Gray shadows creep up on me.
Their ghostly hands reach out to my neck and wrap a noose around it. My trachea jerks and crushes to pieces as the distorted voice whispers.
“Look at me.”
My fingers flex, but I don’t reach for the hands that are stealing my air. If I touch them, they will force my eyes open, they will make me see.
“Baby boy…” The voice is less distorted now, honeyed, almost in a singsong. “Let me look at those eyes…”
Fuck no.
No.
If I don’t look, I’ll be safe. If I don’t look, I won’t know what will happen and it’ll all be over faster.
Or that’s what I believe as the ghostly harsh fingers jam against my neck and crash the one thing that’s giving me air.
“If you don’t look, it’ll hurt more.” The voice is still honeyed, cool, soothing almost, and I would’ve believed it if I didn’t know what hides behind it.
“No…”
“Knox, look at me.”
“No.”
“I’m going to hit you and make sure to leave marks, you little jerk.”
“No!”
That’s when my eyes open.
There’s a ringing, loud and constant and without any breaks.
At first, I think it’s all in my head. The ringing. The pounding against my skull. The fucking shadows.
My head is the place they go to when they decide to visit me occasionally, just to make sure they still have a hold on me. That the little boy inside me that I’ve been slowly killing over the past twenty years isn’t dead.
That he still breathes, still closes his eyes, and has fucking nightmares about the shadows of the past.
He still lives with his demons.
But the ringing isn’t in my head. It’s from somewhere beside me.
My phone.
I snatch it from the side table, throw an arm over my eyes to darken my vision. Light is blinding in my post-nightmare state. In a way, I become one with my shadows, thirsty for darkness and unable to exist outside of it. So, light and I were never really close friends.
“You better have a good fucking reason for calling me this early in the morning.”
“Her Majesty the Queen called and said, “Excuse your bloody French.””
“I’m sure she also told you to go take a wank.”
He feigns a gasp. “How dare you put such foul language in her mouth?”
“Is there a reason behind your call, Dan?”
“Blasphemy! What’s more important than the Queen?”
“My sleeping time.” Though he did wake me up from the nightmare, so I should be thankful, really. “Now, are you dead?”
“Obviously not.”
“Are you in a compromised position and need help?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then call me back when it’s not early morning. If by any chance, you have an emergency before that, call 911.”
“First of all, fuck you. Second, I think I told you we’re playing golf with the mayor today and you should’ve been here about…fifteen bloody minutes ago. And finally, it’s not early fucking morning.”
I slide my arm away from my eyes and peek at the time on my phone. Sure enough, it’s past ten.
Considering I’m not the type who sleeps in, this is as weird as a sideways fuck.
“Where the fuck are you anyway?” Daniel asks, sounding more impatient by the minute. He’s all fun and games until things don’t go according to his plan.
Though most of his plans suck, and they’re a bit impulsive sometimes, which might play a role in the sheer number of people he attracts on a daily basis.
He’s my only British friend in the States. We studied law together, graduated together, and we now work together.
We’ve even shagged together. Not he and I. There was always a woman in between.
We don’t make a habit out of it, but it’s something for when we’re bored and need extra endorphins.
“Somewhere…” I squint again due to the light slipping from between my fingers.
Where am I really? A piece is missing from my head, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is.
“At least tell me you’re back from Jersey?”
“Jersey? Oh, yeah, Jersey. No, I’m still here.”
“What the fuck, mate? Weren’t you supposed to come back last night after meeting a client?”
“I had a change of plans.”
“What about golf?”
“There’s been a change of plan for that, too.”
“What?”
“Golf is boring and so is the mayor. Now, screw off.”
I end the call and stare to my side, expecting to find the woman from last night.
Anastasia, she said her name was.
I don’t usually care about their names since they’re erased from my head after the night is over, but the fact that she was the one who demanded anonymity was what got my wheels turning.
Usually, they don’t.
Usually, I would have to tell them beforehand that this is a one-time thing and then it’s over.
I didn’t have to with Anastasia since she was the one who practically demanded it.
It’s thrilling, she said.
And it was.
Having her completely compliant underneath me as she struggled with holding in her noises got my dick hardening in an instant.
I fuck a lot of women—like, a lot, so many that I’ve lost count—but none of them have been as memorable as the girl who gave me complete rein.
Not only did she not complain, but she also fell into my rough, fast rhythm as if she enjoyed it as well. As if she couldn’t get enough of it.
I knew there was something about her from the time we were at the bar, and I had to explore it, had to get my hands on her and see it until the end. I was supposed to go back to New York last night, but then I decided I would fuck her.
