Page 10 of A Midnight Romance

Lux

M y gaze blurs as I struggle to keep my eyes open while staring at the empty screen of my computer. Despite the deadline with my editor looming over me, I’m struggling to get the words out. I can’t focus on anything else but what happened last night.

I’ve spent all day in my office, meticulously documenting every detail I recalled from that weekend since writing wasn’t happening.

Some memories have been clear, while others haven’t.

I usually do best by relying on my senses, but they are failing me now.

The parts that come in murky are the memories I need to retrieve the most. And as soon as I get frustrated with myself, a dark image of River flashes in my mind.

Although I haven’t seen his face, his presence and need to keep me safe is enough to create a little flutter in my stomach.

Frustrated, I get out of my seat and run a hand through my hair, when I catch sight of my phone on the floor, charging.

What if I texted him? Why do I want to?

He’s the only other person who knows what happened to me and he’s the only one I’ve spoken to about it.

But the waiting is making me anxious. I can’t focus on writing, or getting back to my regular life, because the unsettledness of what I went through has formed an itch that’s embedded itself into my nerves.

Unable to satisfy it for the sheer ignorance of having no clue how to move forward.

The desperate need for closure or vengeance is pointing me in River’s direction .

I glance around the four walls in my office as my breathing picks up.

Like they’re closing in on me, I panic and rise from my chair.

With a quick glance out the window, I see the sun is setting over the horizon, and I realize I’m destined to spend another night chasing sleep, so I may as well get a coffee and some fresh air.

I swiftly slip on my shoes, grab my purse, and head out the door.

Typically, I’d walk to my favorite local coffee shop, because it’s only a short distance down the street, but after everything that’s happened recently, driving seems like a safer option.

I’ve been going there for coffee since I moved into my townhouse a couple years ago.

It’s the perfect spot for those long days of writing on a deadline.

When I walk in, the fresh aroma of coffee grounds hits me and gives me a temporary boost of energy while providing a desperate hit of relaxation, too. I take my place in line behind a taller gentleman.

While I wait for my turn, I take in my surroundings—instinctively analyzing the place and the people inside.

I take note of the amount of customers, what each of them are doing, and if anyone looks out of place.

Growing up with a police officer as a dad, I grew used to these behaviors but I’m even more diligent now.

“I guess they’re out of vanilla scones,” I hear the man in a navy suit in front of me say. At first, I think he’s muttering to himself but when I glance toward at him, he’s looking straight at me.

I flash him a quick smile before turning my gaze away, making it clear that I’m not interested in small talk with a stranger.

“In case that’s what you planned to order,” he adds, gliding a hand through his greasy hair.

His sudden interest and demeanor raises the hairs on my arms and my stomach churns, putting me on alert .

There’s something off about him, but I don’t want to draw his attention, so I simply say, “I wasn’t, but thanks.”

“Of course,” he replies with a leery smile.

Once he’s done placing his order, I do the same before standing to the side and keeping my distance from him. But instead of getting the message, he moves to stand next to me, and I catch the faintest breeze of his cologne.

Cherry cigar.

The scent triggers a sense of fear combined with familiarity, but it could simply be a coincidence. Cherry is a common tobacco scent. I’m probably being paranoid.

While we each wait for our orders, I can sense him watching me intently, and it sends chills up my spine.

Do I know him? Was he one of the men that took me? Does he recognize me?

He might not have been the one who raped me, but a strong cherry stench clung to him. One that almost made me gag when the other had finished and he leaned in and whispered in my ear, “I’m next, so keep the pretty little pussy wet for me, darlin’.”

My heart rate skyrockets forcing me to take a breath. But I force myself to shake the thought away.

He couldn’t. I was blindfolded and naked while being held chained to that bed.

“Rich!” the barista shouts as he walks up to her.

My eyes widen at the name.

Rich …Andrew said his name in the basement, but only out of anger since the guy with the cherry scent ejaculated all over my chest when he wasn’t supposed to.

No one was allowed to have me except Andrew.

I vaguely remember hearing conversation about how he didn’t want th em to know what I look like or have me. Do the men take turns or something?

Could this be one of the men there that night?

Wetness gathers on my forehead and I briskly wipe it away nervously while my mind grapples with the possibility.

