The Stranger I Know (Dark Romance) (5 page)

***

A
rriving at work ahead of schedule, I take the time to just breathe and let the heater warm my toes a little longer. High heels are mandatory, despite the obvious contradiction it imposes on my attempts to look more like a man at work. If I don't wear the heels, my height is too disparate and I notice that men start talking down to me. Not just physically, but like I'm a child. They always look like they should be punched in the face. They all look like they want to fall to their knees and ask me if I did all my homework.

I feel my forehead throb and I pinch my temples to try and stave away my mounting frustration. I inhale deeply... and exhale. A glance in the rearview mirror calms my nerves, but disappoints me at the same time. No one strange is in my back seat. Pity.

***

I
enter the office through the elevator and Gwen stands up to greet me. I want to dismiss her, but she looks too agitated to just brush away like I normally could.

"What is it?"

Gwen fiddles with a bit of paper that she is holding. "You have an appointment with James Pierce today at two."

Gwen flinches, and my forehead throbs again. I must've given her
the look.
A mixture of surprise, frustration, insanity and impatience. It's versatile, but I didn't mean to give her a heart attack. "I don't remember scheduling any appointment with him."

"You didn't." She's hesitant, like I'm raising my hand to her. I try and soften my expression, but I'm too riled up as I wait for her to finish her thought. "He came in just before you and insisted that I put him in. I refused, like you always tell me to, but he... did something."

"What did he do?" I lean in closer to her, and then look over her for any bruises or marks.

"He didn't do... anything really. He repeated himself and gave me a look." She winces, not at me, but at her memory. "Just like the one you gave me. I was scared."

"Gwen..." I start to say. Before I can finish, she shoves the note into my hand. "He told me to give you this too. I didn't read it."

It's a piece of notepaper folded into a square. What is this, high-school? I pocket it and nod to her. "I'll take care of it."

"I'm sorry."

I hold up my hand to stop her. "Don't be. I understand." And the truth is, I really do.

***

I
n my office, I shut the door and make sure the blinds are closed again. I sit at my desk and drop my bag on the surface. I pull the note out and start unfolding it, unsure why my heart is racing. Is it because it reminds me of school? Like a little secret that I only get to have? That's idiotic. I never got notes in school, and when I did, they were nothing but gossip.

The creases are sharp and hard. The words along them are difficult to make out. A standard letter format, no cursive, nothing. It goes on about how excited he is to take over my company and start dismantling useless positions, like mine. How he's sure I only got my job through blowjob charity, and that I'm not so charming when you peel the makeup away. I scan every word three times, feeling my heart race at each utterance. I can hear his voice dictating it. The thought of him forcing someone else to write it, just to watch them tremble as he continues in more and more graphic detail. He says he wants to break the building down from the bottom up, and when he reaches me, lock me in my office and pound me raw on my desk. That he won't let me get away with saying no. That he knows I want it. That he's going to taste how delicious I am.

I stare at it and my hands shake violently. My vision threatens to leave me. I clutch the note tightly, pinching it like I'm killing spider. I tear it to pieces. I let out a cry as I shred every inch, making sure it's completely indecipherable. The pile of scrambled letters and frayed paper sits on my desk. I slam my hand down next to it before brushing all the tiny pieces of paper onto the floor. It scatters into a cloud, fiber and ink kicking into the air and fluttering across the entire office. I'm sure that wasn't quiet, but I don't give a shit. Who the fuck does he think he is? No one talks to me like that. No one.

No one.

Why would he send something so fucking aggressive? Something so offensive and vulgar? With his letterhead on it! It's too late now. The proof is scattered around my office, like ashes poured from a fireplace. I shake my head and my forehead throbs like a spike just got pounded into it. I drop my head into my hands and plant my elbows on my desk. Jesus Christ. He probably knew I'd destroy the note as soon as I saw it.

No one talks to me like that. Except the Stranger. That's different. We have an agreement. We made one when we started our little get-togethers. This is just... assault. I feel sick, and I don't want anyone else to see a single word of the letter, no matter how small it's been torn. I pick myself up and drop to my hands and knees and start gathering the stray pieces and putting them in a small pile near my chair.