I decided I would have her writhing and screaming beneath me as I held on to her icy blonde hair.
She’s easily the best fuck I’ve had in a long bloody time.
Maybe it’s because of that, or curiosity, or another illogical reason, but I didn’t leave right after, like I usually do, especially since she gave me an opening by falling asleep.
But for some reason, I couldn’t just walk away.
Partly because, despite the powerful release from last night, my dick still demands more. Which is why I was planning to pick up where we left off this morning.
That plan is demolished, however, when I find her side of the bed empty. I run my hand over where she slept, but it’s cold, so that means she left some time ago.
Huh.
I sit up, all the sleep vanishing from my eyelids.
She’s gone.
Anastasia, the girl who wore red and was mouthy, is no longer here.
Under normal circumstances, I’d let it go. In fact, I should be glad that I don’t have one of the clingy ones who demand to have my phone number or tells me to call her.
But the fact that she left without a word sends sparks of fire through my veins.
Women don’t disappear on me. Ever.
And yet, this Anastasia didn’t think twice about it.
That’s a fucking first.
I stand up, pushing the sheet away, and don’t bother with putting on clothes.
My foot collides with something and I bend down to inspect what it is. It’s the butterfly pendant she had dangling against her creamy white back last night.
It’s the first thing I saw when I stepped into the bar. The jeweled black butterfly wings against her pale skin grabbed my attention and refused to let go.
Then it was her almost white hair that resembles ice, her soft petite face, and those huge ocean blue eyes that seemed ready to swallow the world while hiding away from it.
She was beautiful, but not in the provocative, seductive way I’m used to. If anything, she seemed naïve at times, not knowing what she was supposed to do and waiting for instructions.
At first, I thought the innocent act was just that—an act. But the more I touched her, the more convinced I was that she had little experience. It was in the little details—how she took time to suck my dick or how she often peeked at me as if waiting for approval of what she was doing.
If I’m wrong and she was in fact an escort, I’ll revoke my law license. Or I’ll steal an Oscar for her.
Still, no amount of acting could’ve allowed her to shudder involuntarily or swallow me deep and raw and even like it.
Having had violent tastes all my life makes rough sex a given, but some women don’t like it, and I have to slow down so I don’t take things too far. I have to keep in mind that not all people are fucked up like me, so I’m forced to handle them a bit more gently.
I didn’t have to do that with her, though.
She took everything I dished out and more.
She even orgasmed because of it and screamed in that erotic way that still echoes in my ears like a siren’s song.
Then she left.
My hold flexes on the butterfly before I place it on the side table. That’s when I notice that my jacket is gone, but my wallet is on the chair with everything inside it.
If she were a thief, it would make more sense to take my cash, but she chose a jacket—worth a few thousand dollars, but still.
She didn’t strike me as someone poor. She had the soft, delicate speech and mannerisms of someone well-educated, but maybe all of that was an act as well.
Shaking my head, I go to the bathroom to take a shower.
My gaze falls on the condom in the rubbish bin and I pause. I didn’t focus on it last night, probably due to the dim lights and my being sleepy.
But it’s there.
Blood.
On the condom and the washcloth I cleaned her with.
When I felt a bit of resistance inside her at first, I thought it was because she was the type who needed to be entered gradually or repeatedly before I found a rhythm.
But that’s not the case.
She lied to me.
She was a fucking virgin.
And now, I’m tempted to find her and teach her that no one, no fucking one, lies to me and gets away with it.
ANASTASIA
TWO WEEKS LATER
Today, I’m a new person.
I’m no longer Wendy, who’s captured by the pirates or who’s waiting for Peter Pan to come and get her. I no longer dream about running in that forest with the wind as my only companion.
Now, I can go back to that forest if I want to, but I won’t, because it’s too small for me now.
At any rate, I’m no longer trapped or nurturing foolish hopes. I snatched my own freedom and no one can find me anymore.
I might have left some of the Lost Boys behind, but they wanted to stay. I can’t force someone to see the light when all they’re used to is the darkness. Maybe when I have a stronger footing in the new world I’ve chosen, I’ll be able to convince them to leave.
That is, if they don’t become pirates themselves.
That’s what the pirates do. When they can’t control you, they convert you. They’ve tried that on me for fifteen years, but I escaped before they could succeed.
So now, I’m just a new fairy.
One who wears baggy clothes, has dyed her hair black, put in brown contact lenses, and is wearing black-framed glasses that hide most of my face. They’re my crutch, the glasses. Since I had them specifically made with thick lenses, I can’t make eye contact and no one can make eye contact with me.
I’m safe.
