The entire world turned grey as Eliot Hardy drove his girlfriend home. Low clouds blocked the afternoon sun, colors withered, and even the raindrops slicing through their headlights seemed bleak, as dull as if they were ashes falling from a toppled urn.

Neither he nor Renae felt dampened by the weather. If anything, they were more chipper now than during their meal, where conversation had flowed without a hitch or embarrassing outburst. They sat with their hands linked on the bench seat of the pickup, in comfortable silence.

Eliot kept glancing at his date, astonished at how beautiful she looked: her short hair, slightly wet, clung to her neck like golden tassels; the fullness of her cheeks was accented by two rosy bruises from the chill; a pale blue dress was all that covered her lithe figure. She could have easily hopped out of the pickup and signed a six-figure modeling contract with any agency on planet Earth. Even after a month of dating, her exquisite charm still made him shiver.

He was twenty-four, but felt more like a hormonal teenager whenever he was around this seductive woman.

“So I’m going to call you Squiddy from now on,” Renae announced.

Eliot frowned and said, “Huh?”

“Squiddy. Because you’re soft and squishy, like a squid.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

“Is this a ploy to get me in shape? You know I hate the gym.”

“Anyone who’s seen you with your shirt off knows you hate the gym.”

“You calling me fat?”

“Baby, you’re skinny

fat, which is like the worst of both worlds. Like, if you were buff and

fat, at least you’d be strong.”

“Hey, who helped you carry the bucket of water out to your chickens the other day?”

“It was a five-pound bucket. Let’s see you pick up a bale of hay and throw it onto a truck.”

Renae lived with her sister on their family farm, where they managed a hay field and two beet fields. Eliot had spent half a day there last week, and his arms still ached.

“Anyway, why would you want to call me Squiddy? My name’s Eliot.”

“All couples need nicknames for each other.”

“Oh? Well, in that case, I’ll call you...Siren.”

She pinched his arm. “Now you’re naming me after seductresses who murder people in the depths of the ocean?”

“No. I’m naming you after a group of incredibly sexy women. And besides, you just called me skinny fat. I think I deserve some leniency.”

“Did I mention that I love

your skinniness? And your fattiness?” She scooted closer and gave his neck a quick peck. Shivers ran the entire right side of his body.

“Pull over,” she whispered into his ear.

Already blurred from thick rain, the highway almost swam into an impossibly smooth abyss as Eliot guided his truck to the shoulder. He was shocked to feel tears glossing his vision, forming sheerly out of reaction to Renae’s breath against the hairs of his face.

He had barely put the vehicle in neutral when she brought his face around and kissed him. Kissing Renae was almost as intoxicating as a chugging a bottle of whiskey. It was as if, when their lips touched, her entire body became electrified, and she was somehow able to concentrate that energy to her mouth, her hands. She pushed herself close, wrapping her arms around his neck, her mouth more lively than ever.

With greedy, trembling hands, he felt along the curve of her spine, across her arms, her waist, her legs. The thin dress moved over her body, and he could feel goosebumps lingering wherever his touch went. It was her warmth as much as the tension in her body which brought their passion alive: it felt like he was caressing a woman so perfect and polished that she would break if he pushed too hard.

When the kiss ended, either after a few seconds or several minutes, she had her left leg over his right. His hand was halfway up her chest, and their breathing was stuttered, agitated.

At just a few inches away, her light blue eyes were radiant. Her lips were slightly parted, and he could see the heavy pulse of her heart in her throat. So alive. So tender.

“You know,” she whispered, “I don’t think your skinny fatness is the only thing I love.”

“What?”

Her hand came up and pressed against his cheek. “Eliot, don’t freak out, but I think I love you.”

He looked but could find no hint of the sarcasm she carried earlier. Words fell from his mouth before he was consciously aware of them.

“Renae, I...I love you...too.”

She kissed him again, then pulled back, sliding across to the passenger’s side. A smile grew. “Well, Squiddy, I guess this takes us to a new level.”

“Why yes, my dear Siren, I think it does as well.”

Eliot punched Renae so quickly that she didn’t even notice his fist until it collided with her cheek. Her entire body spun, and her head hit the window with a sickening thunk

that knocked her out before her surprise could elicit any sound at all.

She slumped sideways in her seat, head on chest, a small rivulet of saliva dangling from the corner of her mouth. A stream of blood wormed its way down her forehead from somewhere in her scalp.

Eliot wiped the window free of fog with his shirt sleeve, looked for any oncoming cars. Nothing. The highway and surrounding dirt roads were deserted.

