hard to keep up with his 6 foot frame as we run for dear life. Technically, I started running. My date just murdered 5 people and kept up with me. Yeah, I was really running away from Victor …
Now, the monster behind the drop, dead gorgeous Adonis god has finally come out to play.
"Well, do you fear me?" Victor enunciates every word, as if clarity is the most important part of this moment. Those hard words vibrate through my chest cavity. As intelligent as the doctor is, I'm not entirely sure he's aware that our date ended at the very moment the first man's body hit the icy cold asphalt.
A second after the first man's heart had stopped beating; Victor had already claimed another soul. He murdered them all with ease. Now he wants to know if I'm afraid of him. The height factor is warning me to lie. To look him in the eye and say ‘no, why would you think I'm afraid of you?'-And not in some condescending tone, either. Looking into those eyes will surely be the death of me.
All the while it's impossible to forget how he's handled my body in ways that bring tears to my light, brown eyes and causes orgasms to slide pass my thick, pink lips. But this man's body was made to kill. Vic is a lethal weapon.
"Luxury!" Victor commands as the bright moon and starless sky casts a shadow against his thick frame. "Are you afraid of me?"
"Noooo..." My eyes cast downward in a coy ploy. Victor steps up to me. His woodsy, masculine cologne shoots hot thrills down my body, but a chill has already crept up my spine. Having previously pretended to be vulnerable, I quickly react. My knee goes toward royal jewels that I've knelt before, licked, sucked, tasted, and thoroughly enjoyed during our short relationship. Not even positive that I connected with his manhood, I turn quickly, almost tripping in my stilettos.
"Help!" I shout while running down the stretch of the alley. These three-inch heels, despite having given more length, are killing me. But Victor's agile movements and the sound of a random man's neck popping continue to echo within my ears.
"Help!" I cry out, cold air rushing into my lungs, fighting against my will to survive. Even though any man brave enough to save me would be putting himself in danger, my pleading continues.
One of my shoes catches a pothole and icy water goes splashing onto my bare legs. As I make it toward an open street, there's a crowd of partygoers at an outdoor restaurant/club to my right. None of them turn focus from gyrating or their drinks.
My hands scissor as I try to wave down a taxi, while the freezing air stifles.
"Are you okay?" a black man asks as he leaves the bar. He's holding onto a young woman with cornrows swooped over the side of her face. She's doing that one-two step after a few too many drinks, and here he is being the good guy. God, I need to get back with my brothers.
I nod vigorously, as the taxi comes to a stop. Besides, I don't want to put him and his girl in danger. The black guy shrugs, and tells his girlfriend they'll get the next cab as she giggles. When I look back, Victor is standing at the exit of the alley, less than ten yards away. Only his muscular frame is visible from the darkness. But no matter the distance, Victor can see straight through me. He always could.
I snatch open the door and hurry in. Tears stream down my freckled cheeks as I watch Victor through the rain-spotted, dirty window. His handsome face is masked by the night. But he's observing my movements from a distance.
The cab pulls away, but I don't breathe freely yet.
My hands shake so badly it takes a while for me to get my phone from inside the bejeweled purse. "Great, my only really nice dress is ruined." It's covered with sprinkles of blood from an innocent jogger who was passing by, as Victor had shot him.
"Where to, Miss?" The cab driver looks through the rearview mirror as we head down 138th Street.
For a second, I close my eyes, and try to remember my address. Within a jumbled haze of fear I recall it, and then quickly tell the driver.
I take a seedy, unsure breath as I quickly type the words: "DON'T CALL ME EVER AGAIN." Victor isn't the first man out of my race that I've dated, but it will be a cold day in hell before my dating resume boasts another swirl!
Slumping in the sticky back seat, I try not to blink. Each time my lavender, shimmery eyelids close for a nanosecond, I picture Victor flipping out. Not too long ago, we were rushing out of the club, kissing, rubbing and ready to fuck. Then … Those deaths were so vivid. The men didn't even seem to be doing anything, just walking by...
"Ma'am, you all right?" the driver asks, looking through the rearview window with worried eyes.
Again, I nod.
About ten minutes later, the taxi zips up to the curb of a brownstone, that houses an art store, a coffee shop and a discount store below my home. I take the side gate and buzz the elevator for the two-bedroom, second floor loft I share with my father. I have the upstairs portion of our home; it has been modified for privacy. My father's room is toward the back on the lower level. The home is a jewel and a prime piece of property in Harlem. It was an upgrade from growing up in The Bronx. The move to Harlem placed me in the middle of the most creative, diverse culture in the universe.
I should have known Dad would've still been up as I tip toe inside. Thanks to the open floor plan, Dad's back is facing me. Dad is sitting on his La-Z-Boy with its creases and worn out fabric, a tiny patch of missing hair is almost hidden behind the 57 year olds disheveled reddish brown Afro. I have the same hair color, but with spirally curls.
We have invested in much black art while living in the African Renaissance capital. There are canvases on the brick wall to my left, since the other three walls are glass; we've always alternated between figurines, clays, and a few African statues.
George and Wheezy have Dad laughing so loud. I quickly slip off my stilettos on the mat, step onto the glossy wood floors, and then quietly take to the free-landing staircase. My hand goes to the cool brick wall, as I inhale, and head up.
"Lux? Luxury, that you?" Dad turns around, smiling with his freckles. "Did you have fun on your date?"
I bust into tears when I reach less than five steps from the top.
"What did that bastard do to you?" Dad stands up. Besides inheriting his freckles, I'm also stunted with his height. And as with me, Victor could step on him. But Dad has high hopes for Victor and me, since Vic knew so much of my father. If my dad wasn't home watching old sitcoms and laughing at the top of his lungs at something sarcastic Fred Sanford had said, Doctor Jonah Whitson would've been at his research office at Greco Technologies. There I met Dr. Victor Finch, my dad's newest associate.
"Nothing Dad." It is the truth and a lie.
Dad shakes his head. "I will kill him!"
"No!" I yell. My father has made threats on all of my exes in the past. Even the one gang member I dated for a while – so his intentions outweigh all reason. Dad is afraid of no one when it comes to his only daughter, yet in actuality, a cat doesn't fear him.
"Well, why not?" Dad shrugs, baffled by my quick reply.
"Because … because." I don't want to tell Dad that Victor will kill him so I stomp up the loft stairs and into my bedroom. Every light in my room goes on, even the nightlight. By the time I close the door, it's already brighter than Times Square on New Year's Eve. Trying to stifle my tears, I toss my purse on the orange daisy duvet of my queen-sized bed. I was scared out of my mind and slowly strip bare. It's as if I have been classically conditioned; my body instantly feels the pleasures of Victor's hands. His accent and the commands had me in sexual positions I would never have even dreamt of. I was determined to take a quick shower because and wash off the memory of the luxurious shower.