"Do you really think that you'll find my father's killer?"
A single, simple answer - "Yes." There was a quiet strength in his voice, in the way he leveled his gaze on me. I knew he must have done it hundreds of times before, said that exact word - yet there was no hint of practiced casualness to any of it. He meant it. He meant every word. He meant every reassuring expression. I was flooded with calm like hot water filling up my veins. Later that night, I went home and all I could see before I drifted off to sleep was his face, his strong, clean features. I heard the steady timbre of his voice as it whispered my name.
My father's dead and my mother was the one who killed him. She's up at Five Points, not at all remorseful for what she did. I feel sick at what she did, but I know it's partly my fault as well. Maybe entirely my fault, but I won't let myself think that. If I let myself think that, God knows what I'd do. All I can focus on are the things he said, the truth. It was my mother who killed my father, not me. I need to move on. I need to forge my own life.
Somehow, though, I can't get him off my mind. It begins innocuously enough. A daydream of running into him somewhere - a bookstore, a street corner. We make small talk and catch up. The daydreams evolve however. After the small talk is over and we should part, he asks me for coffee - for lunch, for a walk, whatever. I always accept. Finally, they progress into fullblown fantasies. Each and every fantasy ends with me with my legs wrapped around him, up against a wall, screaming his name as I come like a hurricane. I can barely walk after my dream climaxes; they're that intense. I wake up each night, tingling, wishing he were there to ram me into the mattress and leave me gasping for him. I couldn't sleep.
I'm not certain how it happened. New York is really a small town when you come right down to it. Look hard enough for someone and you'll find him. I didn't mean to follow him into the market. I didn't mean to at all. Yet, there I was, blindly shoving items into a basket, following a few paces behind, just pleased to be in his vicinity. Of course, with his honed senses, it wasn't long before he was casting suspicious glances around and the game had to be ended. The rest of the encounter played out almost like one of my fantasies. Trivial banter. Walking so close to him I could smell his aftershave, a spicy, masculine scent. It was the ending that was unexpected. Instead of taking me home and letting me lick my way down his body, he left. It was a jolt of unwelcome reality. I went home, pink with embarrassment. I wasn't a schoolgirl anymore. Why was I acting like one?
Again, I don't know what possessed me to make that card. I'd seen the Isabelle Vaughn story on television. I watched simply because I knew it had to be his case. It made me feel close to him, but as I surveyed the strangers' secrets tacked up on my walls, I felt the distance of reality once more. So I made the card. I never thought he'd take it so seriously. I never knew it would mean he would get angry at me. I'm not sorry though. The card is why he came to my apartment. The card is why he became so furious, I could see a glimpse of the beast I could unleash if only I could get him into my bed. After he stormed out, I locked the door, stripped off my panties, and rubbed myself until I climaxed, invoking his name in a series of staccato yelps.
It's been too long since I last saw him. I'm like an addict who needs a fix. I dialed his number, tearful. Now, I sit and wait, blood pooling at the gashes I've made across my wrists. They're not deep cuts. I don't intend to die. I just needed a reason for him to come - or rather, he needs a reason and I'm giving it to him. I hear him outside in the hall, pounding on my door, screaming my name. I feel a little light-headed from the blood loss, but it won't be long. He enters with one swift kick to the door. I know he'll find me soon. He'll see the knife I used. He'll see the blood. With his skills, he'll quickly assess the situation and know exactly what to do. My hero. My Mac.
He rounds the counter and finds me on the floor. He says my name. "I'm so tired of being alone," I whimper. Somewhere inside of me, this is true. He hauls me up and tends to my wounds. I can't seem to stop crying, to stop babbling. He's carrying me in his arms now, saying in that soothing voice of his that everything is okay, that he's going to take care of me.
I'm in his arms and it feels like everything is right in the world. As he carries me out, my eyes glance ever so briefly at the card I made. My secret. I confess it. I know exactly what I am doing.
I WILL MAKE HIM LOVE ME.