The day’s gloom deepened, although he could not be certain if it was real or imagined. Perhaps his nervous excitement was darkening shadows that weren’t there, imagining the weight of the clouds pushing down on him.

In any case, he had work to do.

He reached over and put his hand in front of Renae’s mouth. Her breathing was steady. In fact, except for the spittle and blood, and the slackness of her jaw, she was as lovely as ever.

He couldn’t bear to see blood on her perfect face. He took a napkin from the glove box, wiped it away.

“We’re going home, my darling,” he whispered.

As he pulled back onto the highway, he reached over and took Renae’s hand. It was limp, sweaty, but he interlaced their fingers and smiled, imagining the wonderful times they would have together. The future was bright.

#

Eliot had expected Renae to wake sometime along the journey to his house, but she remained asleep for its three-mile duration. Twice that pesky blood drooled down her forehead, and both times he wiped it away, unwilling to let her beauty be disgraced.

His house was a half mile removed from other homes, and the two-acre property was circled by evergreens, ash trees, and lilac bushes, an effectively blinding moat. A single road was guarded by a gate that swung inward for those who keyed in the proper code at the front terminal. The house itself was a two-story structure with sharply gabled roofs, large mullioned windows, and bright silver siding. Expansive flower gardens on either side contained rosebushes, creeping vines, sunflowers, and various tulips.

He pulled his car around the house and parked in front of a small shed with white siding. He turned off the engine and sat for a few moments, listening to the droning rain.

The sky was almost black; at ground level, steadily-growing puddles bubbled and frothed like pockets of highly-concentrated acid.

Neither of them wore coats; when their date began, the sky had been mostly clear. Grimacing at the inevitable chill he was about to face, Eliot opened his door and stepped out into the storm. He ran the few feet to the shed, pulled a keychain from his pocket, and unlocked both the deadbolt and knob lock, pushed the door open. Then, he ran back and retrieved Renae’s limp body, carrying her across the sill and lowering her to the concrete floor. One more trip, to close the pickup door. By the time he pulled the shed door shut and secured both locks, his white shirt and grey slacks were wet, as sticky as if the hairs on his skin were Velcro.

There were no windows in the twelve-by-fourteen foot shed, and he turned on a single low-watt bulb. A jaundiced ambience illuminated the room.

The trip through the rain had not brought Renae out of unconsciousness. He hoped that she hadn’t suffered any brain trauma from his punch. A brain-dead woman was of no use.

He moved to the center of the room, where a small rectangular door in the floor opened after two padlocks were disengaged. It pulled up to reveal a stairway descending into a lightless void.

He took Renae in his arms once more and carried her down the stairs, making sure not to bump her head against the concrete walls. There were eight steps, and after the first three it was almost impossible to see anything; there were no lights in this subterranean room. In fact, there was nothing at all: just four concrete walls forming a space eight feet in length and width, and a ten-inch hole bored down through the floor into the earth to a distance of about six feet. It was covered by a loose piece of plywood.

He lay her down and went upstairs to retrieve a battery-powered lantern, which provided a bright blue glow.

Eliot smoothed back Renae’s hair. She was so precious to him, he had known that for a while, but not until that kiss had he known it was love. That tingling in his heart, a nervous tremble in his hands, and the joy he felt when remembering their times together let him know it was real. Love.

He ached to be with her. They had not yet consummated their relationship, and now he was startled to feel just how much he wanted her touch, her lips, that final communion of their bodies. Even in the lantern’s acerbic light, which made the entire chamber warp, her smooth lips and distinctively toned body sent him into a state of arousal, and for a moment he considered taking her, right now, at this very moment.

No. That would be wrong. Their lovemaking, when it happened, should be enjoyed by them both. And Renae was in no condition to bask in sexual bliss.

He decided to let her sleep off the residual effects of his earlier blow. Later, when she awoke, he would speak with her over a few grilled cheese sandwiches and milk--her favorite snack.

Eliot took the lantern with him up the stairs, where he shut and padlocked the door in the floor. He trusted Renae completely, of course, but she might be delirious when she came to, and he didn’t want her wandering off and hurting herself. Best to keep her here, where she was safe.

He locked the shed door as well, then returned the car to its proper place in his garage.

The inside of his house smelled of cinnamon and lavender. He poured himself a glass of water and sank into his couch.

What a day.

