Come to me

Richard had initially called me the night before he became a person of interest in Leung Yang’s murder. Though I followed the news, only the method of her death had been gleaned by investigators. Leung overdosed on fentanyl—China Girl was the street term—shortly before she was found. Before that, she’d been missing for two weeks. All leads to the timeline between her disappearance and the discovery of her body were dead ends. Even after I did my research I couldn’t find anything to incriminate my client. I wondered if Mackenzie would hire an investigator. He certainly had the money for it.

Friday night crept up on me like a stalker. When I looked at the clock and realized that almost everyone at the office had gone already, I packed up my weekend homework and left for the private gym. I bought my pricy membership last year during the trial of another sexual predator. Though I loved the size of the pool at the YMCA, this quieter gym had additional security. And now as always, I needed my refuge, cool refreshing water. 

Swimming pools were where my love of diving began. When I was a kid, Dad dragged me to my brothers’ lessons and swim meets. He eventually tired of my pleas to join them and stuck me in lessons at an early age. Competitive swim meets helped develop the habit of swimming for exercise, but then a desire to dive grew in me. Soaring through the air with the rush of falling and the impact of the water gave me a sense of accomplishment. 

Counting laps felt like a homecoming. It cleared my mind and relaxed me. As I moved through the water, the rhythmic arm movements and breathing patterns removed the stresses of the day. I could look ahead to plan my next trip or prepare for court. 

My first impression was that Richard  Mackenzie was difficult. Obviously, he was used to getting his way. I shook my head. Richard Mackenzie must think he’s something. The memory of J. T. Mackenzie gazing at my face while holding my hand popped into my mind as I held my breath through another kick turn. The multimillionaire and CEO of PPS had touched my hand and looked at me with bedroom eyes. I laughed and choked on inhaled water. Smiling, I surfaced and then waded to the side of the pool. 

He had flirted with me. Since the famous man would become my priority for the next few weeks or months, I’d have to impress on him the rules of my game. But I would never date a client. It went against every ethical bone in my body. 

After a hot shower, I stopped at a local Italian restaurant to pick up dinner for one, cavatappi with spicy sausage. Seated near the hostess’ podium I texted my friend Roman while waiting for my order. Roman was out with our friends and asked me to join them for a drink, but I declined and texted,

Next time we’ll have dirty Ginis together. 

She replied, 

You’ve needed a Gini for months. 

I said, 

You know I’ve been in the courtroom for the last . . . decade.

I added a laughing emoji. Roman knew me. She had been my roommate during our last years of college and helped me move to my new loft. If only she’d know how much I missed her company and her tidy habits. 

The smell of garlic wafting from the nearby tables made my stomach rumble. I glanced up from my phone when I overheard the name Richard  Mackenzie. The hosts leaned together, their shoulders rubbing as they gossiped. 

“I hear he killed his assistant,” the middle-aged hostess said. Her shoulder-length black hair had long silver streaks.

Her coworker, a soft-looking man wearing eyeliner, nodded with a spark in his eye. “Just because he’s famously rich doesn’t put him above the law. I know a friend who works at PPS. They say he’s cold and rude. He has no friends. She thinks he’s a sociopath.”

“His assistant was the only person close to him. And he raped and drugged her,” the female hostess dished. “She was tied up with duct tape.”

The host didn’t use a hushed voice. “I think he has a secret life. Did you know, once, a friend of mine saw Richard Mackenzie at The Rack.”

“That S&M club?”

“He was alone. Just observing.” The host drew out each syllable of the word.

“That’s creepy,” the female hostess said. She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked over at me. She hid behind her confidant and whispered something while peeking around his shaved head at me. Thankfully, their voices were drowned out by the sound of glasses clinking and cheers at a nearby table. 

Eager to get home, I stood to stretch my legs. When I did, the hosts glared at me. It didn’t bother me that I was nearly a household name in the Chicago area. What did eat at my soul was the perception that folks had of me. The meanness in their stare coated my heart with ice. I dropped my gaze. Though I turned away, I could hear the host’s comment under his breath.

“That bitch. I hope she goes to hell for helping Peterson go free.”

When my food finally came, I took it from him with forced smile. 

It was typical for me that I did not dream while working on a tough court case. Now that it was over, my subconscious came alive. Saturday morning I woke after a disturbing series of clear images. Violent, icy wind blew leaves and debris across the lawn that stretched in front of me. I walked uphill toward the house, my arms shielding my face from bitterly cold wind, and saw Senator Peterson in the window. He waved. Had he winked at me? 

Wearing a blue and white plaid shirt, Peterson turned his blond head toward someone in the room. His broad shoulders and back faced me, as he shouted angry words at them. I couldn’t hear him over the gale-force wind, though I knew he repeated the same words over and over. Doors slammed, and something fragile broke. A woman screamed. 

I’d had this dream before, the one where I was terrified and couldn’t run. I wanted to, I tried to get away, but something held me down. My legs were too heavy to lift from the ground. Though I knew I was dreaming, fear held me frozen to the spot where I stood. 

