Loverboy (3 page)

“Hey, everything okay in there?” I hear Nick’s voice come from the other side of the door. “You’ve been in there for nearly an hour.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just stepping out,” I tell him, reluctantly shutting off the water and reaching for my towel.

“Okay,” I hear. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, I will,” I say, rubbing the towel tenderly over my body.

I carefully slide into the gray pair of yoga pants and layer the tank tops over my body. I run my hair brush through my hair, yanking it into a messy bun before throwing the large sweater around me. I take a look in the mirror at my cut up and bruised face. I sigh. No sense in trying to hide it. I still look awful. I still feel awful. There’s no denying that. Maybe a few more weeks and my face would at least look normal, and I could feel a little better about things. There has to be some hope there. I open the door, and I can already hear the television on in
the other room. I find Nick on the couch, flipping through various channels.

“Feel better?” He asks, turning to look me in the eye.

I nod. “A little.”

“One step at a time,” he says.

I nod slowly and bite down on my lip. I glance over at a nearby clock. It’s not even 8 o’clock, but I feel exhausted. I honestly can’t tell if my exhaustion is genuine, or if my prescriptions just plan on knocking me out each time I take them. I yawn softly. “Let me get you some blankets and pillows,” I tell him. “I’m kind of tired, so I think I’ll head to bed a bit early tonight.”

“No problem.” He smiles, as I head down the hallway to a small closet that is completely filled to the brim with all of my extra home goodies. I tug out two medium pillows and three blankets. One being a quilt that my mother had made me years ago; much like the one on my own bed. I yawn sleepily again, and quietly pass him the fluffy pile of blankets. He accepts them with a shy smile. It’s obvious neither one of us have been in such a situation, but given the circumstances and how I’d gotten to know
him in the hospital, I don’t mind it as much as I thought I would.

“Thank you,” he tells me, laying the pile carefully on the couch.

“You’re welcome,” I say. “Feel free to let me know if you need anything else. You know where the bathroom is, and help yourself to the fridge.”

He nods. “I will; you get some rest.”

“I’ll try,” I say. “Goodnight, Nick.”

“Goodnight, Charlie,” I hear him say softly as I head down the hallway to find comfort in my own, warm bed.

- 4 -

Nick

I lay back on the couch, tugging a blanket up slightly as I stare at the ceiling for longer than I had hoped to. It’s not that I can’t sleep. I can. It’s just that, I
can’t
. It’s an odd situation to be in, period. The fact that we need Charlie comfortable, so we kept her in the home. Also, keeping me low key. Give the impression that I’m simply living here as a friend or boyfriend. Help her continue with day-to-day activities. I’m stressed, worried, and now I keep waiting for something to happen; something horrible. I know I’m not the only one with the job of keeping her safe. Her building is secure, and probably has more eyes on it than I’ve been told about. My eyes are heavy. I’m exhausted. I need sleep. I finally give in and roll over to my side as I peek at the clock. Just after one in the morning. Things are quiet, and Charlie is resting, so no sense in fighting sleep anymore. I slowly close my eyes, and just as I feel sleep slowly creeping up on me, I hear a loud scream, followed by several pitiful cries. Within a split second, I’m off the couch in a full sprint to her bedroom. When I throw open the door, I’m surprised to find her, safe in her own bed, locked into a nightmare. Before I can make my way over to her, she suddenly springs up from her bed, gasping for air and pushing her hair from her face.

She slowly looks over at me, not surprised to see me in her room. “It was just a dream,” She mumbles. “Just a dream.”

I nod.
,
“Are you okay?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now.”

“Things will just take time,” I tell her. “You need time to adjust; maybe you could talk to someone about what just happened,” I suggest, trying to push her in the direction of a counselor. Not my place, but, for some reason, I feel the need to help her by doing more than just sleeping on her couch.

“Who?” She snaps suddenly. “You? When did you suddenly become such an expert?”

I don’t take offense to her tone. I run my hand through my hair slowly and shrug. “I’m not an expert,” I tell her again. “I’m just making a suggestion. I see a lot of cases like this, and I also see that talking to someone can really help.”

She sighs deeply and cups her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, this is just,” she pauses, “hard right now.”

I nod. “I understand.”

She slowly pushes the blankets off her, letting them pile up into a heap at the foot of her bed. I see she’s still wrapped up tight in the layers of clothes she had put on earlier as she swings her feet over the edge of the bed.