He had started the day unaware that he would finally be in love with a woman. He had expected to return home alone, as usual, and spend the afternoon and evening with a few good movies. Now, he had the company of his soul mate, his love, his Renae. He had read countless romance novels, trying to predict what it would be like to finally find the one person whose life mattered more than his own, and he had watched a hundred or more movies about serendipity, true love, the power of faith, and the importance of selflessness. Since he was fifteen he had dreamed of finding true love--always in private, of course, because how manly was it to gush about love in front of your friends?--and now it was finally here.

“I love you, Renae,” he said aloud.

She might misinterpret his actions as being hostile, maybe even criminal. But the basement room was temporary, just long enough so they could talk and figure out their relationship, and for him to explain his actions. Then she would be welcome in his house, in his bed.

The world was an awful place, full of deviants and rapists, sociopaths and killers. In an instant, a life could be severed by the random cruelty of a stranger: a knife to the throat or a back-alley assault or a drive-by shooting or one of ten thousand other ways in which life was ended. Now that he loved Renae, they were bound together by that love. He would not let anyone hurt her. It was his duty as a man.

His logic was undeniable. His lovely Renae, who had a keen mind and a wit as sharp as a machete, would surely understand. This was the only way their love could flourish. She would see.

He searched through his collection of movies and found one of his favorites, settled in for a nice afternoon viewing.

#

At dusk, Eliot made two grilled cheese sandwiches and poured some milk into a canteen. Then he walked to the shed in his backyard.

He was pleased to see the sun peeking through the spent thunderheads. Its waning light varnished the landscape in gold and made a suitably radiant end for this terrific and most important of days.

He unlocked the shed door and removed the padlocks from the basement entrance. With lantern in one hand, platter of food in the other, he ducked into the stairwell, making sure to close the door behind him.

Renae’s body was gone. Fear rattled his nerves, but then he saw her huddled in the far corner. She cringed at the light and shielded her face against the sudden brightness.

He dimmed the lantern for her comfort.

“Hey Siren,” he said. “My beautiful Renae.”

She gasped when his voice echoed around the concrete, and through tear-streaked eyes she squinted at him. For a moment, she seemed incapable of acknowledging his presence: her eyes never came to rest, but darted between himself, the food, the lantern, the stairwell, lantern, stairwell, food, lantern, stairwell. He hoped again that she had not been rendered mentally unstable.

“It’s good to see you awake,” he said.

“E-Eliot? What the hell is going on?”

“You’re safe. You don’t have to worry anymore, because I brought you here. Where it’s safe.”

“What? Are you...what happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

She felt along her scalp, tracing the welt which must have risen from her smack against the windshield. “I...I remember driving home with you, and then...then we kissed, and...and...”

“And you told me that you loved me, remember? I love you, too, Renae, I do. That’s why I brought you here. So we could be safe, together.”

“You trapped me here? In the dark?” Her voice was rising, and he knew her well enough to see panic taking hold.

He didn’t want her in pain, so he rushed to explain: “No, Renae. We love each other, you and me, and we’ll be together. But the world is so full of evil! It’s everywhere, and now that we love each other, it’s my duty to keep you safe.”

“Eliot, what are you talking about? Where the hell am I?”

“You’re at my house. I apologize for these spartan conditions, but it’s necessary until you understand just how much I love you. Why I need to keep you safe. Look, I made you grilled cheese. I know it’s your favorite.”

He held out one of the sandwiches, but she shrank away from him, her entire body trembling.

He had been afraid of this. Society had brainwashed her against nobility and self-sacrifice. She didn’t like reading, rarely watched TV or movies, and thus was not aware of the subtleties of love as he was. Because he’d been enriched with knowledge from countless books and movies, he knew that the world cared little for a single woman’s life. He also knew that if love were to flourish, it must be kept where safety reigned--and it was up to him to keep his beloved safe. Somehow, he must try and convey this message to her.

She had begun crying. Eliot couldn’t bear to see her in pain, and he set the sandwich down so he could hold her in his arms. But when he moved toward her, she scrambled away, as though his presence was toxic.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Stay away from me, Eliot.”

He held up his hands. “Renae, it’s me. Your skinny fat boyfriend, the guy you’ve been dating for a month. Don’t you remember me?”

“I...I don’t understand. We were happy, weren’t we? If I did something to hurt you, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, you didn’t do anything. Renae, this is because I love

you. I have to keep you safe so our love can grow. Before, I wasn’t sure if you were the one for me, but in the pickup...when we kissed...that

was love. You said so yourself.”

