Do Not Disturb by Alessandra Torre
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A Preview of The Girl in 6E
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To Dad.
Thank you for always being proud of me; you are the best father a girl could ever wish for. I am so lucky to have you.
IN MARATHON, FLORIDA, on mile two of the old Seven Mile Bridge, there is a tree. It has grown out of a crack on the pavement, starting out as a weed, then a stalk, and is now a teenage pine, standing five feet tall, with branches that extend out the width of a car. It squats on a barren strip of concrete that is the old bridge, pavement stretching for miles in both directions before dead-ending into air, sections of the bridge destroyed—years ago—in an attempt to forbid human weight to ever rest upon it again. Now the island of hot asphalt is home only to birds, rain, salt air, and this tree. It is an impossibility, this pine, growing in such an inhospitable place. No dirt or nutrients to pull from, stiff, unyielding concrete surrounding its roots. Yet it has grown. From a weed to a tree, its roots have pushed aside concrete, fed on nothing yet thrived regardless, surviving hurricanes, tornados, and droughts, springing branches and needles with uncontained gusto.
I saw the tree when I was fifteen, my head resting against a warm window, headphones on, music drowning out the incessant sounds of Summer and Trent. Our family had flown to Miami, then rented an SUV and driven down to Key West. The tree had caught my attention, my eyes sticking to it as the vehicle swept alongside it, our tires on the new bridge, my view interrupted seconds later as my father drove on. At the time, the tree fascinated me.
Now, it terrifies me.
It makes me realize that no matter how much I may starve my desires, may shield myself from triggers and pitfalls… it can survive. The blackness in my mind can live, can grow into something too big to control.
PART 1
“Kiss me. Now.”
CHAPTER 1
I REMEMBER FIRST-DATE jitters. My first date was with a boy named Josie. His name should have been the first tip-off. The second should have been his excellent sense of style, movie selection (Hairspray), and his propensity to wave his hands in the air excitedly when describing the latest season of America’s Next Top Model. But I was fifteen, naïve, and spent the entire dinner tongue-tied and nervous, clasping and unclasping my hands underneath the Ruby Tuesday table while wondering what I’d do with my hands when he kissed me at the end of the date.
He didn’t kiss me. There was an awkward handshake before I fled inside my home, the rest of the night spent bawling into my pillow while I dissected every piece of the date and tried to figure out where I went wrong. Being born without a penis. That’s where I went wrong. If only I’d had a fairy godmother patting my shoulder consolingly while giggling into her fabulously embroidered handkerchief.
Now, eight years later, those first-date jitters are back. But they are of a completely different variety. I stare across the table at Jeremy, and wonder if I will make it through the date without trying to kill him.
The good news is, he is most definitely straight. Straight in an all-American beautiful way that makes Josie look like last week’s lunch meat. I focus on his features, a strong face housing thick lashes that frame deep brown eyes. Eyes that are watching me closely, a smile playing across the sexy mouth that hides a perfect set of pearly whites. A smile. He should not be smiling. I frown at him, which prompts a laugh from his side of the table.
“Stop scowling.” He reaches across and grabs my hand, capturing it before I can slide it under the table. “It only makes you sexier and…” He pauses, carefully examining the surface of my hand, his large palms dwarfing my smaller one. “I can’t have pissed you off already. We haven’t even ordered.”
Ordered. My villainous thoughts get distracted by the concept of restaurant food. I, since my one successful venture into the light, have started to tinker with the idea of grocery shopping. Stopping my food-by-mail program and entering the world of raw meat, fresh fruit, and local produce. Surely my nutrition is a worthy excuse to leave the apartment. I close my mind to that justification and look at the menu, gingerly touch the edge, flip it open, and stare at the possibilities.
All thoughts of death and mayhem disappear when I see the steaks, scattered among the images casually, as if it is no big deal to have a hunk of red, fresh meat—one that will be touched by the sizzle of the grill and nothing else. I swallow, worried that I will physically drool all over the laminated pages.
We are interrupted by a waitress, an exhausted stick of deep wrinkles and frizzy hair, who barely glances our direction as she pulls out her order pad. “What’ll you have?”
Jeremy looks at me. “Please, go ahead.”
My eyes dart across the page, indecision gnawing at my gut as I scan from one delicious entrée to the next. “I’ll have the filet, please.”
“Side?” she drawls.
“Baked potato, please. Loaded.” The thought of fresh sour cream and, ohmygod, real butter sends a shot of euphoria through me. Jeremy sends me an odd glance and I realize, my cheeks stretched tight, that I am beaming.
“Salad?”
“Yes, please. With Ranch. And could I also get a side of broccoli?” My eyes trip and stall over the vegetable list. “And mushrooms,” I quickly add, her pen stalling as she glances my way. Her pen. It is cheap, a Bic whose end has been chewed down to a twisted, gnarled end of missing plastic. I wonder, my eyes catching on it, if—jabbed quickly enough—it would stab through the tanned skin of her neck. “And green beans.” Her mouth twists in a grimace of sorts. “Please,” I add. Please. Please let me stand over your body and watch you die. I’ll add a pretty please if you promise to bleed heavily.
