Dylan (Inked Brotherhood 4)

Somewhat to my surprise, the gate opens. I’d been pretty sure Dad would have revoked all my access to the building by now. Unless Mom filing for a divorce is keeping him busy.

I roll down the ramp and park in my space, then take the elevator up to my floor. Heart pounding, I prepare my pepper spray as the doors ding and slide open.

The landing is empty. It feels so weird to be back here. Memories assault me—Sean pushing me against the wall, smiling while treating me like trash, telling me he owns me. That my dad sold me for a business deal.

Holy shit. Heart pounding with remembered fear, I push my key into the lock. It fits and turns easily. Lock hasn’t been changed, either. I enter my apartment—my former apartment, my former life—and look around me like I’ve never been here before.

Did I really live in this cold, huge space? I stand in the hall, looking into the living room with the leather sofas and the enormous flat TV, the tall bay windows and the lake beyond. The mahogany coffee tables bear Bohemia crystal ashtrays, and the lamps in the corners of the room cost more than my current paycheck. The dark gray ceramic floor gleams. A cleaner comes in twice a week, to scrub and wash and polish.

Christ. No wonder Dylan called me a princess. No wonder he thought I’d run when I saw his house and faced his problems.

The only signs I ever lived here are the archaeology posters on the walls and the books and pottery replicas on the shelves. No comparison to the messy coziness that’s Dylan’s home—even if it needs a good bout of cleaning. At least it’s warm and personal.

I step into the stainless steel-and-granite kitchen. At least here

I’ve spent some time, trying out new recipes—hiding it from my parents, who think cooking is for lower life forms. I pass my hand over the black counters and open the fridge. Milk, eggs, cheese. I throw everything into the trash.

Getting rid of what has gone bad. Seems very symbolic somehow.

I return to the living room and stand at the bay windows, looking out. I fold my arms under my breasts, wondering why it’s so cold in here, in spite of the heaters whirring.

Why am I lingering? I have no cherished memories of this place—well, except for Dylan making love to me on the sofa that awful night of the gala.

I shake my head, pleasure flooding my senses and sending my mind spinning when I think of him. He’s been in my heart since I first met him at school, long before he asked me out. To be with him is more than I could ever dream of.

So… no more lingering. This isn’t my home. My home is by his side.

Smiling, I cross to my bedroom, locate my suitcase and open my closet.

Again I’m frozen in place. Was this me—the girl who dressed up in these conservative pencil skirts and silk shirts, dresses like the ones my mother wears, black pumps and sheer tights? Speechless, I stare at my collection of cashmere sweaters, my black shimmery pants, my boring black underwear.

The only crazy—crazy bad—clothes I’ve worn recently were the ones Dad sent me for the gala night, to parade me around, and those I’ve already sent back.

Jeez. How did I live like a good little pet for so long?

Furious at myself, I go through my stuff, trying to find something I can use, something I like. I end up throwing a couple of jeans and stretchy T-shirts into my suitcase, followed by a few long sweaters and a pair of cowboy boots I don’t even remember buying. Socks, boring underwear—until I can buy something more exciting—and my running shoes and sports clothes.

Then I go through my room and gather my dog-eared paperbacks, my notebooks, my favorite DVDs, my tablet and my laptop. If Dad objects to me keeping these, then screw him.

My whole life fits in a suitcase. Wow. Okay, to be fair, I’m leaving a lot behind I’d have liked to take with me—old stuff mainly, photo albums and CDs and posters, heavy coffee table art books my granddad left me when he died, bottles I decorated with melted wax and my painting tools.

When I moved in here, away from my parents, I thought I’d be free of them. Didn’t realize the fetters were anywhere I went, that I carried them in me, because I hoped for acceptance where there was none.

I slam the suitcase closed and drag it out of my bedroom on its small wheels. The sound of them rolling on the ceramic floor echoes in the empty apartment as I cross the long living room and reach the door.

There I stumble and come to a stop. The words ‘Fuck you, bitch’ have been drawn in red on the pale gray door.

Sean was here. Inside my apartment.

A shudder goes through me, fear clawing its way up my throat until I feel bile rising. I swallow convulsively, grip the handle of my suitcase more tightly.

He’s not here. Sean isn’t here, and if he is, I’m calling the police.

My cell. I dig in my purse to find it, and for a moment I panic, thinking I left it in the car, but no, there it is. I pull it out, and suck in a deep breath.

I can do this. He has a restraining order. If he as much as approaches me, I’m calling the police, and I’ll land his ass in jail.

But when I cautiously open the door, the same emptiness and silence as before greets me. Dragging my suitcase behind me, I exit and cross over to the elevator. My palms are sweaty. My pulse is booming in my ears. It’s not until I’m sitting inside my jeep, the doors locked, I can breathe again.