I hold on to that knowledge as I swipe my card into at entrance of my new workplace.
Weaver & Shaw.
It’s one of the most prestigious law firms, not only nationally, but also internationally. The most fascinating part about it is that the two founding partners, Nathaniel Weaver and Kingsley Shaw, have built their reputation in a matter of years.
Where I come from, it takes decades to have any type of reputation—especially one that people talk about.
That doesn’t seem to be the case at this law firm.
When I did my research, I found that Weaver & Shaw is one of the most sought-after law firms in their field. Not only due to its two ruthless founding partners, but also due to how efficient the rest of its partners and associate lawyers are.
Weaver & Shaw is a fast-paced firm, from the way they accept cases, to how they process them, and even the way they work paralegals.
Everything around me buzzes with energy. Almost everyone has a phone to their ear and something else in their hands—briefcases, case files, coffee.
I’m only equipped with my laptop bag, the strap glued to my chest. It’s the only thing I need in order to navigate in a place full of people, noise, and eye contact.
Logically, I should’ve chosen a smaller firm or one of W&S’s branches in another state—or country, but I had my reasons.
One. I didn’t want to leave New York City. The best place to hide from someone? Right under their nose.
Two. A smaller firm doesn’t have well-equipped IT departments, and I need that for my disappearance plans.
Those two reasons combined are why I chose to woo W&S. And it did take a lot of wooing to their HR department during the interview process.
My résumé is genius level, and it’s not a lie. I did skip grades and attend computer engineering classes when I was young. I may be twenty, but I have valuable skills and have completed an internship at a huge company that shall not be named.
I did mention it in the résumé, though. Because that’s where I stole my current name from.
Jane Summers.
She was an intern at that huge company that shall not be named but decided to take a break from college and travel around the world.
I figured that out from a random conversation I heard in the bathroom and built my identity around hers. I had to wait until she left, then I kind of borrowed her name.
Sorry, Jane. I promise to help you with your studies as soon as you get back.
Anyway, W&S’s HR board wasn’t really convinced, because of my age, so they decided to put me on a month’s trial to see how I’ll do.
I’m going to prove that age is just a number.
It’s one of the few things I believe in from where I came.
After surviving a crowded trip in the elevator, in which I had to fix my glasses a few dozen times and touch my chest a hundred more, I finally arrive at the IT department on the twentieth floor.
I release a long exhale at the sweet sound of silence. There’s no fast-paced rhythm and no shuffling of feet.
And definitely no eye contact.
There’s just a clean office with marble flooring and blinding natural light coming from the open window at the end of the hall.
My gaze shifts to it and my chaotic brain revs to life like an old engine. My fingers shake on the strap of my bag and my short nails dig into my palms. Why the hell is that window open? Don’t they know how risky it is?
“You must be Jane.”
I startle from my mini panic attack at the soft voice of the middle-aged woman who’s sitting behind the receptionist desk. They did say that I’d have someone from the IT department tell me about the building.
“Yes, that’s me.” I approach her with slow steps, though I really should stop thinking that one of the people here will bring out a gun and start shooting the whole building down.
This is not the dangerous world I came from.
“My name is Jill and I’m the secretary of the technicians’ side of the IT department.” She stands, and to my surprise, she’s about my height. That’s rare as hell since everyone is always taller than me.
Always.
Jill is wearing an orangey lipstick and a scarf that matches it, but it’s tucked neatly in her jacket since I’m sure bright colors aren’t exactly welcome in a law firm.
“This is where you’ll be working.” She leads me to an open area with countless screens hanging on the wall. Two men who appear to be in their thirties are already seated in front of their own multi-screens.
One of them wears frameless glasses that seem to be part of his face, and the other is wearing a plaid flannel shirt that’s stained—with coffee, I believe.
Both of them type at a rapid speed and monitor the screens, and I instantly feel a sense of belonging. The sound of a keyboard has always made me feel at peace, even in the midst of chaos.
“This is Chad and Ben. Guys, Jane will start working with you today.”
They don’t acknowledge me. Not even a twitch of fingers or the eye contact that I hate so much.
“Don’t worry about them, they’re nerds,” Jill tells me with a laugh to hide the awkwardness.
I’m a nerd, too, so I don’t offer her a reassuring smile, and that instantly makes her uncomfortable.
People are like that. They expect you to comply with what society wants and to avoid confrontation. But I’m done being a doll for show.
I’m done bending myself to fit in settings that don’t fit me.
Jill clears her throat. “Anyhow, the cafeteria is on the seventh floor. Your card gives you access to all floors except for the top tier where the managing partners’ offices are. You’re not allowed there unless they specifically ask for you and grant you security access. You might be called to the partners’ floor now and again to take care of computer problems. If you have any questions, let me know.”