He takes the paper cup from barista’s hand and gives her a warm smile, as if they know each other.

“How’s your dad?” he asks the young barista.

She continues working, but answers. “He’s good. You know him, always working hard.”

His shoulders straighten while his eyes shoot me a look before he responds. “That he does. Tell him I’ll see him next tax season.”

Tax season?

She chuckles. “I will.”

“Have a good day, darlin’.” He suspiciously looks over at me one more time before leaving.

No…it is him.

I know it.

Fuck.

I knew I should’ve stayed home. Why did I leave….

Swallowing hard, I attempt to keep the panic induced bile from rising up from the back of my throat.

When I see the barista coming to the counter with my drink, I rush over and interrupt her before she calls out my name.

“That’s mine!”

Her expression brightens as she hands it to me. “Oh, perfect!”

I’m still reeling from being so close to one of my possible attackers, but I force myself to plaster a fake smile on my face and say, “I couldn’t help but overhear, the gentleman before me mentioned he did your father’s taxes?”

“Rich?” she says, grabbing an empty plastic cup and a tea pitcher. “Yeah, he’s wonderful. We’ve known him forever.”

My lungs constrict. “I’m actually new in town and looking for someone to help with my taxes.”

“That’s Rich Smith and he works at Stanford Accounting Services. I’m sure if you give them a call, they’ll be more than happy to book an appointment for you. Say Haley sent you,” she offers as she finishes someone else’s order.

With my heart racing, I clutch the paper cup between my fingers. “Great, thank you so much.”

“Of course,” she tosses over her shoulder.

I hurry home, immediately returning to my office.

I flip my laptop open and start searching the law enforcement databases for anything I can find on Rich Smith.

Which, surprisingly, doesn’t take me long.

It appears that pervert has recently been made partner of the accounting firm, even though it appears he hasn’t been there long.

I spend the next few hours reading articles and pouring over the information I find in the county’s database, my coffee long forgotten.

I skim through the few minor traffic violations before finding a domestic violence incident from a few years ago.

The charges were later dropped by his wife, citing an attempt to mend their marriage.

Then I find an address to a house not far from my own.

And before I realize it, an intrusive thought is creeping into my mind.

Should I go to his house? Maybe dehumanize him in some way?

I want to know where he lives. If he is the monster I know him as, because, according to the barista, he’s a wonderful guy .

Two separate lives. Two completely different personas. A wife, and possibly kids? Driven by rage and now the answer for why someone who appears like a trustworthy member of society can do they heinous things is perplexing.

The sound of my phone buzzing startles me out of my spiraling thought.

My chest tightens with nerves as I reach for my phone.

Unknown: Lux.

River. I haven’t changed his name in my phone, because he is still unknown to me. Rubbing my lips together, I nervously tap out a response.

Me: Yes?

Unknown: You’re not sleeping, again.

Me: Why are you so obsessed with my sleeping habits?

Unknown: Because that’s what people do at night. They sleep.

Me: Not all people.

Unknown: And what plagues your nights, Lux?

Me: You already know, River .

Unknown: My team is working as fast as we can.

Rising to my feet, I move the curtain to one side, discreetly peering into the night. I easily find his parked car beneath the tree and wonder what he’s doing when a small movement in the bushes across the street alerts me.

My phone buzzes with a single text message.

Unknown: Hi.

I can’t help but laugh and close the curtains. If River is going to sit outside my house every night until his team takes care of those men in whatever way he’s implying—which is still a mystery to me at this point—then he can tag along as I conduct my own research.

Instead of responding to his last message, I take a quick picture of Rich’s address, grab my coat , and head out the side door that leads into the garage. I start the ignition, and plug Rich’s address into my GPS, then pull out onto the street without a sign of River behind me— yet .

Less than fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling onto a wide suburban street lined with large bushy trees.

With minimal street lights, common for this area, I pull over a few houses down, maintaining distance from Rich’s house.

After shutting the engine off, I stare at his light blue with white shutters two-story house.

It looks perfect and quaint—no one would expect what type of person lives here.

And then, as expected, a black car quietly pulls up directly behind me. And I’m hit with both nerves and a small amount of relief knowing I have protection.