I push the pile into my bag to hide it. I'll burn the whole thing later. Right now though, I need to prepare for my meeting with Mr. Pierce. And that means I need to do some more research. Outside the file I have on him. It clearly isn't enough to intimidate him. Not when he's sending me these kinds of letters.

I need to intimidate him.

T
he sun has penetrated through the clouds by the time I head out of the office to meet with James. I don't bother getting the location from Gwen because I know where it'll be: the stupid coffee shop we went to last time.

As I pass through the lobby and open the door outside, a chill sweeps between my clothes. I wonder if the package I sent back to the Stranger made it to him today. I'm sure it did, the PO box wasn't at a location outside the city. I'm sure he's loving it. I wish I could be enjoying his gift with him right now, instead of meeting with this asshole.

I arrive at the cafe and glare through the decorated glass at Mr. Pierce. He's sipping a coffee, the steam clouding his eyes. I can't tell if he catches me looking at him or not, not that I care. I wrench the door open and let it crash behind me, catching everyone's attention. The barista looks like he's just about to holler at me, but I hold up my hands and act like it was an accident. When he backs off, I throw my bag down in the booth across from James and slide in.

"You made it," he says, still not looking at me.

"Yeah, I made it." I repeat. I grit my teeth. In a flash of anger, I pull my bag up and turn it upside down over the table. My wallet, lipstick, cellphone, and hundreds of pieces of paper slam against the tabletop. A hush goes over the other people in the shop, but only for a brief second. I let go of my bag and sit back before crossing my arms and legs. It's cold.

He stares at the pile of objects, but keeps taking small sips of his coffee anyway. I give him the look that sent chills up Gwen's spine earlier, but when his eyes meet mine finally, I can't hold onto my expression. He's so indifferent, it's like I'm not looking at him at all.

"What's this?" he asks.

"'What's this?'" I'm stunned. "What do you think it is, Mr. Pierce? A little note you sent me."

"It looks like a bunch of scraps of paper to me."

"It was a note you left with my assistant this morning,
Mr. Pierce
," I slide his name out of my mouth like a husk between my teeth. "I don't know what your game is, but I hope this isn't your play."

He shrugs and leans away from the table. He doesn't seem affected at all. That only... makes me worse. After a few moments of silence, he sets down his mug with a light clank on the tiled tabletop, and narrows his eyes on me. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I shake my head. I grab a fistful of the paper from the pile and find one that has a piece of his letterhead on it. "It has your letterhead on it. Don't fuck with me."

He pushes it away. "I didn't send that." A flash of something in his eyes. I crush the paper into a small ball in my fist. "You can't prove anything with this trash you brought in here. Sounds like someone has temper issues."

"You..." I start to say.

He leans in close and cuts me off with a harsh whisper. "You look like you need a good, hard, fuck." The man across from me doesn't sit up afterwards, he just lets it all sink in. Like a rock in mud.

"What?" I ask sharply, trying to get more attention from the barista at least. No one will bother turning toward us now. I've already used up all my chances. It's cheap anyway. I lean in on my elbows before threading my fingers together. As I do, I can smell his cologne. It's a wintry scent, tobacco and fire wood, with something else mixed in. He looks too pleased, and I just want to reel my ringed hand and break his jaw against my jewelry.

A moment passes where we're inches apart, and I lick my lips while I decide on the best thing to say. Something that will undo him the same way he's tried to undo me. He's grinning, too satisfied to be beaten down, but maybe I can anyway.

"A good... hard... fuck?" I repeat, tapping my tongue against my teeth with each word. "That's what you want, James? That'll make you go away?"

"Not at all," he whispers. "It'll only make me more insistent on dismantling your company."

I raise my eyebrow, acting as if I have nothing else to say. He starts to lean back in his seat. I strike.