The sense of urgency fluttered in my gut like a flock of birds had taken flight inside me. I needed to get to that woman. She needed me to save her, and I was the only one who could do it. Using training from my self-defense classes, I imagined the outcome in my favor. Adrenaline flowed from the pit of my stomach to my fingertips. With sharp wind pelting me with debris, I fell onto all fours and crawled toward that house. 

Then darkness fell. All became quiet. 

In the next part of the dream, I lay naked and alone with nothing but my own thoughts for company. A man entered the dark room, closing the door behind him, turning out the light. A black mask may have covered his face, I couldn’t see it. When he approached, he laid a smooth leather strap across my belly. “You need to be punished,” he said. 

Yet when I woke, an utter sense of calm washed over me. 

Did dreams have meanings? I’d read that some images were significant and universal. The only thing I knew for sure was that the man at the end of the dream did something to help my anxiety. And though I racked my brain, it wasn’t there. I couldn’t remember.

I thought about what the dream meant while I finally unpacked my moving boxes. I put food and kitchen gadgets away. Plates went into one cupboard and glasses into another. I shelved brand-new pots and pans that still had the outer wrapper from the store. Roman and I had gone shopping for them the week I had moved in. She told me the old ones were in bad shape—as if I would know the difference—I hadn’t cooked in the four months I lived here. 

I’d moved because I needed more security. My clients were dangerous, and I had worried that Roman was at risk too. She moved to a cute apartment near Northwestern University while I stayed in the city. The Lincoln Park loft had been quite expensive. The loan officer took my income into account because I had very little savings. Even after four years at Dorman, Wallace, and Edwards it would be a long time before I could quit my job or afford my own practice.

I opened the rest of my moving boxes, arranged books in the bookshelves and organized my office. I broke down the boxes after emptying them and stacked them near my door. In one box, I found a black zippered case, heavy with the pistol inside it, and set it on the couch beside me. The bag contained my dad’s Browning .38. He’d kept it in pristine condition and had given it to me when I started working for Dorman, Wallace, and Edwards. Dad had worried because that year, I’d represented a couple of psychotic men. He took me to the shooting range and taught me how to use the off-duty pistol from his Chicago PD days. 

The black case beckoned me. It had been two months since I’d practiced shooting. Taking the heavy bag in my hands, I unzipped it. Inside, two fully loaded magazines and the weapon glistened in the lamplight. I pulled it out and the gun felt familiar, like an old friend. Dad had been training me to use guns since I was fourteen. I dropped the magazine out with a flick of a switch. Each magazine contained twelve .38-caliber bullets. Even if my life were threatened, I would never need that much firepower. 

Unloaded, the black pistol seemed less threatening. I pointed it at my apartment door. There was only one scenario I could imagine where I’d need to protect myself with this weapon, and it involved one of my clients breaking in. Though it was an unrealistic fear—security in my building was enforced through several checkpoints—I enjoyed envisioning several of those creeps standing in my foyer. And I pretended to pull the trigger. 

Before putting the gun away, I stood in the middle of my living room and practiced loading the gun. With muscle memory developed over time, I effortlessly slipped the magazine into the weapon, then pulled back and released the slide. All that practice with my dad had paid off.

I made sure that no bullets were chambered before sliding the magazines back into the bag. I placed the gun bag near the Browning in a dresser-drawer under my lingerie. 

As I continued unpacking, I found all my vampire movies and hooked up an old DVD player, one that I hadn’t used since college. That night, I began a weekend movie marathon. As I watched Bram Stoker’s Dracula, I hung framed pictures on my walls and put away the empty mover’s boxes. My apartment finally felt like a home. 

The combination of hot actors and the edgy scary movies turned me on, so afterward I went to the bedroom and found my vibrator—a pink jelly with three moving parts. My vibrator and I had been through a lot together; the break-up with Chris, the dumping of Danny. My pink jelly and I had had sex more times than I’d had with men. Ours was the perfect relationship. 

I could see Jelly when I wanted, and there was never emotional garbage. There for me when I needed him, he never got angry or jealous and never felt like I was neglecting him. It was the best relationship I had ever had.

So I took him to bed with me again. I lay back on my pillows and slowly slid my panties down a few inches. Then slipping my left fingers between my labia, I used my juices to moisten my clit and rubbed circles with two fingers. I closed my eyes and imagined my partner was a real vampire. The risk gave me an adrenaline rush. I fantasized about actors who played vampires in movies. Bolman Oldman played the younger Dracula and wore round glasses and his hair long. He could come to me in the middle of the night, any time. 

“Yes,” I cried out. “Come to me.”

I pushed the vibrator into my opening and imagined Dracula on top of me. He had so much power. He controlled me. I couldn’t fight him, but I didn’t want to. He would take me and own me.

“Ah!” I cried out as sweet ecstasy flooded my body.