Page 22 of The Art of Almost Losing It
More than sick, though? There’s the dark thrill.
I did it.
I kidnapped someone, stole her away from her life, her friends, her family, everything she ever knew.
She’s mine—all mine, to do with what I will.
“I’m not doing anything to her,” I tell my reflection in the elevator.
I prod it—past the dark thing that just wants to dominate someone—to me, or what I think is me.
And that girl is not my type. She’s heavyset. Dumpy, with frizzy, tangled hair. She clearly doesn’t care about her appearance.
I’m a monster, just like my father. And my father thought women like her were gross.
But—but, but, but—mine.
She’s mine.
I dump her things on my dining room table. Her little dog wanders, confused, around the penthouse.
“Sorry,” I tell the little French bulldog. “Sorry, doggo. I’m sorry.” I crouch down and let the dog sniff my hand. I put down some leftover chicken and water for her. She gobbles it down as I head back upstairs.
Standing in the doorway to the bedroom, I stare at the closet door. The thrill of it all coils in my chest. On the other side of that door is a girl. I have a girl trapped in my closet. Naked. Shivering. Afraid of me.
I palm myself. I’m not hard. Thank God.
This is just a solution to a problem. Brunch is in five hours. I need a girlfriend. I have one. Problem solved.
“Hello!Hello?”
I ignore the girl’s voice.
“Hello!”
She’s right there on the other side of the door.
I unlock it, hear her jump back. I barely make her out in the low light. But it’s enough to see…
She’s wearing one of my shirts. She has the white dress shirt partially buttoned, but it’s loose at the collar. The fabric’s thin enough that I can make out the pink of her nipples straining against it.
I swallow hard. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”
The tails of the shirt brush just at the tops of her curvy thighs. Her wild, curly hair half hides her face.
“Look,” she says. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” She musters a smile. “Maybe we could, you know, get to know each other a little bit better.”
“I told you. You’re not my type.”
The hurt flashes on her face.
You’re delusional—it was disgust.
“You can’t just keep me here forever. That’s not going to work.” She shifts, her tone going pleading. Her small hand rests on my suit jacket. “Why don’t we just relax? You can let me out of here. We could have a nice time and then forget this ever happened. It’s New York—people have weird sex. It happens. I won’t tell anyone. If you just let me go after, in the morning. Or shoot, we could make a whole weekend out of it.”
Her eyes are big in her head. She’s scared and trying not to show it.
I’m having distinct memories of his father bringing in Connor’s mom and her doing the same—arguing, the disbelief on her face when she realized she was going to be trapped in the cellar just like all the others…
