Coming for You (Dirty, Dark, and Deadly 3)

And then… James Fenici blew into my life and swept me off my feet. He demanded things of me. He had expectations. He had plans. And I loved that part about him. I loved that he drove a crappy Hummer. I love the fact that his go-to place was a shithole in the desert. I love the fact that no matter where we were, life was real. And exciting. I love that life with James is moment by moment. Nothing is dull or diluted. Life with James is a full-color, full-speed-ahead kind of life.

I fell in love with that man. I did. I fell in love with the James everyone else hates. And no amount of lobster dinners and Southern California mansions can compare.

I’ve had lobster dinners my whole life. I don’t want lobster dinners. I want junk food. I want crap. I want all the things that make life feel good. I want all the stuff that’s bad for me.

“Harper?” Vincent asks.

I look at him. Why does he have to look like my James?

“Harper, I’m not talking to myself. I asked you a question. Please respond with an answer. What do you want to eat, if not this?”

“I want… umm…” I don’t even know how to explain. I don’t even know if I want to explain it. Why bother? He’s just going to get mad at me for wanting James.

“Want what, Harper?”

I shrug. “I want my life back. And my life isn’t about lobster dinners anymore. It’s about junk food.”

Vincent just stares at me because I make no sense.

I tug on my lobster bib until it breaks and I drop it onto my plate. I look Vincent in the eyes as I push back in my chair and set my napkin on my lap. “I’m not hungry. I’m not eating. I’d like to go to bed if that’s OK.”

I expect him to get angry, but he surprises me with an understanding smile.

God, I can’t take this confusion. I can’t take it.

He takes off his bib and gets up and walks over to me, grabbing my hand in his. “OK.”

And that’s it. We start the walk back up the path to the house. Since we’re facing it now, I can see it all lit up in the distance. It’s massive, for sure. And overwhelming in its opulence.

Growing up on a yacht is a very luxurious experience, because let’s face it, megayachts are pretty special. But no matter how big your ship is, it’s never big. It’s still a boat when you get down to it. It’s still got a finite amount of space that everything has to fit inside.

So this mansion, to me, signifies wealth.

I grew up wealthy, but I didn’t have a frame of reference to compare my life to except the local indigenous populations of the islands we frequented. They were poor, but think about it, we all lived in the same place. Paradise. We sat on the same beaches. We swam in the same turquoise blue ocean. My cabin was probably the same amount of square footage as the small bedrooms the other girls on the beach lived in.

We were not so different in my eyes. I’m sure their perspectives are different. But my perspective counts too. And that’s what it was. So moving to the beach—into that small, cramped studio apartment—well, that was not so difficult for me. James’ house in the desert, same thing. It was actually rather spacious. Not that we spent much time there. But it was comforting to have a small space with the open desert around. It mirrors the experience of our boat surrounded by the sea.

Merc’s house? That was perfection. It was plain on the outside, but inside it was cozy and inviting. I’ve never met Merc, but he must be a pretty cool guy to have a home like that. It was like… a refuge.

I look up at the looming house before me and try to put the feeling it evokes into words. It’s like… a citadel… a fortress. A—

“Harper?”

“Yes?” I answer to break up my thoughts.

“If you’re not hungry for dinner, do you mind stopping in the kitchen to have a snack with me?”

When I look up, his eyes are soft and his mouth is turned up in a slight smile. “What kind of snack do you normally eat?”

“Hmmm.” He thinks. “I’m not much of a snacker. I like meals. But I can bend, Harper. I’m not rigid. And maybe all you want is an apple? Or some crackers and cheese? There might even be some pastries.”

I have to smile at that. I bet this guy never eats cookies from the looks of him. Sure, his body is pretty much the same as James’. But I’m sure James keeps trim from work. I bet Vincent keeps fit with diet and exercise like most people.

“OK. I am hungry, it’s just—” My words fail me and I look around the massive living room as we walk through the French doors.

“It’s just too much,” Vincent says, leading me down a dark hallway.

“Yeah, it really is. I’m overwhelmed.” We stop in an entrance and Vincent must find the light switch, because the blackness is suddenly illuminated. The kitchen is… industrial. Not warm and homey like the one at Merc’s house. I’m disappointed.

“Look,” Vincent says, looking down into an open bin built into the side of the wall. “Croissants?”

I make a face.

“Danish?”

A shrug this time.

He reaches down and pulls out a bag of rolls. “Bread and butter?” That makes me laugh because I know I’m being ridiculous and bratty. “I can throw in tap water if you want the real prisoner experience.”

I frown. Because that’s the word I was looking for outside as we walked towards the house. Not prisoner.

Prison. This place reminds me of a prison.