“Do you like coffee?” She asks.

I don’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

“Would you like some?” She asks. “It’s weird, but it usually helps me sleep to drink something nice and warm.”

“I’ve heard of worse things helping people sleep,” I
tell her.

“Yeah, but it can also help me stay awake when I need it to,” she admits. “I lived off coffee and cereal during finals.”

I smile as she walks past me and into the hallway. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

She nods. “And, that was stay awake and study.”

I follow her slowly into her kitchen, where I watch as she begins working away, pulling various things from cabinets and setting a silver coffee maker on the sparkling clean counters.

“Need any help?” I ask.

She gives her head a shake. “I got really good at this during finals. You should have tasted my coffee before. Awful stuff; could have killed a horse.”

I find myself laughing. “It couldn’t have been that bad.”

She nods. “It was like tar,” she says, pulling a pack of tan coffee filters from another cabinet. “Do you like just black coffee? Cream or sugar? Or are you one of those guys who like the flavored coffee?” She turns to smile, holding up several small packs of coffee.

“You know, I just like it plain; no cream, no sugar,” I tell her taking a seat at the small table.

I lean myself back against the wall, relaxing my body as I keep a close watch on her. She scoops the coffee grounds, measuring it exactly. As she dumps a few scoops into the filter, I get a brief whiff of the grounds as she takes the time to reseal its container, placing it in its own spot. Everything was organized, clean and neat. If this girl were to see my apartment, she’d probably fall over. It wasn’t that I tried to be messy or lazy. I did clean when I got the chance. But, given my job and the amount of time put into it, I didn’t clean often. Saying my place was messy was a huge understatement. Seeing her place and the state it was in made me feel like a slob.

As the coffee maker begins to work its magic, she takes the time to lean against her counter, crossing her arms in front of her body. Her eyes meet mine as she begins wiggling one foot around. “You mentioned that I could talk to someone,” she says softly. “Like whom?”
She asks.

“A counselor; we have some great recommendations,” I tell her. “Female, if you prefer.”

She slowly nods. “Do you think it could really help?”

“I’ve heard it can really help to open up about things,” I say. “I mean, think about it; keeping things bottled in only makes it worse. Imagine how good it may feel to get things all out in the open.”

She nods again slowly, as though rolling the idea over in her mind. She opens her mouth to speak, but the gurgling from the coffee pot sends her into a slight jump. She takes a breath and shakes her head as she reaches out for two ceramic mugs from another neatly organized cabinet. “Hope you don’t mind strong coffee,” she says as she begins pouring two cups.

“Not at all,” I reply.

She slowly walks over to the table, careful not to spill, and sits the cup in front of me. She finally takes a seat across from me, bringing both of her legs into the chair to sit Indian style. It’s then and there that I find the most incredible urge to stare. Her brown hair has since fallen from its messy bun and is now hanging loosely and comfortably around her face and shoulders. I can now see that her eyes are a shade of blue-green that I’ve never seen before. I watch as she slowly lifts the cup to her lips, carefully, blowing softly through puckered lips before having a sip. Once finished, she returns the cup to the table to lock eyes with mine again.

“What?” She asks softly as she bites down a moment on her bottom lip.

“Has anyone ever told you that you bite your lip a lot?” I find myself releasing a slight chuckle as her cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink.

“Sorry,” she says, “bad habit; sometimes I don’t even catch myself doing it. I do it when I’m thinking.”

We both sit in silence for a moment before I open my mouth to speak again. “Care to talk about your dream?”

She wraps the sweater around her body again, this time tighter. “I…do you think I should?”

“Well, it’s better than holding things in,” I tell her. “You can’t just expect to forget things. Even if you did forget, those thoughts would be in some part of your mind, just hiding,” I say, taking a long drink of coffee. “They’ll always be there, and eventually they’ll come back out.”

“Like a nightmare,” she says, bringing her own coffee cup up to her lips.

“Nightmares, flashbacks,” I say. “Memories, good or bad, are things you just can’t erase. But, you can talk about those memories and bring them out in the open so you won’t be haunted by them.”

“No one can possibly be haunted by good memories,” she says, having another drink of her coffee.

“I was just making a point that it doesn’t matter if a memory is good or bad, you can’t just erase it. The only ones that can haunt you are the bad memories.”

