Page 51 of His Obsession

I bought my ticket a few days ago for Kansas, and I hadn’t heard anything from him. Did that mean he didn’t know yet or wasn’t checking up on me as often as he said he was?

Alek said he was trying not to be so controlling, and he hadn’t been to a point. It made it that much harder not to give in to the temptation. I knew it was best to keep my distance, but I'd slipped up a few times and couldn't resist him.

We didn’t learn our lesson from the first time someone almost caught us at his office. A few days ago, we had sex on his desk when Jill from finance almost caught us. I could still feel his fingers on my hips as he pushed into me from behind, hear our slick skin slapping against each other, feel the pain from his bite on my shoulder. I had to hide under his desk the entire impromptu meeting he had with her, smelling like sex.

At one point, I let my hands creep up, unzipped his pants, and stroke him just to drive him as mad as I was. He slapped at my hands and zipped back up, making me pout. My legs had fallen asleep, and I damn near broke an ankle when I could step out. It didn’t matter, though; I didn’t need my legs after he shoved me over his desk and took me again, this time like I had deprived him of my body for centuries. When I finally left his office, I noticed my coaster had been ripped from its glue and was missing.

Then there was the time in his car in the garage at work. After I was sassy with him, he pulled me into his lap, tore off my panties, and devoured me. My back ruined it all, hitting the car horn, setting off the car alarms in the garage, like dominoes. I didn’t get to come that time, but he made up for it later that day in the pool.

Lately, though, he'd been so busy working he didn't come home until the early morning. It'd made it easier to resist, but he was exhausted, and you could see the wear on his face.

Today, I got to relax, aside from my training with Jake. My muscles were screaming at me from the repetitive motions we had practiced. My lessons with him were too long. I'd be drenched in sweat like I had run a marathon and beat like someone abused me. I was always walking away with a new bruise or limping. Even though I wanted to be there to learn, I didn’t go a day without complaining. I heard Alek yelling at Jake one day because he thought he was too rough with me.

“You need to be more careful; she isn’t one of your training buddies.”

“And you need to let me do what I need to in order to prep her. Coddling her will not do her any good; it’s only going to punish her.”

I, for sure, thought they would come to blows. Alek was fighting more with the guys than he was with me because of all the stress behind the scenes. I didn’t know what was going on behind the scenes, but it didn’t look pretty with what I could see.

I walked out to the pool in my bright orange bikini and pulled out a patio chair to sit in the evening sun. The heat flowed over my body, warming my skin, urging me to take a dip for relief.

Alek was late again.

I know I shouldn’t feel lonely, but I did. He had grown on me, and I wanted him around. So when he messaged me saying he had dinner delivered and not to wait up, it stung. My heart hurt, and I squeezed my fists until half-moon shapes bit into my palm. I decided with anger; I didn’t want the meal he was sending, so I made a sandwich instead. I couldn’t be perfect all the time—it was exhausting.

“I’m heading out,” Jake said from the porch door. “Same rules, don’t answer the door. Let the guys do it.”

I waved my hand at him to let him know I understood. I didn’t feel like giving anyone the time of day right now. I had been feeling great until that text came in.

Me: Eat it yourself.

Defiance.

Anger.

I hoped he understood how he made me feel. His men surrounded me all day, but I was still alone. I couldn’t handle being alone anymore, not with him itching under my skin. I mean the good itch, the one where you can scratch it, and it brings such pleasure and relief when you do. He was my good itch, and I needed that scratch.

Although, his actions caused a chain of reactions that always ended with him pissed at me or fucking me. You couldn’t take an independent woman, lock her up, and then come around when it suited you. You were bound to get the behavior that you couldn’t handle.

For instance, my “child-like tantrum,” as he called it. It wasn’t a tantrum; it was a woman at her breaking point with no other outlet but to destroy shit. When he shoved all the stuff off my dresser, I didn’t call it a tantrum, but a man that didn’t know how to control his anger constructively. But when I do it—to excess—it’s the actions of a toddler. I couldn’t roll my eyes any further into the back of my skull.

I finished my sandwich and soda, throwing the can in the bin, and rinsed my plate, putting it in the dishwasher. As I stroll up to the second floor, I paused at the painting of the woman at the beach. What I would give to be as carefree as her right now, not a worry in the world. She didn’t have to look over her shoulder, wondering who was coming after her. She could do as she pleased, dip her toes in the water and disappear into the vast ocean if she so desired. I envied her.

When I was in foster care, I always imagined myself being one of those children at the park. The ones that got to go home with a loving mom and dad. The ones that didn’t have to worry about their next home or meal. When I grew up, I stopped fantasizing about things I couldn’t control… until now. I wanted to be that woman in the painting. I wanted to disappear into that deep abyss of water and become the maker of my fate. I dropped my shoulders and hung my head. “This too shall pass,”was something one of my foster moms would say to me. I’m still waiting.

I put on my silk nightdress and climbed into my cold sheets, wishing his body warmed them, and turned on the TV for comfort. I was still terrified of being alone and in the dark; I didn’t foresee that going away soon. I didn’t want Alek knowing my fear was rearing its ugly head every night. It was hard enough to hide my muted cries during the times I would wake up in a cold sweat, frozen in place, feeling like doom was around the corner. I muted the TV and closed my eyes, the flash of light penetrating my lids. When I would wake in the morning, it would be, without fail, always turned off, and sometimes the smell of his cologne still on my pillows.

∞∞∞

"Okay, rack the round," Randall instructed. The butt of the AR-10 bolt-action rifle pressed securely against my shoulder. I grabbed the knob, lifting and pushing it away from me, then brought it back towards me, locking it into place.

“Now, take aim and squeeze the trigger.”

I closed my left eye and looked down the scope at the picture of a man pointing a weapon. I took a deep breath, held it, then squeezed the trigger. The rifle fired, slamming into my shoulder, producing a wince.

“Good job! Not bad for your first time,” he praised.

A couple of days ago, I saw someone practicing with a big rifle like this, and I asked if I could try it. Randall got so excited I couldn’t even finish asking before he was on the phone talking to someone about it. It was strange watching any emotion come across his face; if I didn’t know any better, I’d say Randall was near textbook sociopath.