I lash out and grab a hold of his tie. He's surprised, and I reel him across the table and toward me, throwing him off balance and slamming his chest against the edge of the table and knocking his chin against the tile. He grimaces. I coil the tie around my hand to keep it taut. "You listen to me — you little fucker — if you ever send another note to me or anyone in my office, I'll make sure you get punished. I have connections. I know people who'd be more than happy to make you into a freak show." I scowl at him. His eyes are pinpoints, but his face is red with pulsating— restrained — anger. "Someone who would take great pleasure in showing up at your place and cutting parts of you off."

He grins and his anger vanishes. I loosen my grip in surprise and he peels his tie from my fist and sits back. "Someone huh? What's their name?"

"It doesn't matter, are you even listening?"

He stares at me, reading me. His eyes waver between mine, and then they move down to my neck, and then my chest. I fume as my face starts to burn. Did he even hear me?

"No name? A lie then." He waves his hand like I'm a fly bothering him. His chin is cut a little from the grout between the tiles on the table. His tie is shortened and he looks haggard, but he's collected. He's calm. He's cool. I'm not.

I'm not at all.

He pushes himself out of the booth and stands over me. I hate it when they stand over me. I can feel his eyes undress me, unthreading every inch of my clothing and taking a peek inside. I flush even more and stammer to try and get him to go away. "What? You're leaving? I thought we needed to have this meeting?"

He opens his wallet, his eyes still fixed on my body, and grabs two bills. Randomly, I'd say, since he doesn't check. He drops them on the table. "I have things I have to do. This was... very enlightening, though. Ms. Stone." He nods at me and walks out of the cafe.

I'm flustered. What just fucking happened? Didn't I threaten him?

He threatened me first.

It was like it didn't even faze him. Was he just pretending it did, like I did when we first leaned in close together? I don't want to replay it. I can still smell him lingering here. Like the booth is still occupied. Like his eyes are still on me, and his hands are too.

Groping me. Touching me. Pushing up my skirt and finger-fucking me until I cum. Just destroying me in this cafe. No one to watch, no one would care to pay attention or note what we looked like. We'd leave and that'd be that.

What...? I shift in my seat to try and stave away the wandering lust that's coursing through my veins. I squeeze my legs together. I push everything on the table into the mouth of my purse, including whatever wrappers or dust. I don't care. My mind is filled with confusion.

The sunlight has come in through the windows and it feels too bright. Scalding white light makes my eyes hurt. Too much gray sky is to blame. I exhale deeply and try to collect myself.

My hands together on the table. The cold tile leeching heat from my pinkies and ring fingers. I bow my head and stare over my body. This is what he was undressing. What he wanted.

To give a good, hard, fuck.

I get one of those every week. Sometimes, if I demand it, more. Or if, the Stranger demands it. I get one of those. How fucking dare he act like he knows me? I'll keep my word. If he does anything like that again, I'm sure the Stranger would be more than willing to clean up the trash.

If not him, I'm sure he has... other connections. I can find those, too. I didn't get into my position without dirtying my hands a little. James probably didn't either. As much as I like to think he just walked his way up a ladder to the top, he has too much attitude and experience for it to be true. So it'll come down to whoever has cleaned their hands the most.

His cuticles looked pretty manicured to me.

Even if his words were filthier than anything I've ever heard before.

A good, hard fuck.

***

I
make it back to the office, the slight heat from the sun more than enough to make me sweat in my winter clothes. My forehead is covered in sweat. Is it the sun? Or my racing thoughts and pounding headache?

I pass by Gwen as I enter and go to my office door. She looks like she wants to ask me how it went, but I don't give her the chance. I open the door to my office and Stacie is inside, sitting in my chair, with her legs up on my desk.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I demand instantly. She looks like I just punched her.

"Jesus Christ, Marcy," she says as she stands up. "It was a joke. It was going to be — ."

"I don't give a shit what it was. You've been a little pain in my ass for the last couple weeks. I don't know what your deal is, but you need to find another job before I make sure you're unemployable." I point my finger at her. I wish it was a knife or a hammer. I could smash her through the glass behind her. Just roll her chair right off the edge of the building.