You Own Me (Owned Book 1) Read online

  I turned on my e-reader and was about to delve into some romance, when I realized I hadn't talked to my dad in a while. I'd been ignoring his calls for weeks; it was easier that way. Well, it was easier for me. I didn't want to tell him his little girl had upped and vanished into thin air and wasn't going to see him for a while—maybe never again. He loves to forward emails. I used to delete them without a glance, but now, being so far away from him I wanted to read one.

  I set my e-reader down and made my way to the desk. Sure enough, there was a forwarded email waiting from dear old dad. It was a dancing goat video from YouTube. I rolled my eyes, but inside I was laughing. I could picture his smile as he watched the video and decided to forward it to me.

  I was about to turn off my laptop when I noticed another email, this one from an unknown sender. Curiosity got the best of me and I opened it.

  My eyes widened at the first word.

  I kept reading.

  I gulped, instantly regretting reading the message. He didn't sign it, but I knew who sent the email. Dean, my psycho ex-boyfriend.

  It was half past nine and I was late. Everything had gone to shit this morning. My alarm didn’t go off. My suit didn’t survive the move. My straightener broke and I had to bobby pin all my crazy curls in to an updo. Excuses, excuses, excuses—That’s all my morning was to a new employer: Excuses.

  I ran into the coffee shop, hoping there was no line. A sane person would have skipped their morning coffee, but I wasn’t sane. And skipping my coffee would make me borderline homicidal. Heaving the coffee shop door open, I collided with a departing patron, knocking his coffee all over his chest.

  A stream of curse words ran through my head. Seriously, can the morning get worse?

  “I’m so sorry!” From the nearby counter, I grabbed a fistful of napkins, ignoring the incredulous looks of a man trying to make his coffee. Sorry dude, but you’ll just have to wait to put extra cinnamon in your drink, I need napkins.

  Turning away from the counter, I rushed back to the patron who still hadn’t moved since I ran into him. My eyes firmly fixed on the caramel stain, I furiously dabbed at the coffee on the man’s shirt. The stain was setting.

  “I’m so, so sorry!” I repeated.

  This morning was utter shit! I was starting to wonder if there wasn’t some bigger force out there purposefully fucking with me.

  By now we’d gained an audience, the whole coffee shop was watching my frantic cleaning. I kept patting at the soaked shirt, my efforts doing nothing in the way of helping, when two strong hands gripped my wrists.

  “Stop,” a familiar voice said. I stopped, not really by choice but because the grips on my wrists tightened. I looked up to see a familiar face accompany the familiar voice: Vic. I swallowed.

  The day was just getting better and better. I desperately wished we were outside. The State was doing construction, and I’m pretty sure there was an open manhole into which I could fall.

  He stared at me, face blank, fingers still tight around my wrists. Distantly, it registered that my hands were sticky and warm. The coffee I had knocked on to Vic had been hot. Really hot. He hadn’t even flinched.

  I wanted to say I was sorry again. Sorry that I ruined his shirt and sorry that I undoubtedly burned his chest, but I couldn’t. Vic pierced me with his eyes and commanded my silence. With one quick jerk, Vic released my wrists. He pushed past me and walked out of the shop. I was left to pick up the dirty napkins and empty coffee cup. What a brilliant morning.

  My first day on the job was hectic. Bethany demands perfection.

  I was filling my water bottle at the water cooler—yeah, a water cooler—when I felt a presence behind me. I tried to steady my shaking hand but it was no good. All I could focus on was the presence behind me; looming and menacing, it wanted me. My water bottle began to overflow and cold water trickled down my wrist. I couldn’t remove my finger from the spigot button. I couldn’t move. I was trapped. I felt it touch me. I screamed.

  All sounds and senses came flooding back to me as if a wave crashed over my head.

  “Jesus, Nox, what’s wrong?” That was Lissie. I recognized her voice. I’d met Lissie briefly when I came out of the interview.

