Dr. Good - A Man Who Knows What He Wants

Knock-knock.

I pause at my bedroom door, staring across the apartment at the front door. It’s double-locked like it always is, but still, a note of fear moves through me.

I try to tell myself it’s not Derrick, that Derrick moved to Canada a year ago and he’s probably moved on to some other poor girl now, but the words ring out hollow in my mind.

Knock-knock-knock.

The noise gets louder, as though whoever it is – it’s Derrick, a vicious voice hisses – is getting tired of waiting. And soon they might simply kick the door down.

I hurry across the apartment, reaching over the kitchen partition and taking a knife from the block.

I know it’s probably going to turn out to be an over the top reaction, but the anxiety flurrying through me makes it impossible to do anything else, and there’s no way I’m taking any chances.

“Hello?” I call, creeping closer to the door.

“Maintenance,” a man says gruffly.

He’s got an East Coast accent, not Derrick’s deceptively friendly Canadian… that’s why he moved back up there, to be with his sick mother. Which seemed strange to me because Derrick is the least caring person ever.

He is probably hoping to work her out of her inheritance.

“I didn’t call maintenance,” I murmur, not trusting the relief that moves through me.

“There’s a possible gas leak,” the man snaps. “Miss Grahams, there isn’t time to argue. Please open the door.”

“I don’t smell any gas,” I say.

Part of me aches with the thought I’m making a fool of myself, that word is going to spread around the building that apartment ninety-seven put everybody’s lives at risk because of some silly unfounded fears.

And yet another part of me sends urgent signals through my body, rivaling even the signals I feel toward Miller, screaming, Stay safe. Don’t you dare open that door.

“You’re not here for the gas, are you?” I say, my voice trembling when the man doesn’t answer.

“I have a note for you, Macie,” the man says, his voice low and gruff.

“Who are you?”

“He said to tell you it doesn’t matter who I am. I don’t know you. I don’t know him either. He said to tell you… fucking hell, he said to tell you I’m just some homeless worthless bum, and maybe he’d slit my throat after I gave you the message. He said I had to say that or I wouldn’t get my money.”

My throat tightens, my skin pricks like thousands of sharp needles are being jabbed into me.

“What note?” I murmur.

“He said I had to give it to you in person.”

“He’s not a freaking psychic,” I cry. “How would he know?”

“He said…”

“What?” My voice is shaking now, my words bubbling up like hot lava, burning my insides. “What the fuck did he say?”

“He said he has your place bugged.”

My blood turns cold, my mind stampeding ahead to try and figure out if this is possible, if he could’ve been here.

But even though I double-lock it when I’m inside, I don’t when I’m outside. And when I take the trash out, do I lock it at all?

No, the answer is no.

Which means it’s possible.

It’s also possible that he’s just trying to scare me, but that doesn’t do much to calm my hammering nerves.

“I’m not opening the door,” I manage to say, my heartbeat shattering in my chest. “So you can slip your twisted note under the door or you can go to hell. I don’t care.”

He sighs. “Fine. But if he doesn’t pay me…”

He leaves the threat unfinished, but I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about Derrick, about the sick lunatic who’s returned to make my life a living hell for the second time.

How can I possibly become a mother with him stalking me?

The man pushes a folded-up piece of paper under the door.

I wait until I hear him walk away, and then dart forward and grab it, being careful not to stumble with the knife in my hand.

I pick it up to find the familiar-looking handwriting – a jagged scrawl – taunting me from the paper.

I’ve come back to claim what’s mine. Don’t worry, my sweet angel. I’m watching you. Love, D.

I yell when my cell phone blares from the kitchen divider, dropping the note and the knife, my heartbeat feeling like it’s going to throttle me.

Who’s calling?

Is it Derrick?

Oh, God, why can’t he just leave me the heck alone?

Chapter Six

Miller

I sit in my office, my phone on speaker on my desk, gripping the edge of the desk like any second I could snap and flip it over as the phone’s ringing fills the air.

I feel like I could flip it just to release some of this pressure surging through me, the pressure pushing against me and trying to erupt out of my body.

I tried to focus on my reports and other work-related tasks, but the words blurred across the screen, transforming into shapes of Macie, of her wide hips, and her thick juicy gorgeous thighs.