Because You're Mine Read online

  Just an ordinary, happy couple moving into their dream home one cardboard box at a time.

  When I came home, she was naked on the counter, Christian Louboutin heels on her feet, red bottoms pointing up, waiting for me to taste every inch of her skin. Her dark hair flowed on the quartz countertops, a coquettish gleam in her bright, green eyes as I undid my belt, unzipped my pants, and took her right there. She nuzzled my neck and nibbled my earlobe as I explored every inch of her body. I held her arms over her head pushing my way into her engorged lips and watched her face as she came multiple times.

  I got hard just thinking about it, my penis tightening as I thought about the control I had over her. I owned her, every square inch of her five-foot-seven stature. She might as well be a piece of real estate I was trying to develop. I had put my time and money into her, and she would pay dividends, especially now that I knew it was the only way out of my financial woes. She would be found, and she would be mine. I could not lose out on the ability to save myself from a money meltdown now that it was easy.

  Marry Levin.

  Have babies.

  Get disgustingly rich in the process.

  Chapter Seven

  Levin

  I pull into the gravel driveway at Connor’s just before 10:00 a.m. The breakfast crowd has dissipated, just the way Maddy and I want it. I drive around to the back of the building where her maroon Honda Civic is parked near the edge of the lot.

  She climbs out of her car and heads over to my driver’s side window, her dark hair swept up in a messy bun, and her usual mom-iform of sweats and a tank top covers her doughy body. The flush on her cheeks suggests she’s already been to the gym this morning.

  “How are ya?” She leans in the window and kisses my cheek.

  I offer a tight smile. “I’m just ready to leave. I hope one of these nights I can sleep again.”

  “You will,” she promises. “Your whole life’s ahead of you. No use in wasting your time with a suppressive person.”

  Maddy hands me an envelope. “What’s this?” I knit my eyebrows. “It better not be a lottery ticket. I never win.”

  She laughs and playfully slaps my arm. “This is the key to your rental.”

  “This doesn’t feel like a key.” I shake the envelope and hear metal clicking, but it is heavier than just a set of keys.

  “Doug and I thought you could use some extra funds.” Doug was her husband and a big, exuberant man who had a similar heart of gold.

  “Maddy,” I say. “No. You keep it.”

  “Absolutely not,” her voice is firm and unrelenting. “You take it and get the hell out of here. Away from that asshole.”

  “Thank you.” I look at her, a tear threatens to squeeze out.

  “Let me know if you need me to extend the car rental.”

  “Okay. I’ll try and get a vehicle in the next few days,” I say. I’d pulled all the money out of my account so that I could buy a cheap one in cash.

  “Don’t use your phone if you don’t have to,” she warns, “but let me know when you arrive. You should reach Phoenix later tonight. I’m guessing by five or six if you don’t hit too much traffic.”

  I nod. There’s nothing more I can say without crying. I don’t deserve their generosity, but I’ll be forever grateful for it.

  Maddy grabs the door handle of the Impala and opens it. She reaches in and gives me a hard, tight hug.

  “Be safe,” she whispers, her voice choked. I wrap my arms around her neck. All twenty-six years of my life in preparation for this—running from another man who wished me harm.

  My dad had left when I was in grade school, an alcoholic who was searching for Jesus in the arms of his AA sponsor. He was replaced by faceless men who had no part in my life other than to lock me in my room so they could make my mother scream in pain or pleasure.

  We hadn’t had a fancy life, but it had been middle class. We had lived on a tree-lined street in a ranch home. I had my own bedroom furnished with my daybed and my favorite toys.

  Dad had been a manager at an auto parts store, and Mom had been in charge of a medical billing office. Together they had made ends meet. We had taken a few family vacations in the minivan over the summers. We hadn’t been rich, but we hadn’t been poor.

  They had once been happy, I remember it. I hold onto it like a hand that is barely touching mine, fingers once intertwined but starting to unravel.

