“Shit,” I grumble as I dump the contents. It’s not like he was any more cautious last night. In fact, he seemed to burrow deeper inside my body every time his release would blast through him, warming me from the inside out.
Staring at the envelope, it’s thin with no marks hinting at who it could be from. Trepidation worms its way through my belly, and I know I must open it. I just don’t want to. This is how people start dying in horror movies.
Ominous notes.
Creepy feelings.
All I need is the mysterious background music, and I’m set.
“Come on, Ophelia, don’t be chicken.” This is real life, not a Wes Craven slasher flick.
Picking it up, I shake it a little. Something moves inside, but it can’t be very much. Maybe it’s a note from Ms. Jackson down the street. I made her chicken noodle soup when she and her husband were sick last week. It could be a thank you note.
Deciding that’s what it must be, I rip open the sealed top and dump the contents out. Half a dozen photos drift onto my countertop, and I don’t comprehend what I’m looking at, at first. It’s weird, like I’m gazing down through one of those kaleidoscope-looking glasses because I can see it, but I can’t process what I’m seeing.
This can’t possibly be real. There’s no way.
It’s a mistake. It has to be.
I pick up the first image; it’s innocent enough. Torque and I on our first date when he kissed me until I could swear I saw stars.
The second is when he gave me that claiming kiss at the firehouse. Greedy over the cookies I’d made and not wanting to share them with his men.
The next is from the first time we made love. It’s coming from inside the bedroom as if someone had planted a camera in there.
The next is from last night at the restaurant when Torque had his hand up my dress. Further away and blocked by some of the environment, but intimate, nonetheless.
I feel sick as I look at the next one. Also, from last night. Me on my knees in front of Torque at his front door. His cock is stuffed so far down my throat as he comes that I see a bulge in my neck.
The last one nearly makes me sick. Because there is no way someone could have gotten that picture unless they were in the house after Torque left.
My legs are spread wide, I’m passed out naked, and there, front and center is my sex on display. Red and swollen from our bedroom gymnastics, and Torque’s cum dripping out of me, overstuffed and so full of him that there was no room left inside.
My god.
How?
How did this happen? Why would someone do this? I can’t fathom the invasion of privacy in not only my home but in Torque’s as well.
That’s not even the worst of it. There’s a note attached to the back of the last image, warning me to stay away from Torque, or he’ll burn with his house.
I feel sick.
Rushing to the bathroom, I unload the muffin I’d eaten before coming home as tears stream down my face. Who would do such a thing? This is so violating that I can hardly breathe.
I’m not sure how long I stay in the bathroom, scared, angry, exhausted, but I finally drag myself to my feet and go back to the kitchen. I want to torch the images but know I need to keep them. I need to figure out if I’m going to report this, tell Torque, or break things off with him.
I just can’t believe this is happening. Not to me. It’s not my life. Yet, here I am, debating ruining the best thing that’s ever happened to me or losing him forever to a fire he’s so expertly put out hundreds of times before.
Shoving everything back in the envelope, I put it in a drawer and decide the first thing I need to do is tear my house apart to find out if there are cameras because there’s no way I can go about my life knowing someone is taking intimate images of me. If this person has those, then how many others does he likely have? The answer is one I don’t want to contemplate.
Torque
I smell like soot and smoke. No matter how many showers I take, I can’t seem to wash the fucking scent off. But I’m finally finished with the most active shift I’ve had since I was a rookie.
I was able to text Ophelia three or four times, even tried calling once on the way back from a call, desperate to hear her voice, but I haven’t gotten a response from her since I left her asleep in my bed.
Becoming pissed won’t get me anywhere, not with her, but that doesn’t stop me from being angry. That woman grounds me to this earth now, and I’m unable to fucking stop thinking about her. There’s no way I can go home until I set my eyes on her.
Not a fucking chance.
It’s after nine, so I know she’ll be at her coffee shop. I’m tired and would rather go back to my bed where it smells like her, knowing I won’t be able to convince her to come home with me, but I head to her instead. A kiss will go a long way to making me feel better.
Parking behind her building, I’m surprised when I see a sign on the store saying it’s closed until further notice. That is not like her. And given the fact that she isn’t returning my calls or messages, I shoot right to her house.
Screeching to a halt in front, I notice all the curtains are closed, there don’t appear to be any lights on, and her mail hasn’t been checked.
A thread of worry slithers through my veins. She’s not ordinarily like this. Ophelia is obsessive about how she maintains her surroundings. Constantly checking the mail, loves her curtains open for direct and natural light.
I knock on her door, waiting a few minutes before I pound harder. If she’s sleeping, I’ll beg for forgiveness later. Right now, I need to know she’s okay. That she’s safe and maybe just not feeling well.
“Ophelia!” I call as I pound again. Nothing. Retrieving my phone, I try calling. It goes straight to voicemail which tells me she’s shut it off. Or it died.
“Come on, Philly. Open the door so I know you’re okay!” I try a number of times until my fist feels bruised.
We hadn’t exchanged keys or anything, so I’m limited to two choices: break in or beg Laken for the spare. Glancing behind me, I find the woman in question standing on her front porch with Jesse at her side.
Jogging over to them, I’m not looking for small talk, and she’s prepared. “I haven’t seen her since the day after dinner, Torque. That’s not like her. She’s locked up in there, and I don’t know why. She’s not even answering my calls or messages.”
There are tears in Laken’s eyes. Much as I want to comfort the woman I love like a sister, I can’t, not right now. “Call your dad, Jesse,” I tell the boy, and I know he will. No one in our family likes it when Laken’s upset. Her life was too shitty before for any of us to stand for it.
But right now, my focus needs to be on my own woman. Something happened, and it’s got her going sideways. If she thinks for a second that whatever has her so upset will stop me from barging through her door, she’s dead fucking wrong.
Ophelia Montgomery is mine, and there’s nothing that’s going to stop me from claiming my girl. I need her like I need air to breathe. She’s as essential to me as water is to keep the world going.
Knocking again, louder than the other times, I call out, “Ophelia, I’m coming in!” At least she’ll have a little bit of warning.