  I turned around, my hand freezing from the water, and faced her. She wasn’t menacing or looming, she wasn’t Dean. She was just Lissie: long, bleached blonde hair and blue eyes, tits that were huge and fake. She was beautiful in a Marilyn-Monroe-meets-this-month’s-Playboy-bunny way. It had taken me a bit to warm up to her; I had been spurned by those like her before. She was friendly, though. I liked her even more that she gave me a nickname—Nox—no one ever gave me nice nicknames.

  Today, wearing a pink cardigan and beige slacks, she looked straight out of a J.Crew catalog. I wanted to hug her, but I couldn’t. How do I explain what just happened? Instead I smiled, said something ubiquitous, and walked away.

  I sat down in my ergonomic chair and stared at the gray, crisscross pattern on the walls of my cubicle. Post-traumatic stress disorder. I Googled it last night when I woke up in a sweat from a nightmare. PTSD develops after a terrifying ordeal that involves physical harm or the threat of physical harm. It is characterized by repeated nightmares, flashbacks, avoidance—the list goes on and on. Yep, that sounds like me alright.

  Realizing that I was still thirsty, I took a sip from my nearly overflowing water bottle. The liquid felt nice as it went down my throat. It was about the only thing that felt nice right now. I lived with an intangible terror that was always there. It was like a ghost. I’d dealt with stuff like this before, back when I was suicidal. Feelings take root inside of you but they don’t give themselves a name. Then, I had walked around in a haze, my eyes glazed from too much emotion. The tricky feelings refused to show themselves though, and one day I couldn’t handle it. I tried to kill myself.

  This time, however, I knew the feeling: terror. I just didn’t know how to rid myself of it. It had hidden itself behind my organs and inside my blood. Certain things made it come out to play. All I could do was wait. Not being able to control my own body is the worst feeling in the world.

  My eyes unfocused and the pattern of the cubicle walls started to blend into one blob. I took another sip of my water and contemplated my options. I didn’t want to live in fear forever. After years of therapy, group and otherwise, I had barely learned how to grapple with everyday emotions. This newfound fear was a little too much.

  “Lennox.” The way she said my name was not a question. Bethany stood in front of my cubicle, eyes burning small holes into my forehead.

  I know how it looks. It looks like I’m lounging about, staring at my wall, and taking a break. If only that were the case.

  “I have the market research for the Fall Gala,” I said, quickly grabbing and handing her a stack of papers. I was not going to give her the chance to comment or even think about my little “break.” Picking up another sheaf of papers that I had finished an hour ago, I thrust those in her direction. “I was just brainstorming possible pitches for the NuLight brunch. I thought you might want to use them.”

  Her gaze didn’t soften, but the contemptuous glint was gone. I was safe.

  “Good,” Bethany said, quickly flipping through my pitches. “This is adequate. You need to go see Thomas down in accounting to get your paycheck sorted.” She looked up at me, eyes cold. “Are you waiting for a personalized invitation?”

  I stood up as if poked by a hot stick and started on my way toward accounting. I had no idea where accounting was, but that was only a minor detail.

  “Hold the door!” I yelled, as I ran toward the elevator. It was ten o’clock at night and my day had been horrible. I wanted to get to my apartment and into a hot bath as quick as possible. The nice thing about Santa Barbara is that, even though it’s relatively big, it feels like a small town. I walked to work today because Simply Seattle’s offices are only a mile from my apartment complex. That’s serendipity for you.

  Walking at night time is al
ways scarier, though. The dark obscures everyday objects, making menacing shadows of mailboxes and trashcans. For someone with a homicidal ex and PTSD, it’s downright petrifying. So, tonight when I walked home I was jumpy as an electric fence—as usual. The scenery is beautiful though. Spanish architecture, bright flowers, and fountains. I tried to enjoy the view as I walked, ignoring the menacing shadows. But that’s when my trouble began. I heard a noise, so I picked up my pace. Then a shadow loomed over me, so I started running. I didn’t care at that point if I looked stupid. Demons from my past were chasing me, so I sprinted.

  I thought I could take a shortcut through a park. Not really a park, one of those urban beautification projects that the government implements. They put a patch of grass, two flowers, and a small fountain in the middle of an otherwise busy section and called it a day. Well, I took a shortcut through there going full speed, tripped, and into the fountain I went. I walked the rest of the way, feeling stupid. I was like a wet cat, utterly humiliated. How had I ended up like this?