“And, in other words, you’re telling me that I should talk to someone,” she says, shifting her other foot around to point her toes in almost a graceful, dance-like move.

“It would more than likely help,” I say. “Look at it this way, nothing bad can possibly happen from you getting your feelings and thoughts out in the open.”

“And, just how do you know all of this?” She asks.

“I just know a few things here and there,” I say, having another drink.             

She lets out an annoyed huff of air and pushes a large blob of hair from her face.

“Look, just take my word for it; I know a lot more about this than you think I do.”

“If you really expect me to let you stay in my home, then you’re going to have to tell me something,” she says. “You know more about me right now than a lot of people do. You know what happened to me. I can’t just share things with people that I know nothing about. It’s hard enough having you live here.”

I nod. “I guess I can understand that. I’ll keep it short and sweet for now,” I tell her. “My sister.”

“Your sister?” She asks. “Wait, this happened to your sister?”

I nod. “One of them. Not quite as bad as you, but she was raped, yes. That’s how I know.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do,” I say. “But, now you have to take my word for things; talking about what happened will only help you. You could start to remember more of what happened, and the more you can remember, the more we know. The more we know, we can catch this guy even faster, Charlie.”

She looks at me and sighs, but I know the look on her face; she’s thinking about it and now she understands. “I may not be ready to talk about my dream, but I will say, it felt like it was happening all over.”

“I promise you, Charlie; I will never let anything hurt you again.”

She gives me a nod, and for some reason I can tell that she believes and trusts me.

One Week Later

It has been a straining week, for all of us; the police, the city, but more so for Charlie. In the time since Charlie’s hospital release another woman’s body has been found. The same as the others; naked, raped, beaten, and tortured in ways unimaginable. On top of the trauma of Charlie having to see the news of the 6
th
Loverboy victim being found, there was the trauma of what had happened to her. She knew very well that the 6
th
victim could have been her. It was supposed to have been her. The nightmares are coming on stronger. She sleeps in increments of no more than an hour, before waking up dripping with sweat and screaming. But, she insists that she isn’t going to talk to anyone just yet. She is adamant that when the time comes, she will talk. I trust her word, and give her the space she needs. On top of all the added stress, we had another task to tend to; keeping Charlie out of the news. Being known as “The girl who got away,” would not only make her healing time slower, but also advertises her to the killer, whom we strongly believe has no connection at all to his victims. She feels that, for her own safety, she needs to hole herself up into her apartment and put her life on hold. No one tries to argue; it’s her healing process. Luckily enough, her professors have been kind enough to pass her assignments and notes via email, so she is able to continue her studies.

I lean back slowly into the chair, letting my feet rest up on the ottoman. I glance out the window: A couple strolling down the sidewalk, a jogger, and someone walking their dog. Nothing out of the ordinary and nothing suspicious; which is how I like it. It means that the killer hasn’t managed to track Charlie down somehow. I hear a rustling over on the couch. I look over and see that Charlie is staring blankly at her laptop screen as she lets a few curse words fly. Her norm for when she became stuck on an assignment. She lets out a deep sigh and leans her head back on the couch.

“You okay?” I ask.

She raises her head enough to nod. “Tired.”

“You could always go take a nap,” I tell her.

She gives her head a shake. “I’m fine. Really.” She smiles.

“Have you thought more about what I said?” I ask.

“About talking to someone?”

I nod.

She gives a light shrug of the shoulders. “I don’t know. I know I should, but…” She makes an odd face. “I don’t know how comfortable I would be.”

“Remember, we do have some great recommendations,” I tell her.
,
“They specialize in victims of assault.”

“Is that what I am?” She asks.

“What?”

“A victim of an assault?”

I nod. “Well, that would be the, uh,” I pause, “fancy police term for it.”

She purses her lips and seems to be thinking for a moment. “I guess it makes sense. I am a victim of,” she stops. “Something...”

“Do you have any idea what he did to you?” I ask suddenly before I can stop myself. I see the pitiful look wash over her face. Her wounds are healing well, the bruising is minimal, but you can tell she’s very much mentally scarred.

She shakes her head. “I know he raped me. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure that one out. Not to mention the bruises between my…” She stops.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“For some reason I feel comfortable telling you, now,” she says. “I mean, you’ve been with me twenty-four-seven since I woke up in the hospital.” She lets out a slight laugh. “I feel more comfortable telling you now than some counselor that I don’t know.”