Fuck
Setting: "The Dark Defender"
I can't believe it. That fucking asshole.
And I didn't even fucking see it. I am the most oblivious fucking sack of dog shit in the entire fucking world.
I climb inside my car and slam the door, force the key into the ignition and yank it over. I'm so angry I can't see straight. The world outside the windshield seems to run like paint as I glance outside, focus on the trunk of a palm tree sitting in front of the space.
A fresh peal of rage thunders through me as I swipe at my eyes, thankfully come back with nothing. At least I'm not fucking crying.
"Motherfucking fuck…" I hiss.
I check behind me, then pull out, head for the highway. It's not until I get to the mouth of the complex that I remember I don't know where I'm going. I stop, glare at the road, try to fucking think.
I could go back to Dexter's place, but he's not home tonight, and as worked up as I am I don't know that it's safe for me to be there alone. I don't know that it's safe for me to try to sleep. Behind all the rage I can taste the sour notes of fear, and I think if I go back there, if I let myself sit on it, it's going to devolve into a panic attack.
Because I let him fucking touch me. Because I was starting to allow myself to trust him, was forcing myself to push through all the shit holding me back so I could build some kind of connection, pretend I'm an actual human being again, and he was just using me. He wasn't being kind or patient. He was just trying to get me to lower my guard. He was preying on me and I didn't have a fucking inkling.
Again.
The Ice Princess.
Fuck me. Drill a fucking hole in my head and fuck me dead.
It's no fucking wonder Moser took me hook, line, and sinker, no wonder he was able to string me along so fucking long. He saw what a desperate, pathetic fucking asshole I am, and he couldn't help himself.
Now I am close to tears. It makes me even angrier.
A sound like an angry cat escapes me as I dig my fingernails into my forehead.
No, I can't go home. But I don't know where else to go. I don't want to be out, don't want to be around anyone.
And I need to fucking… I don't know. Do something.
I exhale, slide my hands back, smooth my hair behind my ears. Swallow as I look out at the road.
Work. I'll go the station. No one's gonna be there, this late on a Thursday. It's safe there. And maybe if I do something productive, I'll be able to calm down enough to go home later. I just need to get out of this loop.
And even if I can't, worst comes to worst, I can find somewhere to sleep there. Set an alarm, curl up on LaGuerta's couch for a couple hours.
Wouldn't that be fun to explain…
Fucking whatever.
I hit the gas and turn right, immediately move to pass some asshole going like 20 under in the left lane. Battle down the impulse to make a rude gesture in his direction as I go.
But I already feel a little calmer, as I get further and further from his apartment. As I skip around the lanes, weave between other cars like the asshole Beemer owner I am.
I just don't understand how I didn't see it, how he hid it so well. When I mentioned the Ice Truck Killer yesterday he didn't even blink. He hasn't said a word about him. Yet he's already in talks with a publisher? He's already got a manuscript to send to them? How is that even possible? It's been three months since Moser tried to kill me. It's barely been a week since we slept together. When did we first meet? Like a month ago?
Has he been stalking me?
Was he already writing a book about the ITK when he met me? Did he decide fucking me would make for a great postscript?
How the fuck didn't I see this?
("You know the one thing I've been dying to ask you?")
And suddenly I feel his breath in my ear.
And a shudder rolls up my back.
("How did you not know who I was?")
A hint of menthol.
As his arms tightened around my throat.
As I dimly realized what was happening, as it clicked into place.
That something was very, very wrong.
("I think a real cop would at least have a sense that she was in the presence of the person she was hunting, right?")
("You're hurting me!")
"Fuck! Fuck!"
I bang my hand against the wheel, electrified by the memory of my own voice.
No. I can't fucking go there again. I can't. I can't let myself. I'm going to end up plowing into the divider. Or into another car.
(maybe it would be better)
(shut the fuck up)
This isn't going to happen tonight.
I roll down the window, reach over and feel around for a cigarette and a lighter in the center console, come up with both.
Light up.
Focus on the road as we all slow for a light. On the bumper of the Prius in front of me. It's covered with stickers.
Hybrid cars: So many miles. So little gas.
How many Iraqi children did we kill today?
IMPEACH BUSH
I look away, already forgetting what they said. Take a pull on the cancer stick.
It's helping.
Sort of.
I blow smoke out the window. Somebody nearby is running their bass, and it occurs to me that I should put my radio on or something. But I can't get myself to reach over and press the knob.
I'd rather stew in my thoughts.
Go over every microsecond of our dates, of the time we spent together, trying to find whatever I missed.
But I can't think of anything. He's seemed so… normal. Nice. Shallow as a fucking bedpan, but in a pleasant way.
At least with Rudy when I think back, when I let myself think back, I can see some of the flags I missed or ignored or didn't care about, whatever it was that I was doing. I can't think of one weird question or action from Gabriel. If anything, he's been remarkably uninterested in the cause of my obvious PTSD.
It just doesn't make sense.
I exhale more smoke as I turn onto Biscayne Boulevard, immediately merge over to the left lane.
I must really be fucking retarded. Or a fucking magnet for sociopaths. Or both.
I don't know.
I don't know what to do.
I try to think about something else. Work. Whatever the hell it is I'm gonna do when I get there. I'm not sure what there even is. I've practically given up on the White and Gruber investigations.
I remember Coral Cove and the afternoon I spent with Lundy, my idea about checking rental logs that he promptly shot down. Because he was right. But that didn't stop me from requesting logs from Turkey Creek and Sunset Keys, both of which do have boats for rent. I didn't have a chance to start looking through what the marinas emailed me before I left for the night, so I've got at least that much waiting for me to deal with when I get there.
I don't know if I find that comforting or not.
I tap some ash into an empty cup sitting in the cup holder, lean my wrist against the wheel.
Find myself thinking about Gabriel, going over it all again.
I don't stop myself. But within minutes it's already driving me back toward rage that I can't think of a single thing. He hasn't done anything. That I've caught, anyway.
Besides those goddamn emails.
The cigarette's down to a nub. I suck on it one last time before dropping it in the cup.
The Ice Princess.
Yo, Mrs. Ice Truck Killer…
("Will you marry me?")
I set my teeth, reach for another cigarette. After lighting up and tossing the Bic back into the center compartment, I finally reach over and hit the button for the radio, turn it way the fuck up, until it drowns away the sound bytes.
Because I can't fucking take it anymore.