“Lenny—”
“No. This is it, Vic. No more back and forth. I don't even think we should be friends. We're not good at any of this. Landlord and tenant, okay?”
His answer was all I had. If he said no, if he said we would be friends or we would be fuck-buddies, I would say yes to either. I was utterly his. He owned me. I wanted to kill myself at the notion that I was enslaved to someone else, but I couldn’t, because that power didn’t belong to me anymore. I was waiting for his answer, an answer that could free me and give me power again.
“Okay, Lennox, just landlord and tenant.”
Two days until takeoff, and everything was going according to plan. Maybe it was fortuitous that Vic and I weren't together: I can't imagine having pulled this party together while being tangled up in him. Even that short amount of time where I had been distracted by him and his dates (skanks!) had nearly been enough to derail me. Still, I made it back, and now the caterers had just confirmed. Now all I had to do was—
Knock, knock, knock.
I flinched at the loud noise. Even BD (before Dean), I hated the noise of a delivery man knocking. They're so loud and intrusive. I get why they need to be that loud, but it's still horrible. It makes my heart jump out of my chest, and requires me to rein in my instinct to grab a knife before going to the door.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Okay!” I yelled ungraciously as I walked toward the door. I checked through my peephole, making sure it really was a deliveryman. There was no one there. Adjusting my angle on the peephole, I saw a big, white box with a red bow on the hallway floor. Suspiciously, I cracked open the door and looked up and down for the deliveryman. Seeing no one, I gathered the box up and quickly shut the door behind me.
I flipped the card over for more clues about the box. Nothing. Hmm, this is weird.
I tugged at the taped lid. It came off with a silent whoosh and a rustle of tissue paper. Inside lay a swath of red fabric. I held it up to the light and my eyes popped. It was a fire-engine red dress, with a deep V-neck and high slits up both sides. It was so not my style. Neither was it Bethany’s. What was she up to? I gingerly set the dress down in the box, afraid it was going to leech onto me and turn me into a succubus.
Already having decided what I was wearing for the event, I wasn't about to change my mind now. I'll thank Bethany at the party, but tell her the red dress didn't fit.
I picked up my dress from the back of a chair where I’d laid it a few days ago. I held it up to me in front of the mirror, swaying side to side. It was a deep emerald satin number. It was sexy, but not overtly so. I think it fit the theme of an Old Hollywood masquerade perfectly. It highlighted my assets, hid my flaws, and it made my red hair flame and my pale skin shine. It really was a fantastic dress, and I looked damn good in it. And hey, I'd picked it up for cheap at a vintage store.
Knock, knock, knock!
I jumped and let go of the dress. It gently cascaded to the ground like a green smoke tendril.
I opened the door, but there was no one there. Nothing on the ground, and no one in the hallway. I would hear if someone was running away, wouldn't I? I shook my head. All of this Halloween and haunted mansion nonsense was freaking me out. I was even starting to believe in ghosts.
I firmly shut the door. My eyes wandered to the red dress, the card still lying on the floor. If I had a million dollars, I would bet that dress wasn't from Bethany. In fact, I would bet that wasn't from a friend at all.
No, this wasn’t the work of ghosts. At least, not dead ghosts.
I shoved the white dress box against the bulletproof glass at the police station. The man behind the counter gave me a look as if to say “I have a gun.” I know you have a gun, bro, that's why I'm here.
“I need help,” I said.
The officer looked slightly concerned. He pushed aside his paperwork.
“Do you need me to call a cab? A boyfriend?” He paused. “A girlfriend?” he asked a bit cautiously.
I shoved the box against the glass again. “I'm not drunk. I'm being stalked.”
The officer raised his eyebrows, looked at the box, and then back at me.
“Look, Officer, uh,” I looked at his name tag: Officer Petty. My God, I cannot make this stuff up.
I started again, “Look, Officer Petty, I have a violent ex that I ran away from and he's found me and he's threatening me.” I said this with all the bluster I could; I had to get the officer to take me seriously.
“What’s your name, young lady?”
“Lennox Moore.”
“Have a seat, Miss Moore. We'll be right with you.”
I sat down on a cold seat and thrummed my fingers together nervously. Despite it being a police station, there wasn't much going on. If you watch cop shows, you would have expected the police station to busy, but precinct stations’ lobby hours were the same as a regular store. Sometimes less so. People weren't running in and out of them at all hours of the day and night screaming bloody murder. During business hours, people came in to fill out paperwork or to do something else boring and mundane. They weren't like me, desperately looking for help.