Page 17 of Violent Little Thing

Business as Usual

DELILAH

I had a dream I went swimming last night. Just me, the moon and the gentle motion of wading in the water lulling me into the most restful sleep I’ve had in a while.

On the regular, Weston and my father and a mirage of the woman who didn’t raise me haunt my dreams.

But last night was peaceful. They didn’t make a single cameo.

I feel rested, almost weightless, as the sun streaming through my window heats my skin, nudging me awake.

For a second, I lay there and just revel in normalcy.

After pulling myself up against the cushioned headboard, I survey the room that I’ve woken up in for the past month, minus a few days.

It doesn’t look like the cell of a glorified prisoner. It resembles a place I would have chosen if I wasn’t forced to be here. I don’t know how, but every day Ms. Agnes sneaks something else in here that I would have chosen for myself .

The muted colors don’t overwhelm me, and the soft lines of the furniture create a feeling of safety I probably shouldn’t trust.

Yawning, I look at the summer quilt at my feet, almost kicked completely off the bed.

The black socks on my feet seem out of place. I never wear socks to bed.

My brow hikes while I try to summon memories of what I did before falling asleep last night.

It’s fuzzy. The only thing that stands out is how warm and safe I felt as I slept.

Maybe I got cold and didn’t check what I was pulling out of the drawer.

But the sweats...

You know what?

No, this isn’t a burden I want after having the best sleep of my life.

I’d rather spend the pain-free time I have relaxed before the perpetual headache sets in along with the reality of my situation.

At the closet, I take out a white dress with a sweetheart neckline and tiny violets stitched into the fabric.

One look in the mirror confirms my hair is all over my head because I forgot to wrap it last night, so my shower takes double the time it normally does. After cleaning my scalp with shampoo, I lather on a generous amount of strawberry-scented conditioner.

And I walk downstairs in a cloud of the same fragrance when I finish blow drying my hair and getting dressed.

“Good to see you feeling better, Ms. Delilah,” Victor greets as my feet hit the last step.

Stationed by the railing, he dips his head in acknowledgement .

I can’t help but hesitate beside him, neck craned to read his face, but it gives away nothing as he stares down at me.

“Something wrong, Ms. Delilah?”

“Why did you say that?”

The briefest flicker of confusion marks his countenance before Ms. Agnes’ voice interrupts his reply.

“Good, you’re awake. You’re late. Come sit down, I’ll get your pancakes out of the oven.”

Reluctantly, I break eye contact with Victor to find Ms. Agnes a few paces behind us, arranging a vase of creamy white calla lilies on a console table in the hallway.

Against my will, a blockade of emotions creates a painful lump in my throat.

“What’s wrong?” Agnes’ sweet voice loses some of its levity, her concern evident as she moves in on me.

My head moves back and forth, but the lump of emotions persists. My eventual words come out on a croak, “N-nothing. My father loved those flowers. That’s all.”

I put them on his grave even though Weston couldn’t afford a headstone.

I simply needed something to mark his eternal place in the ground.

Honoring him was nowhere near my mind when I bought them from the store.

No.

They marked his departure as much as they marked my freedom.

That was the only thing worth celebrating and I still remember using forty dollars I couldn’t spare to pay for them before I walked over three miles to his grave.

If I’d known then…

“Oh. That’s nice, honey.” Agnes shuttles me away from the hall, no doubt spooked by the stupefied look on my face. “Come sit down, Delilah. Let me wash my hands and get your breakfast on the table.”

“You don’t have to serve me, Ms. Agnes. I can get it.”

“Hush,” she hisses. By now, it’s a loving sound coming from her and I smile at the routine of it all. I tell her the same thing every morning just to be met with a similar response.

So, I prop my hand under my chin and watch her move around the kitchen with ease.

Soon, a stack of pancakes with a dollop of whipped butter on top finds its way in front of me.

An adoring smile lights up her face as she sets a glass of water and my silverware beside the plate.

Before I can pick up my fork, Titus bulldozes into the kitchen from the back door, bypassing his water bowl and coming straight for me.

All eighty pounds of him disappear under the breakfast table before his head makes it to my lap in record time. Earnest eyes lock on my face and my heart melts at the sight.

“Hey, old man,” I coo. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

The dog’s labored breathing is drowned out by a throat clearing.

A deep, authoritative throat clearing. The sound does wonders in arresting my high spirits.

Heavy footfalls have me focused on the arched doorway of the kitchen before his athletic frame crowds it.

Then the musky, masculine scent of him teases my nostrils.

A shirtless Adonis looks around the kitchen, hands on his waist and wired headphones draped around his corded neck .

Oh, no.

Sweat glides over the contours of his chest and abs, his locs are pulled back from his face and those perceptive, menacing eyes find me like a magnet seeking out its opposite force.

Just like that, my head starts pounding in full force. It might be a placebo effect, but until I’m free he can shoulder the blame for every inconvenience I face.

It’s the weight of Titus’ head on my lap that pulls me back, and I reach up to rub my neck, scared the same splotches that plague my brother under duress are visible on my skin.

My captor’s V-line was not a discovery I needed to make today.

And it’s a shame too. A body like that is wasted on someone like him.

A face chiseled by God’s hands and a soul shaped by the devil himself. His whole existence is at odds with itself. It explains why he leaves me feeling so unsettled. Overwhelmed. Breathless.

“Why are you still here?” I blurt, trying to find my footing.

