For a second, I almost pity him. Alexis has always resented me for my first-born rights. He’s undermined me whenever he could. For as long as he’s lived, he’s crawled on his knees and kissed my father’s ass. He’s always hated me, but since I punished him for torturing the prostitutes under his protection, he wanted to destroy me. After making him and his torture buddy fuck each other’s asses while whipping them to shreds, it’s become his life mission.
Good luck to him. It’s not that easy to get rid of a bad weed. Weeds grow tougher than cultured garden plants and flowers.
Sauntering to the wet bar with his fake confidence, he pours my favorite whiskey and carries the glass back to me. Swirling it under my nose, he grins, then takes a sip before flopping down in the chair behind the desk.
“I assume you’re all packed.” He glances at the door as he speaks. “Bring me a souvenir from South Africa, will you?”
I follow his gaze. Izabella stands in the door, wearing a long-sleeved dress and high heels with stockings, the image of cultured refinement. The perfect wife. Her dark eyes rest accusingly on me. She follows my movement as I cross the floor. When I reach her, I stop and wait. She steps aside without a word. I don’t look at her as I push past her. I carry on straight, walking through the front door without sparing either of them another glance.
Chapter 6
Zoe
Urgh.
The evening was a disaster. My poor date. He’s a nice guy, not bad-looking either, but I decided to be honest with him over a too-sweet fishbowl cocktail we shared at News Café in Sandton. When I told him I was on the rebound, he paid his portion of the bill and left me there alone with a fishbowl full of fluorescent alcohol and two soggy paper straws. Thank goodness I insisted on driving there in my own car instead of letting him pick me up. At least I had a ride home.
It’s only nine when I arrive at my complex. At the security gate, I type in my pin to open the gate, and then scan my thumbprint to lift the boom. An armed guard nods from the guardhouse. I give him a friendly wave. The extra security measures almost all the complexes in the area have to combat robberies give me a feeling of safety. Damian had a security slam-gate fitted in front of my door and fortified bars in front of all my windows as well as under the roof. He wasn’t taking any chances. My little fortress is safe. With the alarm, there’s zero possibility of anyone getting in.
Just in case, I fold my hand around the pepper spray in my bag when I park. A high wall with electrified barbwire on the top surrounds the complex. Spray lights illuminate the parking and the dark corners. Being attacked by someone lurking in the bushes is a very small probability. Still, I scan the grounds and look over my shoulder.
I lived in Brixton before, a suburb a lot more dangerous than Fourways, yet I’d never been this paranoid in Brixton. This constant state of alertness is the price I pay for being kidnapped and smuggled abroad, all in the name of diamonds. Once upon a time when I was young and naïve and had dreams, I wanted a man to put a pretty ring with a shiny stone on my finger. Now I hate those stones for what they represent. Crushed dreams. Greed and ugly truths.
My steps echo on the concrete as I cross the parking lot. There are twelve units with four apartments in each. Mine is on the first level of the second unit. The fact that it’s not on the ground level makes the possibility of someone climbing through a window or the roof even more improbable.
It’d been a long day at work. I’d rushed home to get ready, putting on a blouse with wide sleeves I made from tea-stained lace with a pair of high-waist black pants fastening with buttons on the sides. Pairing it with high-heeled booties, I call it my pirate outfit. So much for making an impression. I sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t have said I’m on the rebound, but I hate being dishonest. I’ll have to tell Lina to limit her matchmaking to guys who aren’t looking for anything serious.
Who am I kidding? The idea of a man’s hands on my body repulses me. I was hoping tonight was a step in the right direction to get over my phobia of being touched, something I’ve developed since I escaped. I’m worried sex isn’t in the cards for me for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll never be able to tolerate an intimate touch again. Maybe Maxime damaged more than my sense of safety for life.
Climbing the stairs to my unit, I pull free the elastic that ties my blond hair into a ponytail and shake out the long tresses. I use a straightener these days to get rid of my natural curls.
On the landing, I tiptoe so my neighbor doesn’t hear me. Mariska is a nice girl, but I’m not in the mood for company. I just want to wash the makeup off my face and crawl into bed. I was worried for nothing, though, because a reggae song pierced with laughter filters through her door. She’s got company. Later, I’ll have to listen to the banging of her headboard against the wall, lying awake in the dark and pondering all the ways in which I’m screwed up.
Those sleepless nights are the worst. I ache for a touch I can’t tolerate from any other man, my body heating with need at the memory of another woman’s man. I burn and cry, and eventually make myself come only to hate myself for it in the morning. Maybe I’ll take a sleeping pill tonight. I picked up a herbal remedy from a