Jeremy orders quickly, and FrizzyOMonday flees, as if she knows she is escaping death. I watch her retreat, pulled back to the present by Jeremy’s voice.
“Hungry?” His wry tone gives me pause, and my gaze flicks back to him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about the cost.” My eyes drop to the menu. “I planned on paying for my portion.”
“It’s a date, you’re not paying for your half. And I don’t care about the cost. It’s just…” He shrugs, smiling at me as if I am an interesting display. “You’re so tiny. I guess I expected, with all the diet boxes that are delivered, that you’d be a dry salad girl.”
I grin. “The diet plans are easy. And don’t require much thought. I haven’t… it’s been a while since I’ve had real food.” I don’t expand on the thought. He knows. Knows that I’ve locked myself in my apartment for three years. Knows that, other than my road trip of mayhem two weeks ago, this is the first time I’ve left the sanctuary of apartment 6E.
“Maybe I could cook for you sometime.”
I smile weakly. “Let’s see how tonight goes.”
“You’ve been good so far.”
“She hasn’t brought the steak knives out yet.”
He laughs, as if it is funny, as if there is no real threat of danger. I frown.
“Stop doing that,” he warns. “And please, relax a bit. I’m not gonna let you hurt me.” I’m not gonna let you hurt me. An odd statement for a first date, but one that fits us well.
“Don’t be so sure you can stop me.”
“Can you be naked again the next time you try? I enj
It is, quite possibly, the strangest first date in history. But I behaved. I gripped my steak knife tightly and avoided putting it through his skin. I focused my attention on the food, diving full force into the deliciousness that was unpreserved, unboxed cuisine. He was amused, chewing his food slowly as he watched me, staring with an awe that was unnerving. Undeserved. Then he ordered every dessert they had, and watched with unreserved glee as I dug in. We left the restaurant by six and, fifteen minutes later, we’re back at my doorstep, the sight of this side of the door unfamiliar, foreign.
I place my hands on the steel, noticing that the 6E metallic sticker is slightly crooked and barely hanging on, and that my doorknob is brass, while all of the other hardware silver. Of course it’s different. Mine is the only one designed to lock someone in as opposed to keeping strangers out. I turn to Jeremy nervously, fingering my key as I try to figure out what to do.
I am out of practice, and unsure of my level of control. I feel panic grip my chest, the hallway entirely too small, the warmth and scent of his body, right there, and all I have to do is reach out and we will touch.
He leans against the opposite wall, his posture loose and relaxed, as far away from me as he can reasonably be, my tension easing slightly at the move. “Thank you,” he says softly. “For the date.”
I blush, the words ones I should have thought to say. I am out of practice, but am fairly sure that the girl typically thanks the man, especially when he foots the bill for half the menu. “Thank you.”
“I’d like to kiss you, if you’re comfortable with that.”
I hesitate. This is stupid. We spent three days together, two weeks ago, our bodies wrapped around each other during the night, his mouth on mine countless times during that period. I know his kiss, know that I want it—want more than just it. But two weeks ago—I was broken during that time, and he was healing me. Now, I am back to normal, and my urges are as strong as they’ve ever been. I worry over what will happen when he is that close, worry how my psychotic mind will handle the experience. Whether it will slink to the background and lie low, allowing me to enjoy the experience. Or, if it will bare its teeth and come out to play. I drop my keys on the floor and hold out my hands. “Could you hold me still? Just in case.” I avoid his eyes when I say the words, my gaze fixated on my wrists, outstretched and waiting for his touch. Then I feel him step closer, see his strong hands wrap, one wrist in each hand, and pull.
He drags me forward, his hands spreading mine and swinging them around my body, till they are joined at the small of my back, the new position bringing his body flush to mine, his arms wrapped around me, my face in the crook of his neck, his breath quickening as he walks us backward till our hands hit my door and his body pins me to it.
It is too much, the rush of sensations. Sensations that I have forgotten, either intentionally or through neglect. The hard press of hips against mine, the hard brush of him against the thin material of my dress, one leg sliding in between and spreading my legs, my pelvis grinding, without thought, on his thigh, the movement causing a quick intake of breath to hiss through his lips.
“Deanna…” He whispers my name as he lowers his mouth, and there is a brief moment of quiet as our lips pause, inches from each other.
“Like this?” he whispers, and all I can do is nod a response.
The need. It is stronger than my blood lust; it is overriding any thought in my head. I want this man so bad. I want him alive, and I want him to fill me with that life, that sweetness.
Our mouths meet and I taste the sweet flavor of a mint, feel the rough brush of a tongue against mine, and lose any thought in the sweet clash of restrained lust.
