Page 9 of Dirty Little Secrets

M y phone sits heavy in my pocket. There is no match yet.

No alert. I’m not sure if I should feel disappointed or relieved.

If I should scroll through my phone or Pinterest so the app can track my interest. Truth is, I haven’t explored the app much.

Part of it is guilt. But another part—maybe the bigger one—is fear.

Fear if someone from my past recognized me or if I’m not a match for anyone?

What if people that want the same things are the kind of people I’m trying to escape from?

I know there are people into all kinds of things sexually.

The internet is full of them. Obsidian isn’t the only sex club in existence.

There are others. People post about it on blogs all the time to attract people that are into the same things they are.

But then there are the ones who walk the edge between what is safe and the ones people call twisted, dark, depraved.

I’m not into anything crazy and maybe I’m afraid I’ll fall into the hands of someone worse than Brent.

All because I’ve been secretly wishing for a fantasy to replace the memories I’ve been trying to run from.

The only way to find out is to try. And Obsidian sounds like the right place so to separate the way I feel—my wants, my needs —from normal life. Because lately, that line is starting to blur. The only way to know is to leave Landon’s apartment.

I don’t have any feelings for him or anything like that.

We’re not compatible sexually. He was always a means to an end.

As I sit here in his apartment, waiting for him to come home, I run through a dozen reasons why this isn’t working.

I knew deep down when I met him in a bar in my hometown of Seattle, he was just a ticket out of the shitty town I grew up in and the dangerous people who had me chained to a life I never wanted.

Those same people wanting me to use him so I can get what they wanted. In return for a life of freedom.

My phone buzzes from a spam alert. It’s getting late. I’m not surprised he hasn’t made it home from the office on a Friday night. He always has an excuse. You’d be surprised how exhausting acting like I give as hit can be. It is another reason why I’m itching to get this over with.

I’ve spent the last few days trying to find the best way to break things off.

Kristina gave me suggestions. Take your stuff and leave.

Text him. Write a note. None of them felt right.

Especially because we work at the same company.

Breaking up with the man who got you the job at the same place is like setting off a bomb in the middle of a shared office.

There’s no clean way to handle the fallout.

I glance at my suitcase by the door. It’s now or never. The best way is in person. It’s less messy. No games.

I have to play the part of not being ungrateful. Landon did help me get the job. He also helped me move to New York and start over. But this is all a ruse.

I keep hoping he feels the same way. Because these last few days?

I didn’t miss him. I didn’t feel heartbroken he ghosted me.

I felt free. I didn’t have to worry about how I looked or what I said or whether I was making a fool of him.

I didn’t feel like I was walking on eggshells just to get through the day.

Lying to a man you are currently living with is harder than one you despise.

I never lived at the club house or with Brent.

He just expected me to show up when he wanted.

The front door clicks open. My heart lurches, then my stomach drops as the door opens slowly like a chain holding a swing when it’s about to fall. Thinking about breaking up with someone is one thing, going through with it is another.

Landon walks in, jacket slung over his arm, tie missing. There’s a pink smudge on his collar near his throat but I don’t ask or make a scene.

He’ll say it’s from lunch. But I already know it’s not because one thing I learned growing up was men are unforgivable.

He’s been with someone. And strangely, I happy about it. It will make this easier.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be here,” he says, staring at the suitcase. “I thought you’d be with Kristina.”

“I didn’t want to do this over text.”

He drops his jacket on the couch, eyes narrowing. “Do what?”

“I’m leaving.”

He laughs. A short, humorless sound. “Leaving? Where the hell are you going?”

I rise from the chair. My voice stays calm, even though my pulse pounds. “Does it matter?”

“You’re being dramatic.” He steps closer. “What brought this on? That little birthday stunt? The dinner?”

“This has been coming for a while.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. And deep down, you know I do too.”

His mouth tightens. “You’re just mad I didn’t buy you something for your birthday. Is that it? You want me to run out and grab a handbag so you’ll stay?”

“This isn’t about a handbag.”

“Then what do you want?”

I don’t answer right away. Because I thought he would not give a shit and tell me to leave.

“I want to stop pretending,” I say finally.

His eyes narrow. “You’re making a mistake.”

“No. I’m fixing one.”

He steps closer, voice rising. “You think this is easy for me? You think I haven’t sacrificed helping you? There are thousands of women who would kill to be in your position right now but I want you. “

“I’m not doing this,” I say, reaching for my suitcase.

He grabs my wrist. Not hard, but enough to make me freeze.

I clench my teeth. “Let go.” He doesn’t. “I said, let go.”

His grip tightens, and for the first time, I feel fear. Real fear. The crazy look in his eyes has me frozen in place. “Don’t walk out that door,” he growls.

My stomach twists. I yank my arm free and take a step back, dragging the suitcase.

“Don’t be stupid,” he warns his tone softening. Like it would make a difference. There is nothing he could say or do that would make me stay.

“I need to leave,” I say.

He moves toward the counter, hand sweeping across it. A vase shatters. Pieces fly. I haul my suitcase and bolt for the door.

I don’t stop to look back. I don’t check to see if he’s following.

I just run down the hallway to the stairs.

It’s ten flights but the adrenaline gives me the strength I need.

My heart is pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest. Cold fear shoots down my spine as the last steps get closer.

And closer. Hoping he won’t catch up. It feels like a horror movie and I’m a homicidal maniac’s next victim.

When I burst through the exit and hit the sidewalk, the cold night air hits me like a wall of ice. My lungs burn taking lungful amounts of air in my starved lungs. I don’t risk looking back afraid that he’ll be right behind me.

I flag the first cab I see. A pulls hard to the right and stops. I don’t hesitate to open the door holding my suitcase like it’s a lifeline.

As I collapse inside, the driver glances at me in the rearview. “Everything okay, miss?”

“Just drive.”

He nods and pulls away.

My chest is rising and falling with every breath. Only then do I glance down at my arm when I feel something wet and sticky. Blood trickles from a thin cut but I don’t feel any pain. The adrenaline still runs through my veins because I feel nothing but relief.

It’s done.