  Everything spiraled out of control when my dad lost his parents in succession—his father had succumbed to cirrhosis of the liver, and within another six months, his mother had died after an automobile accident. What had been a few cocktails with his dinner had turned to happy hour after work and had continued throughout the night.

  My mother tried to keep the façade of a happy marriage up. She would hide alcohol bottles from him—and from me. Their arguments that had once been few and far between had turned continual and ugly. The bottles would pile up. I would find them stuck in the hall closet behind folded sheets, under the sink in the bathroom behind my strawberry-scented bubble bath, and even in the tool shed behind the pliers.

  My dad had screamed at her, called her every name in the book in his drunken rages, but he had never raised a hand to her that I knew of.

  After my dad left, she shacked up with Jeff, subsequently losing her job at the medical billing office after she started coming in with black eyes and split lips. They said it’s bad for business.

  Jeff had a temper. Whereas my dad would yell and then black out in the middle of a rant, Jeff was conniving and mean. He didn't like it if other men paid attention or glanced at her. Their nights out would turn into screaming and hitting matches with my mother being the punching bag every time. I would try to stay with friends, but Jeff kept coming around more and more.

  At first, he also showered me with attention. He liked to play daddy. He would ask me to sit on his lap, tell me I could be his girl and would try to impress me with magic tricks and jokes. He told my mom he wanted to be involved in my life—maybe coaching a softball team or taking me to the park.

  But it was all smoke and mirrors. Jeff lived for free at his apartment since he was the maintenance man. I would cover my face with a pillow when they would stumble in drunk or I would hear them making animal noises in the bedroom. Anything was preferable to the screaming and thuds that became a weekly, then almost an every other day occurrence.

  And then it got worse. I didn’t think it could get any worse. But I was wrong.

  Chapter Eight

  Alec

  I try the PI for the second time, my annoyance palpable and a hard ball lodged in my throat. It takes four rings for him to answer. I’m lucky he’s the most loyal and conniving bastard I know.

  “George, it’s me,” I pause. “She’s gone.

  My private investigator grunts on the other end. “I’m on it.”

  There’s no elaboration needed or names given.

  “I’m thinking she flew. The vehicle is supposedly in the garage unless she found out about the tracker.”

  George is always available, never takes vacations, and seems to admire my work ethic and need to get rid of those in my way. He shares the same philosophy as I do, and he’s taking my secrets to the grave. For that reason alone, he’s indispensable and bankrolled.

  A former military sergeant, a cop, and an ex-con, though that came later, he’d been the one who suggested a tracking device on her vehicle going so far as to order and install it himself.

  Before I proposed to Levin, he had done a lengthy background check on her. I didn't want any surprises. She was a typical white trash girl who grew up with nothing—no parents, no money, no roots. She’d been a member of the cheerleading squad, track, dance, volunteered at a local women’s shelter, and worked waitressing jobs. In college, she graduated cum laude with a 3.85 GPA. Her desire to travel had led her on a journey to Europe to explore what the U.S.A. couldn’t offer.

  The addresses piled up over the years. She’d lived all
over—apartments, trailers, houses. The only physical house attached to her background was foreclosed on when she was seven, yet here she was running away from a life most could only dream of.

  How could I have misjudged the situation so poorly? How could I have lost the upper hand? All control?

  She’s going to pay for hurting my feelings. It’s the only solution, the only way to get my head above water again.

  I fantasize about finding Levin, and it scares me how vivid the memory of Heidi’s death is. I picture my hands gripping her neck, squeezing, and letting myself lose control. I imagine Heidi’s face, the look of terror, her neck purple and mottled, but the eyes are Levin’s—green, shiny emeralds—that lose their luster as the air is sucked out by the arms controlling her last breath.

  I realize I’m holding my breath. I let out a gentle gasp forcing myself to snap back to reality.

  I head home after talking to George. I’ll let him take care of Levin. At least for now.

  As expected, the Range Rover is in the garage. Parked in the same spot. It hasn’t moved.