CHAPTER 2
House Arrest Countdown: 3 Months
TWENTY-TWO MONTHS. MARCUS has spent twenty-two months locked away like an animal. Surrounded by the dregs of society, half of them too stupid to understand the confines of the situation they were in. Almost two years in a place where he’d had to shit five feet from a felon. Far too long. For a man of his standing, with no priors, weak evidence… the five-year sentence had been ludicrous. The fact that it had taken his attorneys twenty-two months to get him out of there—unacceptable.
But now he is free and the bitching can wait until Monday. Now, at 6:14 p.m. on a Friday night, he stands on the pavement outside of the prison and breathes free air. Air that, on this side of the chain link, tastes different. It is filled with hope. Rebirth. Never again will he step inside that fence. Never again will he feel the grip of confinement around his wrists.
He had been stupid.
Sloppy.
Made mistakes he will not repeat. He will think more, act less. Be smarter.
Marcus steps toward the waiting car, the sleek Bentley radiating the reflecting sun rays like a beacon to his soul. The bracelet, heavy on his right ankle, reminding him of the three months of supervision ahead of him.
The door opens and he leans over. Grins into the waiting face of his attorney. “I’ll bitch at you next week about how long that took. For now, let’s go celebrate.”
Doors click, hugs are exchanged in the awkward space of the car, and then the attorney leans forward, overriding his suggestion with a few tossed words to the driver.
“Come on,” Marcus growls. “I’ve been locked up and fed dog food. Jacked off to visions of a porterhouse so bloody it’ll stain my teeth.”
“Easy Marcus.” The thin man shoots him a look. “Watch what you say.”
“Shit. Everyone lost their sense of humor while I was gone?”
There is silence in the car for a moment and he realizes how crude his words sounded. He went into prison a gentleman, had come out an animal. He pulls at the collar of his prison-issued shirt, a cheap material that now feels normal. First thing, when he gets inside, he’ll change. Take a shower in his stone grotto and scrub the scent of criminals away. Pull on a thousand-dollar suit and remember what it feels like to be a man. Remember what clean fingernails feel like. What fresh fruit, quality meats taste like. Remember what being a human entails. What being Marcus Renza, one of Florida’s biggest landholders, entitles him to.
An hour later, the car turns, the secured gates of his neighborhood passing by, and his mouth turns downward slightly. Trading razor wire for iron gates. Prison guards for an anklet. One prison for another. But three months of house arrest will be easy compared to what he has just undergone. Three months of having his house, his bed, his staff. Meals prepared twenty-four hours a day. A pool, gym, and tennis courts on his property. His office. Real estate holdings to review, employees to kick back into line, respect to regain after two years away. Work would distract. Work had always distracted.
Yes, three months will be easy. He watches a woman jog past, her sweat making the yellow sports bra she wears hug wet and tight to her curves. His hand stops its drum on the armrest, his neck tensing as he fights the urge to turn and see the curves of her ass, to watch her retreat.
Fuck. Maybe it won’t be that easy. It’s been so long.
CHAPTER 3
JEREMY’S KISS PUSHES for more, his hips pressing me against the door, his hands pulling my wrists down slightly, causing my chest to arch into his, my head to come back, my mouth to break from his for a moment. When his lips return, they are soft, barely brushing across my mouth, a tease that I need more of, and he pushes forward and deepens the kiss, my mouth greedy in its response. I am restrained, his hard leg between mine, my dress pushed up, the rough feel of his jeans rubbing a delicious friction against my thin panties. A small sound escapes my lips and it breaks him, his left hand taking over my wrists, wrapping them both in his strong grip, his right running smoothly up my leg, slipping under my dress and moving upward till it hits my hip.
I struggle against his restraint, wanting to run my hands through his hair, lift up his shirt, travel over the lines of his abs, dip my h
“Good night.”
“Good night?” I sputter. This is unexpected. My ego may be overinflated from webcam chats with fifty-year-old men and confused transvestites, but I’m used to being sought after, ten hours of my day spent virtually between the sheets with strangers. Now, with a flesh-and-blood man in front of me… I get a kiss and a “good night.”
He glances at his watch. “You told me to have you inside by seven.”
The elevator picks that time to groan, a loud rumble that will turn into a screech, the laborious journey just noisy enough to make its occupants wonder if this will be the trip that doesn’t take, if this will be the moment that it settles into place and says “Fuck you, I’m not moving another foot.” It does make the climb, and I tense as I watch the doors open. Another view I have never seen. This long hall, and the motion of the doors. I’ve heard them a thousand times, always envisioned the bodies that step off, the looks on their faces, the scent of their skin. A figure shuffles off, and I feel a moment of recognition at the scrawny build, previous sightings distorted by my peephole. A pale hand swipes at short dark hair, the man shifting the backpack higher as he glances at us from down the hall.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” he calls out, his voice bouncing off filthy walls as he moves closer. “She won’t open that door.”