  “Hold the door!” I yelled again. I couldn’t see who was inside, but whoever it was wouldn’t hold the damn doors. No way in hell was I waiting for the elevator to go all the way up and all the way down again. I was drenched and fighting with fate. I wanted out of this miserable day as fast as possible.

  I ran to the elevator, my hair a mess and my clothes wet. I slid inside the doors just as they closed.

  “Motherfucker,” I hissed to myself. Vic. Was he still mad about the coffee? It was an accident. I didn’t purposefully burn him. It wasn’t like I set out to pour coffee on him. I didn’t wake up and think “Oh, I know, I’m going to burn my neighbor this morning with scalding hot coffee!”

  Vic, however, was purposefully being a jerk. Ever since running into him in the hallway, he seemed pissed off. He acted like I’d done something to offend him. I’m sure spilling coffee on him only threw fuel on the fire.

  “What’s your problem?” I asked, my voice brimming with anger.

  “My problem?”

  His slightly amused tone made me grind my teeth. “Yeah. Your problem. You’ve been a complete asshat every time I run into you.”

  He was full-on smiling now. It was gorgeous. He was gorgeous. He had dimples on either side of his cheek and the smile exaggerated his rugged, chiseled jaw line. I hated that I was noticing how good looking he was when all I wanted to do was yell at him.

  “You mean because I’m not falling head over heels for you I’m an asshat?” He repeated my insult like he had no idea what it meant.

  I swallowed hard. It was like he slapped me. Everyone else in this building had been so friendly except for him. Maybe I had overreacted.

  “Whatever,” I mumbled. As the doors opened to my floor, I straightened my back trying to salvage my dignity. I stepped out of the elevator, or tried to, Asshat grabbed my elbow. I raised an eyebrow.

  “What’s your name?” He asked, still smiling.

  “Lennox.” I glared at him. I had just fallen in a fucking fountain, I was in no mood for Asshat’s antics.

  “I’m sorry, Lenny,” Asshat said.

  I stifled my indignation and frowned, not sure of what game he was playing or why he had called me Lenny. The only time people called me Lenny was when they were comparing me to Lenny in Of Mice and Men. When Asshat called me Lenny, however, I felt tingly inside.

  The elevator doors dinged in protest, angry that we were keeping them open.

  I gave him my best Ice Queen stare and said, “Thank you.” Raising my head up haughtily, I retrieved my elbow from his grasp and continued out of the elevator. I swear I heard him laughing as the doors closed behind me.

  For the life of me, I couldn’t get my key in the lock. This building was old and beautiful, but, at times like these, old was the operative word. I was on my fourth attempt, banging on the knob and swearing, when someone called my name. I jumped, startled, and turned around to see Zoe smiling at me.

  “Hey,” I responded, a little less enthusiastically than I should have. I hadn’t seen Zoe since I first moved in and I’d been meaning to thank her for getting me a job. Without her, I’d be begging for change somewhere near the beach.

  “Something up?” Zoe asked. She eyed my defensive stance. Ever since Dean I was constantly in defensive stance. I couldn’t help it.

  “Just thinking about Vic,” I muttered, trying to get my key in the door again.

  “Oh . . .” She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

  “Not like that,” I laughed. Okay, a little bit like that. It was hard not to think of him like that. He was all tall . . . and muscly. Plus, he looked like he could do some serious damage. That shouldn’t turn me on, considering I had a mentally disturbed, violent, ex-boyfriend after me. But, hey, we’re not all perfectly balanced.

  “Oh, well,” Zoe continued, “I’m having a few people from the building over later tonight and you should come by!”

  Ugh. All I really wanted to do was take a long hot bath. “I don’t know—”

  “Stop!” Zoe said, before I could finish my excuse. “I don’t want to hear it. If you show up, great! If you don’t, it is what it is.” And with that, Zoe sauntered off down the hall.

  I finally got the door unlocked right as Zoe rounded the corner. Inside, I turned on my lights. Every single one.

