“Vince,” I call, my voice echoing in the large apartment. I check his bedroom, but the bed doesn’t look like it has even been slept in. Come to think of it, why didn’t he sleep beside me on the couch? He seems like he can hardly keep his hands off of me, so I’m surprised he didn’t take advantage of the opportunity. The thought brings me back to last night and I still can’t help laughing a little again. The idea of a tough guy criminal like him being a Harry Potter fan is somehow just too perfect. I must be crazy, because it somehow makes him even sexier to me. Maybe it’s just that he seems more relatable now, less perfect and unreachable.
He’s not home. He just left me here alone? It pisses me off and I try yelling his name one more time, but get no response. I stand in his bedroom with my hands on my hips, fuming a little. Then my eye falls on his bedroom again and I’m overcome by a guilty urge to snoop. I’d probably be tempted in a regular guy’s apartment, but this is too much. I check his nightstand drawer and my hand jerks back when I see the glinting steel of a pistol inside. I carefully pull the drawer the rest of the way out and move my head to check the darkened corners of the drawer. No condom wrappers or any hard drugs, at least. Yeah, listen to yourself Aubriella! Just a fucking pistol, but at least he doesn’t have heroine in his nightstand drawer. He’s a real catch!
I don’t have time for this though. As much as I want to spend more time poking around, my life is falling apart and police are probably already wasting resources trying to find me. I decide to deal with the easiest part first. I pull my phone back out and text Aria. Doing fine. Stayed the night with him, but okay. May stop by my place. You can tell police I’m okay, no big deal.
I look at the text and frown a little. It sounds shady, but I’m too stressed about the idea of police searching my apartment right now to spend anymore time on the text. I hit send and toss my phone on the couch back in the living room. I just need to get out of here for a little while and make sure no one is looking for me. That’s all. I look around the apartment for a minute, not sure if the elevator for the car is the only way down. Then I notice a smaller elevator in the center of the room that was hidden behind a fountain. I take a step toward it and realize I’m just wearing a t-shirt and panties. Damn it.
I rifle through his perfectly organized closet and don’t let myself spend too long gawking. The way he meticulously organizes his clothes and keeps his apartment doesn’t surprise me. It fits him. I’ve seen hints of the beast hiding behind those dark eyes, and I wonder if I’ve even seen all the dirty things he wants to do to me when our clothes are off yet. I end up wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and some sneakers that are too big on me. I look like a slob or some slut who is slipping out after a one night stand, but it’d be worse if I wore my wrinkled, blood-splattered clothes from the night before.
The elevator has a note taped to it. I rip it free and read the small, cramped handwriting that must be Vince’s. Even his handwriting is meticulously spaced and neat. It’s not perfect, and there are inconsistencies in the shapes of the letters, but he writes on the blank white sheet as if there’s is a perfectly even line running beneath his letters, never losing sight of it in a way that makes the words pleasant to look at. I finish reading it and hesitate, but just for a minute. Being told to stay put irritates me. Last night, I had more or less accepted that this was a “polite kidnapping”, if there was such a thing. After the shower and cuddling on the couch though? I had stupidly hoped I was wrong, that he really would let me go home in the morning. It looks like that wasn’t the plan after all.
I crumple the note and drop it to the ground. He can be pissed if he wants, but it’s my life getting trashed right now. It’s like I’m still just some object to him. He decided he wanted me so he thinks he can just snatch me out of my life and make me his. It’s not that easy. And I don’t like the idea of being treated like some kind of trophy.
I leave the fancy lobby downstairs in my sweatpants and oversized t-shirt, feeling ridiculous as I pass men in expensive suits and women in elegant casual wear or nice dresses. What kind of people dress like this in the morning? Jesus. I feel a little better outside. It’s New York, after all, and it takes more than just a little sloppy dressing to draw attention on the street. I make sure I still have some cash in my clutch, which I do, thankfully. While I wait for a cab to hail, I check my phone. Missed call from Aria. Two missed texts.
Aria (7:33) - I’ll be waiting outside your place.