And with that, she leaves, the clinking of her heels echoing in the silent space like ominous music from a movie.
The two guys are still not acknowledging me, so I sit in the one available seat in front of three switched-off monitors.
Hugging my laptop to my chest, I whirl around to face them. “Do you need my help with anything?”
They pause their tapping for a second to stare at me.
“We don’t need a girl,” glasses guy, Chad, says.
Ben, the one with the coffee stain, laughs. “Go play with your dolls, Plain Jane.”
Okay, so they’re the assholish type.
I don’t usually let insolence go. Those who do that would pay by my bodyguards’ wrath, but I don’t have any, and I never will again.
Because I’m free.
And these boys aren’t worth my getting all worked up. I no longer follow my family’s code of honor.
I follow my own.
So I ignore them and settle on my chair. Then I turn on my computer, enter the login details I was provided, and I start attacking the tasks the head of the IT department left me in an email.
My lips pull in a small smile as I soak in the feeling of having this peaceful, quiet setting with no one barking orders at me. This is what free people do. Work to provide for themselves.
It doesn’t take me long to finish the tasks assigned to me. They must be taking it easy on me on my first day, because by the time lunch rolls around, I’m done.
Ben and Chad already left, probably to eat in the cafeteria. From what I gathered, almost all the workers at W&S eat there. Me, however? I never even considered the option of having my lunch there. Lots of people I don’t know? No, thanks.
I open my drawer, retrieve my sandwich, unwrap it, and take a bite as I follow a tour on W&S’s employee website. I like whoever suggested they add this for newbies like me.
It’s sophisticated and there doesn’t need to be needless contact with the HR people.
For a moment, I’m focused on the introductory video, but a few minutes later, my mind floats somewhere else.
It’s easy to block these thoughts when I’m concentrating on a task, but now that my brain is in a paused state, it’s impossible to veer it in another direction.
Because it’s already there, at the Black Diamond hotel, where I let a British stranger take my virginity roughly and without holding back. I let a stranger leave angry red marks all over my neck and breasts that I couldn’t conceal with foundation, so I had to wear a scarf for some time.
I wish that was all. I wish I’d left that night in Jersey.
But I didn’t.
I’ve been having dreams about it, about his merciless pace and his punishing gaze. About how he grabbed my throat, then fucked it, then grabbed it again. I’ve been imagining those moments, too, like right now.
And it always gets me squirmy and raises the temperature a notch. Usually, I’d try to fight these feelings harder, but I don’t seem to have the will.
I think I’ve become sort of obsessed with what happened that night. All I can picture is light chestnut hair, intense hazel eyes, and that angry samurai.
As angry as his thrusts inside me.
As angry as he deep-throated me.
I didn’t think I would ever be that type, the one who gets off on violence and being handled roughly, but I should have known better.
I really, really should have.
Ever since I was a teen, I’ve been having nightmares about being held down and ravished. Then I wake up drenched in sweat and with a strange sensation between my legs.
That’s when I should’ve known it wasn’t really a nightmare but a fantasy. A dangerous, deadly one.
And the evidence is that I can’t stop thinking about it.
It wasn’t part of my plan, but it happened, and now, I can’t get rid of the memory. Time is supposed to make me forget, isn’t it? It’s supposed to wipe my memories clean of him, his callous touch, and the scent of his cologne.
But that’s the exact opposite of what’s happened. Ever since that night, he’s magnified to lengths I can’t control. He’s become the taboo subject that I pictured before I went to sleep and then hoped no one knew what I was thinking.
Or what I’ve done.
It’s over, Ana. You’re a new person now.
I keep telling myself that as I dive back into work. I start messing around, creating a mock-up of a security system that could be accessible to everyone.
I’m good at that. Systems. It’s not only the perfect way to keep my plans intact, but I can also use them as a façade to appear flawless on the outside despite having broken insides.
My grandmother once told me that imperfect people create perfection and I’m starting to take her words to heart.
At the end of the day, I leave last to avoid the rush of people. Thankfully, when I take the elevator, there’s no one in it and I can breathe properly.
The doors open a few floors below and I pray there aren’t too many people. My social anxiety and I had a field day today and we just need to go back to our small apartment and hide for an eternity.
Or at least, until tomorrow.
My hold falters on the strap of my laptop bag when my gaze clashes with the same one I’ve been dreaming about for the past two weeks.
The same stranger I left in that hotel room but can’t stop thinking about.
My only one-night stand that I shouldn’t have met again.
And he’s staring straight through me.