  Because of Dean, I make sure that there are never any shadows in my house. I always check under the furniture and in the closets, like he’s the fucking boogieman or something. Only after I’m certain he isn’t hiding anywhere can I go about the rest of my nightly duties.

  I drew a bath with extra bubbles and made sure it was piping hot. The thing I love most about this apartment is the big window in the bathroom. Most apartments, condos, and even homes don’t have windows in the bathrooms. My favorite thing to do is take a long bath and stare out the window. My old apartment that I shared with Dean didn’t have a window in the bathroom. He didn’t think it was necessary, and I’d caved. Come to think of it, I’d caved to a lot of his demands in the end.

  After a long and much needed bath, I decided to go to Zoe’s. I think if I’d had more friends in Seattle it would have been harder for Dean to victimize me. One of my goals in moving to Santa Barbara was to make more friends. So, as tempting as it is to shut myself in, I’m making an effort to branch out.

  It took me a good two minutes to garner the courage to knock on Zoe’s door. I stood outside of her apartment, rationalizing that I was invited. What’s the worst that could happen? Really nothing. She could tell me that the party was over and I’d have to go home.

  Man, sometimes my anxiety was a bitch.

  Finally, I knocked.

  “Nox! Come in, come in!” Zoe rushed me inside like the hallway was a dangerous jungle. “I didn’t think you were going to come, but I’m glad you did! We were just going to start charades and we have an uneven number.”

  “Charades?” I asked.

  “Yes, I have a soft spot for old-people games and I make everyone indulge me.” Zoe laughed through her explanation.

  “I like charades,” I said dully. I always felt awkward in large social gatherings, like an antelope cornered by lions.

  “Cool. You know Tom and Claire,” Zoe said, motioning to the couple I met in the hallway. “And over there is Lance.”

  “Hello,” Lance said, tipping his head forward. I nodded back.

  “I thought you said you had an uneven number?” I asked, counting four people.

  “Shawn is in the kitchen making salsa,” Zoe answered.

  As if on cue, Shawn called from the kitchen, “Uh . . . Zoe? We have a problem.”

  “What?” Zoe answered. She gave me a he-does-this-all-the-time look.

  “Your sink is flooding!”

  Zoe’s eyes widened and she ran into the kitchen. I heard her yell “shit” from the kitchen.

  “Uh-oh!” Claire laughed, “Time to call the landlord.”

  “Yeah . . . um, who is the landlord?” I asked
. “I left in such a hurry I never got to meet him or her face-to-face.” I purposefully omitted the reason why I left in such a hurry.

  They all stared at me like I was speaking in tongues.

  “What?” I asked. My stomach clenched with an unexpected case of nerves.

  “Vic’s the landlord,” Lance finally volunteered.

  I stared at Lance, waiting for him to say “Gotcha!” I recalled the recent temper tantrum I threw at Vic, my landlord, in slow motion. It was not good.

  “He’s good because he works in security,” Claire offered blandly.

  Tom added, “Yeah, he’s a little aloof, but it’s nice knowing a good guy has your back.”

  I nodded along, dumbfounded that Hottie McAsshole held the roof over my head, and could pull it out from me anytime he wanted.

  Zoe came out, shirt wet, wiping her hands on her pants. “Sorry guys, but I’m going to have to cut the night short. Vic is on his way, but I don’t foresee this being an easy fix.”

  “Do you need any help?” I asked. I didn’t know what I could do, but it never hurt to offer.

  Zoe shook her head, “Not unless you’re a plumber.”

  “Unfortunately, no,” I replied. From my vantage point in the living room, I could see water spilling out from the sink and to the floor. Someone, I think Lance, mentioned the growing pool of water. Zoe cursed and ran back into the kitchen.

  My key was stuck. Again. This historic apartment building was beautiful but it was historic. Historic means old. Old means broken. So, here I was again, key stuck. I kept wiggling the key and jangling the knob, but it wouldn’t budge from the damn lock.

  “Lennox.”

  I jumped. What kind of person just sneaks up and says your name? Serial killers, that’s who. The Hannibal Lectors of the world. I turned around and saw: Vic.