  My heart races as I walk through the empty house. Nothing seems so out of place that a stranger would notice, but I did. The missing clothes, jewelry, and her favorite fuzzy blue blanket.

  What about the engagement ring? I punch a wall, the drywall giving way to a gaping hole. The imperfection makes me seethe. I pull my fist out and cradle it.

  I need to calm down. I take a deep breath. Then another.

  My comfort should have been the nursery, but even that room seems bare and uncaring. The neutral colors and gender-neutral palette do nothing to ease my tension.

  Until something glimmers catching my eye.

  To my chagrin, the light reflecting off the crib is her engagement rock nestled in the sheets.

  Tearing through the house, I heave the quintessential books off of the glass coffee table in the living room and smash the decorative vase in the den.

  I kick walls—a tantrum the understatement of the year. Scuff marks and scratches are now visible on the eggshell paint where I kick my Gucci loafers.

  The baby’s room would have to have a new changing table as I use my fist to pummel the wood until it splinters. The dishes in the sink leftover from Levin’s absenteeism would have to be replaced, their bright colors now in broken bits on the travertine tile from where I drop them in a pile, the soothing noise of shattering glass a lullaby to my ears.

  It is a relief Levin isn’t here to see me like this, though this was all her fault.

  “You fucking bitch.” I pound on the kitchen countertop. I don’t yell, but say it in a whisper glaring toward the pictures of us on the mantle. “Burn in hell.”

  I smash a glass against the wall and watch it shatter like the façade of my life.

  At that moment, if given the chance, I would have smashed her face in. I rip up a picture of her that is on the fridge. After tearing it into bits, I throw it in the garbage can.

  I am done.

  Finished.

  The air deflates from my lungs as I crumble to the floor.

  I don’t bother to clean up any of the mess I made. I’d call someone to remove the broken crib legs and the busted dishes, but they’ll ask what happened at the house, and I don’t want any questions or witnesses to my outburst.

  I’ll say we had an intruder. The worst kind. Same difference.

  What the hell was she thinking? How could she drop her engagement ring in the crib and take off without a backward glance?

  I’m pensive, pulling at my tie like it’s causing me to lose my breath. I loosen it and think, does she know? I’ve made sure to watch her closely. Could she have found out about Eric? The thought fills me with dread, and I tug the tie until it unravels in my hand. What if she plans on going to the authorities before I can catch her?

  When I make it to the client dinner at Bradshaw’s, my temper is in check. The house is now in shambles due to my frustration, but I have calmed down.

  “Hi,” I say to the hostess dressed in a skimpy black dress that might as well be a negligee. “Party of three, reservation under Durant, Alec Durant.”

  She smiles at me. “Yes, Mr. Durant. Glad to see you made it. However, Mr. Williams called, and he can’t make dinner.”

  My smile freezes on my lips. The client called the steakhouse and not me to cancel?

  “Did he happen to mention why?” I keep my tone level.

  “No.” The hostess is already bored with this conversation anxious to tend to the next patron. “I can seat you at the table you reserved if you’d like.”

  “No,” I say. “I’ll head to the bar.” I saunter over to the middle of the restaurant where the bar is situated and take a seat. Once there, I motion to the bartender. “Gin and tonic. Double.”

  He nods as if he understands what it’s like to be the poor schmuck at the bar ordering multiple drinks and waiting on no one.

  “Seventeen dollars.” He slides the drink over to me.

  “I’ll start a tab.” I pull my black card out of my wallet.

  “Let me know when you’re ready for the next round.” He takes the card. I might as well have handed him a tip jar filled with twenty dollar bills. My AMEX is the key to better treatment at most places. I wouldn’t be able to pay the fees if I didn’t get my money from Eric’s estate via Levin’s generosity. The money I deserved.

  I sigh, the annoyance palpable on my face as my mouth settles into a hard line. I want to sit and cry, but I can’t. I feel dead inside, the way my ex-girlfriend felt when I strangled her to death. I don’t want to go back to that period in my life. I wring my hands on the bar taking a huge swig of my drink. I slam it down on the counter. Damn, this is not how I thought this night would go.

