Tormentor Mine(67)

Rolling over onto my side, I blindly grope for the vibrating phone. “Hello,” I croak, grabbing it from the nightstand without opening my eyes. My lashes feel glued together, my head so heavy I can barely lift it off the pillow.

“Dr. Cobakis, we have a patient going into premature labor, and Dr. Tomlinson was called away on a family matter. You’re next in line to be on call. Can you be here soon?”

I sit up, a spike of adrenaline chasing away the worst of my drowsiness. “Um…” I blink the sleep out of my eyes and realize sunlight is seeping in through the cracks in the drapes. The alarm clock by the bed reads 6:45—less than an hour before I need to get up for work anyway. “Yes. I can be there in about an hour.”

“Thank you. We’ll see you soon.”

The second the scheduling coordinator hangs up, I jump off the bed to rush to the shower—and stop dead, feeling the soreness deep inside. Memories of last night rush in, scorching hot and toxic, and all remnants of grogginess fade.

I had sex with Peter Sokolov last night.

He hurt me, and I came in his arms.

For a moment, those two facts seem irreconcilable, like an ice storm in July. I’ve never been into pain—just the opposite. The couple of times George and I explored kink, the light spanking he gave me distracted me from my orgasm instead of turning me on. I don’t understand how I could’ve come after such rough sex, how I could’ve found pleasure when my body felt torn and battered.

And that orgasm wasn’t the only one. My tormentor woke me up in the middle of the night by sliding into me, his fingers skillfully teasing my clit, and despite being sore, I came within minutes, my body responding to him even as my mind screamed in protest. Afterward, I cried myself back to sleep while he held me, stroking my back as though he cared.

No wonder I felt so groggy; with all the sex and crying, I only got a few hours of sleep.

Swallowing the ball of shame in my throat, I force myself to keep moving. I have to get dressed and go to the hospital. No matter how it feels right now, my life didn’t end last night. I have no idea if I did the right thing by encouraging Peter to bed me, but what’s done is done, and I have to move on.

The good news is that I don’t have to see him again until tonight.

Maybe by then, the idea of facing him won’t make me want to die.



* * *



The day flies by in a blur of work, and by the time I come home, I’m both exhausted and starved. I was so busy I skipped lunch, and though I’m dreading another night with my stalker, I have to admit that I’m looking forward to his cooking.

Peter Sokolov might be a psychopath, but he’s an excellent chef.

To my surprise—and a small measure of disappointment—no delicious smells greet me as I walk in from the garage. The house is dark and empty, and I know without going from room to room that he’s not there. I can feel it. My home seems colder, less vibrant, as if whatever dark energy Peter Sokolov emits was giving it a vitality of sorts.

Still, I call out, “Hello? Peter?”

Nothing.

“Are you there?”

No response.

Could my plan have worked so quickly? Is it possible that one taste satisfied whatever sick craving my stalker had for me?

Puzzled, I walk over to the refrigerator and take out a frozen dinner to pop into the microwave. It’s the healthy, organic kind, Thai noodles and vegetables in some kind of not overly sugary sauce, but it’s still dinner in a box. Too bad it’s the only thing I have energy for tonight. I should’ve grabbed something from the hospital cafeteria, but I think I was subconsciously counting on being fed at home.

Shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it all, I turn on the microwave and go wash my hands.

My tormentor is gone, and that’s a good thing.

I just need to convince my stomach of that.



* * *



He’s still not there when I wake up, and though I have the vague sensation of being watched as I drive to work, I can’t detect anyone following me. Same thing when I get to the hospital and go about my day. I’m paranoid enough to feel eyes on me all the time, but the sensation is not nearly as intense as it used to be.

If I didn’t know I have a real stalker, I’d chalk it up to my imagination.

My parents call when I’m on my lunch hour and invite me over for dinner on Friday. I give them a noncommittal response—I don’t want to expose them to any danger either—and then I call the clinic.

“Hey, Lydia, how’s it going?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous. “How’s everything been?”

“Hi, Dr. Cobakis.” The receptionist’s voice turns extra warm. “Glad to hear from you. Everything’s going well. Not too busy for now, but it’s probably going to pick up in the afternoon. Will you be able to come in again this week?”