His bedroom is large but relaxing. The walls are painted a tan color with the darker brown bedding that’s a perfect complement. The hardwoods are here, as well, with rugs on each side of the bed. There is nothing worse than putting your feet on cold floors first thing in the morning, and apparently Lucian feels the same. I quickly make his bed, stopping only to appreciate the soft sheets; the thread count is probably off the charts on these babies. The bed smells of Lucian, and I have to fight the urge to lie down and snuggle into the sheets.

The bathroom is next on my agenda, and I pause for a moment there. Discomfort floods through me at the memory of Lucian touching my scar. I was moved that he was so angry on my behalf, embarrassed he knows what had happened to me at the hands of my stepfather, and curious as to his strong reaction; his anger had been palpable when he struck the wall. Running my hands over the area, I feel a small indention. Had it been my pain that he’d felt or had it brought back memories of his past?

I know next to nothing about Lucian even though we have been intimate. With the standard third-date rule, do you ever really know anyone before you sleep with them? I have a longer relationship with the guidance counselor at St. Claire’s than I have with Lucian. Surely, such a successful person is a Google dream. I vow to find out more about the man who I am not only sleeping with, but also working for. I don’t want to be one of those people they interview after their boyfriend shoots up his workplace, and she’s just standing there like a deer in the headlights. My motto is ‘knowledge is power, and it’s time to gain some; I need to know more about Lucian before whatever is between us goes further.

Lucian

“Good morning, Sam.” I greet my driver and friend as I slide in the back of the Mercedes. Asheville is hardly Los Angeles, and I could easily drive myself to the office each day, but I am too much of a multitasker to concentrate on one thing. I like starting my day from the comfort of the backseat; normally, I return calls, answer emails, and study the stock market. I also enjoy having Sam around. He knows my schedule better than I do, and I have begun to rely on his reminders. Cindy generally leaves this part of the day to him. I suspect Cindy and Sam discuss more than work and my schedule each day, but to each his own.

Today, I find myself unable to concentrate on my normal routine. I can’t get the image of Lia’s scarred back out of my mind. I had downplayed what I saw there. The outline of a fucking iron was as plain as day. The scar was deep, red and puckered. If it happened five years ago, how horrific must it have been then? Scars might never go away, but they generally fade with time. That the burn had been excruciatingly painful was obvious. I barely know this girl, but I want to fucking kill on her behalf. How dare someone do that to her!

Things had blurred for a moment, and I had been in another time, another place, and with another woman. Was I destined to relive every painful moment of my past again? Some invisible force had been pulling me toward her since the moment we met.

Sam drops me at the front of Quinn Software, and I make my way up to my office, greeting employees as I pass. I’m grateful to find Cindy isn’t at her desk; the need for relief is gnawing at my guts, and it would be torture to be waylaid. I shut and lock my door behind me before walking swiftly to my desk. In moments, the side drawer is unlocked, and I am opening the small case that contains my Heaven and Hell. With unsteady hands, I lay out everything I need; the process helps to center me. I work it as I would any job. Shoddy work is foreign to me, even in this. Soon, I’m ready and as I snort the first white line, it’s there. The clearing of my senses, the instant clarity, and as always, playing around the edge, is the rage at my inability to leave the crutch behind. This has been my answer to dealing with a life that has, at times, resembled a horror movie. I don’t know any other way. There are times when I have been almost free of it, but I’m always brought back by a woman, only the face has changed this time.

I’m fully functional on cocaine, possibly even better; I have never considered myself an addict, even though most would disagree. It would be more socially acceptable if I were in therapy taking an array of prescription medications to deal with all that is fucked-up in my head. Antianxiety medication is as common as Tylenol in this stress-overloaded world, but it has never been my answer. At first, it was simply availability. Cocaine was easy to acquire, and I had friends who used it regularly. When my world imploded, I was encouraged to snort a few lines to help me deal. I have survived on cocaine; hell, I have thrived professionally on it. Personally, the weakness eats at me. It’s my best friend at times and the worst fucking enemy I have ever faced.

These days, Sam makes sure my supply is replenished when needed. He has a nephew who keeps me well-supplied for a price. I don’t ask questions anymore. I give him the money, and he takes care of the rest. The only thing I have stipulated is that he never tells Cindy. I don’t want her involved, and if I am honest, I hate to disappoint her. Aidan, on the other hand, knows most of my secrets, and the coke is no exception. It’s not a big deal to us; we’ve seen and done worse.

When Cindy knocks at my door a few moments later, I wipe my nose and walk over to unlock it. My public face is firmly in place. Cindy would never suspect the only difference between me and the bum on the corner is a higher-priced monkey on my back.

Chapter Eight

Lia

My last class finishes earlier than normal, and I am stopping by the apartment to change clothes before going back to Lucian’s to finish up for the day. To my surprise, his cabinets have been well-stocked as if he actually has meals at his apartment instead of eating out every evening. My plan is to fix a simple dinner of shrimp pasta. Pasta in all forms is something I am well-acquainted with; it is easy, quick, and cheap.

I drop my book bag and walk to my bedroom when a knock sounds at the door. More than likely, it’s someone looking for Marissa next door. I have my suspicions as to why she is so popular, but who am I to judge? Several times a week, we have mostly men knocking at our door, looking for her apartment. At first, I wouldn’t answer the door when I didn’t recognize the person through the peep-hole. After a while, though, it just seemed easier to point them in the right direction to prevent it happening each time they visited. For safety, we always keep the chain firmly in place and speak through the small opening.

Another stranger looks back at me through the small glass, and I shake my head as I crack the door open. “Marissa is next door in 5B.”