Sittingon the edge of the living room sofa, I glanced over at the clock above the stove - twelve-thirty.
It had already been a while, and I was starting to wonder where Dean was because he should have been home by now. He told me he was heading over to drop off some sound equipment at Waylon’s after work, then he’d be on his way home. That was hours ago.
I had already eaten dinner. His food was still sitting on the counter covered in tinfoil, waiting to be eaten.
Tapping my finger on the face of my phone, I willed it to ring. He should have been home, watching Charlie, freeing me up to head to work. I’d picked up a couple of night shifts at the local hotel checking in guests. Though it wasn’t glamorous, the weight of the unpaid bills settled heavily on my chest, a dull ache mirroring the emptiness in my wallet.
Unlocking my phone, I clicked on Dean’s contact and hit the phone icon to ring out. It rang once, twice, three times before going to voicemail.
“Leave me a message, fucker!” His voicemail screamed.
With a frustrated grunt, I stood up and paced the length of the apartment. Why didn’t this surprise me? He’d never proven himself reliable. I just needed him to be a fucking father one or two days a week so I could make sure we had enough money to keep the lights on in this shit hole we called home.
I couldn’t stand around idly waiting for him to get home. If he was going to be late, I was going to at least get some things done around the house to ease up the burden on my days off.
I grabbed a basket of dirty clothes and trudged into our makeshift laundry area in the hallway next to the kitchen. Although our apartment wasn’t well-equipped, we were fortunate to find a unit with connections and room for a stackable washer and dryer. It prevented us from constantly walking down to the corner laundromat to use the commercial machines once or twice a week.
I opened the lid of the washer and started throwing in the clothing. I grabbed a pair of Dean’s jeans and turned the pockets inside out. A small plastic bag dropped softly onto the floor. My blood ran cold, the thud of it hitting the floor echoing in my ears like a gunshot, each beat of my heart a frantic drum against my ribs.
I didn’t have a under privileged upbringing, but I wasn’t naïve about the drug scene. What had fallen on the floor, I knew, wasn’t rock candy in a baggie. I did not know what the substance was, what it did, or how it was used, but I knew for certain it was out of place in my home and it sure as shit wasn’t legal.
Reaching down, I pinched the edge of the baggie between my pointer finger and thumb. I regarded the crystals with the care that one might use when disarming a bomb.
About the time I held it up to my face for further inspection, the front door of the apartment slammed open, hitting the wall on its back-swing.
I fumbled the baggie in my haste to hide it and almost as if in slow motion; it hit the ground and broke open, shattering those clear crystals into a mixture of shards and fine dust. Doing my best to sweep it up with my hands into a pile and brush it into the now broken baggie, I cleaned up the majority.
Footsteps thudded behind me. They sounded heavier than I was expecting. Their approach was almost deafening. Fear flooded my veins as I refused to turn around. I closed my eyes and braced myself for what was to come, knowing I wouldn’t see my boyfriend’s face.
“Well, hello there, pretty thing,” came a sickeningly vile voice from behind me. His southern drawl made each word come out with a hiss, reminding me of a snake.
There’s something about facing your biggest fears in life that either shrivels you into nothingness or builds you up to be a badass bitch. I steeled my spine and turned towards the intruder, choosing the bad ass bitch road even if I felt like shriveling into nothing.
I’m sure he could smell my fear. Nasty men like him preyed on the weak. He seemed to slink around me, circling his prey.
He spotted the small baggie I’d unsuccessfully tried to hide by the humming washer, and his eyes instantly found mine, a haze of fury washing over them. Before I could think, he had me gripped by the throat. My breath came in strangled pants as I struggled to inhale through the tiny space available in my windpipe. His grip was punishing, and his eyes were staring straight through me.
My limited knowledge of the drug scene, gleaned fromlate-night TV dramas, told me he was high; his pupils were dilated, and his speech was slurred, though what substance coursed through his veins was a mystery.
I gripped at his hand around my throat, attempting to pry his fingers from their hold. It was no use. Whatever drugs were flowing through his system gave him an inhuman like strength that I would never overpower.
“You’ve made a mess of my fucking product, little girl,” he spat. “I’d add that to the tally for your man, but that debt’s already been paid.”
His breath reeked of poor dental hygiene and cigarettes. I studied his face, aiming to remember it if I lived. He was grimy - grimier than I’d ever seen a man before. He looked and smelled like he hadn’t showered in weeks. His jet black hair parted down the middle and fell to his shoulders. It looked wet, but I realized quickly that it was just dirt and oil. His eyes were wild - looking in stuttering darts from left to right, attempting to focus on what was in front of him and failing.
Two teardrop tattoos adorned his left cheek; the artist had filled one in, but the other was only a shaky black outline. He had a scar that crested from the top of his right cheekbone to his hairline, bisecting his eyebrow and leaving a jagged slice through the hair.
“Got anything to say, or does the cat got your tongue?” Leaning down, he ran the tip of his nose down from behind my ear to my collarbone, scenting me like a dog.
His intentions unclear, my hands trembled, fearing his next action. His grip on my neck loosened marginally, enough for me to take a deep inhale and cough.
“Please, I did nothing.” I whimpered. His grin was feral as he moved his hand from my throat to behind my head andgrabbed a handful of my hair, yanking my head back to look him directly in the eyes. A wave of remembrance struck me as I saw his actions mirrored Dean’s. Again, I found myself trembling in fear.
“You didn’t, but your bitch of a man did.”
I had no clue what he was talking about. The thought of Dean’s actions leading to this brutal confrontation left me with a hollow ache in my chest.
Dean wasn’t even here. How did this guy get in? My brain buzzed with questions, a chaotic swarm of confusion as I struggled to make sense of what was happening.
