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The days began to feel like an old movie playing too fast. Every night I went to sleep dreaming about Rex’s touch, worried that I may never see him again. I worried he was hurt and I worried he was arrested, but worst of all, I worried that he would decide that I wasn’t worth the risk. Work became a dull blur of repeated motions, including ignoring Marissa the best I could. Amy noticed something was up, but she was too busy full-on wedding planning to pry too hard. That was fine with me: I didn’t think I could handle that sort of scrutiny from her anyway. I knew exactly what she’d say, and I wasn’t great at lying to her.
Still, I tried to spend as much time with Amy as I could. I had nothing else to distract me from my day to day, and I continued to be afraid for Rex’s safety. It never really occurred to me to be afraid for myself, since I didn’t think anyone knew where I lived. I heard nothing and saw nothing, and tried to act like I was interested when Amy talked about her wedding plans. There was a venue to pick out and invitations to send, plus decoy plans to feed to the press. It was all so boring to me, despite being a million-dollar event shrouded in Shane’s patented secrecy.
Three days turned into four, and four turned into a week, and finally a week turned into two weeks before I heard anything new about Rex. I was beginning to genuinely despair, convinced he had left my life forever. It was Saturday night and I broke open a bottle of wine, intent on a quiet night of too much to drink and cheesy reality TV shows. I could still feel his lips and his strong hands on my hips, and the deep excitement I felt at being taken in a public spot. I was wearing cheap cotton shorts, an old camp T-shirt, and a terrycloth bathrobe, when somebody knocked at my door. It took me a few seconds to register the noise, because normally I had to buzz visitors upstairs. Assuming it was a neighbor, I walked over to the door and pulled it open.
Standing outside was Michael, flanked by his two flunkies. I stared at them open mouthed, a thrill of fear jolting through my body. They were the last people I ever imagined would be standing outside of my apartment door. Everything Rex had said about them came flooding back, and I genuinely feared for my safety.
“Hi there, dearie, mind if we chat?” Michael said. He smiled gently and looked almost kind in a fatherly way. It was completely at odds to how he had acted in the bar when I first met him.
“What do you need?” I said.
“Come now, be polite. Invite us inside.” It sounded more like an order than a request, and I quickly moved aside. Michael nodded his thanks and entered, followed by his two grunts. They were all wearing jeans and simple black T-shirts. Michael wore a leather jacket, while the other two had different hooded zip-up sweatshirts on. The two grunts were wearing black leather gloves, which I noted with some confusion.
Michael leaned against the kitchen table while the two goons spread out and started to go through my things. First they checked the bathroom, then they checked under the couch and in every drawer.
“Hey, stop going through my stuff,” I said weakly. They ignored me.
“Don’t mind them, Miss Darcy, they’re alright,” Michael said. He was watching me closely as I held my robe wrapped around my body. Soon they stopped looking and nodded at Michael. I felt violated, even though they hadn’t found anything particularly interesting. It was more the idea that they could come into my space at any time they wanted and rip through my things and there was nothing I could do about it.
I briefly considered calling the police. But in the end, I thought that would do more harm than good. It could potentially implicate Rex in something, and make the situation worse for him. More than that, if I did get the police involved, I would all but guarantee they wouldn’t leave me alone. It likely wouldn’t put them in jail, and it would definitely piss them off. I wanted to avoid bringing more of their attention to me. Plus, Rex had made me promise, no cops.
“Small place you have here,” Michael said.
“Please leave if you’re done.”
“Not quite yet, I’m afraid.” He walked into the kitchen section and started to look through the drawers. Finally, he stopped in front of my knife block and pulled out my nicest, sharpest knife.
“Cook’s best friend, a sharp knife,” he said, running his finger over the blade. Watching him hold a knife sent a deep panic into my stomach, and I had to struggle to remain calm. They were otherwise unarmed, as far as I could tell. His two goons sniggered at my reaction.