  The bartender didn’t even wait for me to ask, he brought me another double. There was no conversation necessary, just the glass sliding across the smooth wood into my hand.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. Immediately, my mind goes to Levin. It’s not her. It’s my canceled dinner date, Mr. Roger Williams.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late,” Roger says shrugging his shoulders. “I told them to tell you I was running late.”

  My eyes are slits as I look back toward the hostess stand—that dumb bitch. I can’t get angry or let Roger see me lose my composure.

  “Fifty bucks if you move,” I say to the woman beside me who is clearly waiting on a date that isn’t coming. She has been checking her phone and watch along with the clock in the bar for the last half hour. She glares at me but grabs her clutch and stands up, wavering on cheap, five-inch stilettos. I toss a crisp ‘Grant’ at her, the former president’s face stoic, a spitting image of my demeanor, and wave my hand at Roger.

  Roger takes her place as she painfully exits the bar, one clomp after another like a Clydesdale horse, unsteady on her feet. He orders a whiskey sour and turns to me. “I thought you were bringing someone?” The question isn’t meant to conjure up hard feelings, but it does. I grip my glass and swallow. “Levin. My fiancée. Yeah, she’s not feeling well. I think she gave herself food poisoning.”

  Roger’s eyes get wide. “Hopefully not trying to poison you.”

  He’s joking, and I laugh.

  “She’s not the best cook,” I say. “I tolerate it though because she’s hot.”

  Now it is his turn to laugh—and he does— and though we make small talk for a few minutes, the conversation is stilted.

  The hostess, realizing her fuck-up, comes over and offers us a prime table. We follow her to a booth—red leather and dark mahogany with dim lighting—in the back of the restaurant.

  Our waitress comes over and offers us a cocktail. I don’t mean to shoot daggers her way, but she’s a dead ringer for Levin. Her brunette hair is long and shiny, and her green eyes stand out against her olive skin.

  Roger’s droning on about politics and shit I could care less about—dead presidents and current presidents have no place in our discussion. I try to pay attention, but my mind keeps
wandering to Levin—is she in bed with someone? My eyes narrow to slits, and Roger stops in the middle of a tirade on NAFTA.

  “You okay, Alec?” His face shows concern, the wrinkles giving way to his overtly white veneers.

  I shake my head.

  “Yes, I’m just thinking of the points you’re making…” I drown my cocktail and continue, “because you bring up some valid concerns.”

  I try and transition the conversation into business—our real estate development venture.

  My worst fears are confirmed—Roger isn’t interested in negotiating a deal. If Levin had been here, she would have been the smooth conversationalist. She would have found talking points and commonalities. I notice a gold wedding band on his ring finger. She would have asked about his wife. I open my mouth to ask when the waitress comes over—the Levin lookalike. Un-fucking-believable.

  Roger launches into his real estate concerns, but I’m done listening—my mind is on Levin again.

  I glance at my phone. No missed calls. Not one.

  I can’t handle any more of the run-around. I interrupt Roger, “I gotta go.” I lie, lifting my phone. “Levin needs me.”

  Roger’s brows rise at my abruptness.

  “She isn’t holding down any fluids. She says she feels weak,” I add. “I’m going to run her to the ER.”

  Roger nods. “Oh, God, go. Be there for the better half. They’re always there for us.”

  I settle up with the waitress as I walk by, and she quickly runs my card as I stare at her ass—dead ringer for Levin’s. The waitress introduces herself as ‘Kodi,’ guessing twenty-five years old, fake tits that are large enough to spill over her mandatory black bustier but small enough to question whether they’re real or not. Her small waist is attached to long legs and an ass that walks away like Levin’s, a slight sashay to her walk.

  Of-fucking-course.

  I make it to the corner bar and sit crooked on a rickety stool unsure if it can support the weight of my thoughts and me. My mind is on Levin and where she went. I flicker back and forth between today and the last few months pressing myself on any indicators she would leave.