It’s not easy when he stops beside the table to peer down at me like I’m a source of amusement.

His lips curl as he pulls off the elastic holding his locs in place. They tumble around his shoulders before he ever parts his lips to respond.

“Morning to you too, Ms. Rose.” His chair drags over the floor. Angling it in my direction, he sits down with too much grace for a man his size.

How tall is he anyway?

Every doorway he occupies seems too small for the sheer size of him .

His gaze lingers on me, not assessing but caressing and bumps raise on my skin.

“You sleep well?” His gravelly voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.

I don’t like it.

“Stop talking to me.”

“You asked me a question first. Would’ve been rude not to answer.”

“Since when has that stopped you?”

For a second, his dark eyes aren’t cold and calculating, there’s a subtle warmth around the edges, almost like he’s holding back a smile. “Just today.”

In unison, Titus and Agnes heave an exasperated sigh.

It’s the first time in twenty-six years I’ve been chastised by a dog.

Rolling my eyes, I grab my utensils and spread the butter on my breakfast. I form meticulous triangles as I cut into the fluffy stack.

The man beside me waits until I take my first bite to tell me, “You have a doctor’s appointment today.”

“What?”

“For your headaches. Victor will take you when you finish your breakfast.”

“I’m leaving the house?—“

“With Victor,” he points out, voice hardening. “I’ll see you at dinner, Ms. Rose. Try to stay out of trouble.”

He’s standing again before I can make sense of everything he dropped in my lap.

I’m leaving the house. For the first time in almost a month. For a doctor’s appointment?

It’s almost frazzling enough to miss the flexing of his muscles as he pushes the chair back under the table.

From the corner of my eye, I count the indentations of his abs.

Eight .

I bite my lip instead of the pancakes on my fork and embarrassment slithers through me, rightfully dousing the building embers of my fascination.

Not today, Adonis.

Sometimes, I wonder if Victor ever resents his boss for putting him on babysitting duty. Other times, I think anyone willingly working for Adonis deserves what they get.

But that’s torpedoed every time Agnes lays a loving hand on my shoulder or modifies my meals because she knows what textures make my appetite disappear. She’s an angel working for the devil. It’s the only logical explanation.

But the devil was an angel too.

And Victor…

He doesn’t say much but he’s never made me believe he would hurt me. He’s scary, in the way most men who are as tall as they are wide tend to be. But there’s a gentleness about him that won’t let me hate him. Regardless of his chosen employer.

I’m in the backseat of a black SUV while he maneuvers through mid-morning traffic. The truck smells like Adonis even though he left in a blacked-out Mercedes at the same time we did.

How often does he rotate his cars and why does a single man need so many? The house’s detached four-car garage is full and there’s usually one odd car out on the driveway .

We passed the graveyard five minutes ago, turning right out of Adonis’ neighborhood. Greedily, my eyes drink in everything we pass, deprived for so long that every detail catches my attention.

Victor announces, “We’ll be at Dr. Silas’ office in twenty minutes, Ms. Delilah.”

Meeting his kind stare in the rearview mirror, a smile tips up my lips.

“Do you like your job, Victor?”

“Of course,” he answers without hesitation.

“Why do you work for Adonis?” He looks overqualified for any position he could possibly want. And it hurts my brain trying to figure out why Adonis gained his loyalty.

“Mr. Samson took a chance on me when others wouldn’t.”

A solemn hush falls over the truck as he stops at a red light and catches my eye again.

“What do you mean?”

“When I got out of prison, he was the only one who would hire me.” His fingers flex against the leather steering wheel. “Not everyone was so accepting of the twenty-year gap in my resume.”

The information slips out of him so easily, I have to sit up straight to make sure I heard him correctly.

“T-twenty years?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“What happened?” I’m reeling. Not only is this the most I’ve ever heard this man speak, but he’s also saying it all with a straight face and I don’t know what to make of it.

“Someone hurt the person I loved, and I let my emotions get the best of me.”

Suddenly, the hem of my skirt is more pressing than maintaining eye contact. “Do you regret it?” I ask on a whisper.

“No, ma’am. I just wish I would have been smarter about it.”

There’s something chilling in his tone that demands my attention, but as soon as I look up, the light turns green, and I’m left looking at the side of his head.

Twenty years.

Two decades.

Just like that.

My palms are slick with sweat, so I run them over my dress again and again. Until my phone vibrates on the seat beside me, triggering a sharp inhale.

The last time I paid this phone bill was a week before I got taken. I thought the only reason it still worked was because I was connected to Adonis’ Wi-Fi.

But the banner notification from Indigo tells me a different story.

I guess the least he could do was pay my sixty-dollar phone bill.

Every day, it gets tougher facing Indigo’s curiosity. For the past three and a half weeks, I’ve pulled excuse after excuse out of my ass to explain my prolonged absence.

I know she isn’t buying that I’m in love and need the alone time with my new man. Aside from being a misandrist, she’s the most skeptical person I know, so me disappearing to be with a man was never going to fly with her.

But it was all I had in my arsenal after days of brainstorming.

After swiping my damp fingertips against my dress one last time, I slide my thumb over the screen to view my friend’s message.

Indi: Some guy just knocked on the door and dropped this off. Do you want me to open it and send you a picture?

Me: What do you mean some guy? The mailman?

Indi: No. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and got on a bike after he left it. There’s no stamp. Just your name

Me: Open it