Impossible Odds

11

I briefly debated telling her about my closet romp, but the words wouldn’t come out. “I just stepped outside for a minute. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you first.” “Are you okay?” she asked, her brow suddenly furrowed with concern. “Yeah, just a little headache. I think I may head home.” “Well, I don’t need to stick around without you. I’m just here to be with you and the girls. Let’s find them and get out of here.” I wrapped my arms around her in a warm hug. “Thanks, Al. Sorry again to drag you out and then bail.” “You know I’m not big on clubbing anyway. Now, come on.” She grabbed my hand and led me to where Sofia and Camilla huddled together at a table. I scoured the bar for the man as I walked, wondering if he was still there. Was he watching me? The thought had my head reeling. I barely acknowledged the other girls and followed absently as Alessia dragged me to the front entrance and into a waiting car. Her father insisted his daughters use the drivers he provided. It was one of the few ways Uncle Enzo was stricter than my father, who had never gone to that length. I continued to contemplate a barrage of questions on the way home. How had he found me? Why did he come after me? Was it just because I’d stolen his lighter, or had he wanted me from the beginning? The escapade in the club had been the most erotic moment of my life, and I didn’t even know the man’s name. In fact, it was not knowing him that made it so exciting. No way was that normal. It was one thing to fantasize about being with a stranger after he’d stalked and nabbed you, but it was different to actually be in that situation. To get wet for that man and crave his touch. I would never call myself broken, but I was clearly abnormal. I should have been terrified, and while I was scared to a degree, I was also insanely turned on. Our interaction wasn’t tender or sweet. It was primal and raw, and I loved every second of it. Alessia’s driver dropped me off at my apartment building. I walked unseeing to the elevator, riding up to my floor in a muddled haze. I only snapped to attention when I neared my door and realized the man probably knew where I lived. A heated shiver trickled down my spine, and I didn’t know if it owed to fear or excitement. Possibly a healthy dose of both. Opening the door, I glanced around, but the place looked empty. For now, I was alone. After spending almost a full year renovating my apartment, I loved it. It was a sacrifice to live in a dingy rental during those long months, but it had been worth it. Everything about my place was exactly to my specifications from the layout to the paint colors to the fixtures, and the place was perfect. After tossing my keys and purse onto the counter, I headed straight to my closet. Up on a top shelf behind a stack of blankets and squirreled away where no one would look was my treasure chest. An ornate wooden box where I kept each trinket I’d ever stolen. I could remember how I’d obtained every one of them, like some kind of f****d-up scrapbook. I’d seen documentaries about serial killers who kept mementos of their victims and wondered if that was the path I was headed down. I didn’t feel like I was insane. I didn’t have any particular need to kill anyone, but maybe that was how they started out too. Every time I pondered the issue, I eventually decided to shelf the debate until my proclivities became a real problem. Until casino man, it had been almost a year since I’d stolen anything. That could have been because the last theft was a particularly unethical incident. My mother often guilted me into volunteering at the church, and one day, she offered my services when the paper-folding machine broke, and they needed someone to help fold the weekly service leaflet. I was put to work with the crotchety old woman who worked in the church office. She’d had the job as long as I could remember, and I couldn’t ever recall seeing the woman smile. I tried to make small talk with her while we worked and was met with cynicism and negativity. She even had the audacity to insinuate I was a harlot because my skirt didn’t touch my knees. She riled me up so badly that by the time we finished, I couldn’t help but lift the small black wiener dog paperweight from her desk. There was no excuse for what I’d done, and I did feel bad about it afterward, but at the time, it had felt imperative to teach that cow a lesson. When I opened the treasure box, my eyes skated over the objects, falling on the paperweight, then drifting to the silver lighter. Seeing it brought back the memory of standing next to him at the craps table. I could recall the rush, then feel a secondary wave of euphoria seep into my veins, heightened even further after the scene in the storage closet. I picked out the lighter, then put the box back on its shelf and placed the lighter in my jewelry box on the dresser. I wanted it to be accessible. Close to me. Having it nearby felt like having a piece of him near me, and that was oddly comforting. As I closed the lid on the jewelry box, I looked up at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Who the hell had I become? I should have been scared out of my mind or upset for bringing this stranger into my life. The last thing I should have been doing was fondling the lighter as though it was some kind of beloved keepsake. I could have been in serious danger. Just because he hadn’t hurt me yet didn’t mean he wouldn’t. After all, what kind of man hunted down a woman like that? Then again, I kept mementos of my crimes like a deranged serial killer in the making, so who was I to judge? I didn’t know what the hell I’d done, but one thing was for certain. My life was now far from boring.