She raised both hands to cover her mouth, and a succession of wrenching sobs broke from her. “Please,” she said. “Please let me go.”

Seeing her in such anguish brought tears to Eliot’s eyes, but as much as he wanted to wipe away her hurt, he was perceptive and well-read enough to know that every relationship required space. Moments of solitude. That was a pervasive theme throughout the books and movies which he’d read and watched over and over. Women were more emotional than men, especially during their monthly period.

Perhaps that was the reason for Renae’s bewildering fear. If so, she would be inconsolable for some time. There would be no reasoning with her in this state.

Love meant sacrifice, and in this case he must sacrifice his own desire of physical intimacy in respect for Renae’s need for privacy.

“I’ll come back,” he promised, and circled around her toward the stairs. “I’ll leave the food and lantern here for you. Please try to understand. This is for your own good, to keep us together. I love you.”

She buried her face deeper in her hands, and the echoes of her sobs made it sound as though twenty ghostly accomplices shared the room with her.

Shaking his head, frustrated, Eliot went back upstairs and exited the shed after securing all the locks.

In the storm’s aftermath, the day was as hushed as a wax-filled diorama encased in glass. No breeze fluttered the leaves, and not even a frog or cricket dared disturb the intensity of this calm.

Eliot stood on his dew-soaked back lawn, frowning. Renae had acted so...so impossibly

. Did she not understand his position? His duty towards her now that she was his?

Was he

the one who was crazy? He realized his actions were bold, and in today’s society might be considered undesirable. Could it be his own mind which was loose?

No. He’d read somewhere that the truly insane never questioned their own sanity. That he had entertained the notion was evidence of his own sound state of mind. Besides, he was acting on the wisdom of the world.

His father hadn’t shared Eliot’s profound understanding of love. Michael Hardy and his wife, Cynthia, had loved each other for most of their adult lives. During Eliot’s life, he had watched as their bond grew stronger, and in a world where divorce and infidelity were everywhere, his parents were rock-solid, the definition of true happiness. They were as free from domestic violence as they were from ten-foot-anacondas. Then, when he was thirteen, Eliot and his father came home to find the front door ajar, the lock shattered. Muddy footprints on the carpet. Because they were a peace-loving family, they owned no guns, and Michel Hardy searched the house unarmed. He found their TV smashed, couches overturned, and picture frames torn from the walls. Eliot had followed his father in a state of shock. Cynthia Hardy was a stay-at-home seamstress, and they found her body in Eliot’s room. She was naked except for a half-torn bra dangling from horribly-slashed breasts. Her hands and feet were bound with fishing line. Her teeth had been knocked from her mouth; they lay like bloody pearls across the bed. Several swastikas of varying size had been carved into her skin, and the amount of blood suggested her heart had still been pumping when they were inflicted. The killers had used some of that blood to paint a smiley face on the wall above the bed.

In time, Eliot came to understand that the incident was his father’s fault. As he learned more about love, about relationships, he realized that his father’s inability to protect his mother directly led to her death. Michael Hardy had been too lenient with his wife, took her for granted. In fact, most couples suffered not because of internal problems but external ones: a chance meeting with an old flame, random burglaries and murders, the influence of selfish friends. The obvious answer was to shelter the relationship, which his father had not understood.

In this case, Renae must be sheltered, protected. She would not end up like his mother, who was left alone in a building no safer than a house of cards. He was a more seasoned and strong man than his father had been, and this love would last because of his precautions.

“Renae,” he said.

Suddenly he longed for her company. He could not leave her down there. Even if she was having her period, in which case her moodiness was explained, she was better than that room. He had made a mistake.

Ashamed at his own actions, Eliot entered the shed again. He was shaking so badly that he had to hold his breath just to open the locks.

What had he been thinking? She was not like the woman he’d always anticipated holding in this basement. She was smart, funny, uncaring about his quirky attitude, beautiful, and trustworthy. He would not shackle her with love, but would instead make her see reason by using compassion, forceful yet gentle physical restraint, and the safety his father had neglected to give his mother.

“Renae!” he yelled as he ran down the stairs. “Renae, I’m sorry. We can be together aboveground, if you’d like. Please, I love you, don’t worry, we’ll work this out, we can--”

Something slammed into the back of his head.

He was on the floor without remembering the fall. His head felt oddly hollow, as though the blow had curdled the grey matter of his brain down to the size of a pea pod. No pain yet.

Renae’s face appeared over him. She held the piece of plywood that had been covering the hole in the floor. He tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t move.

She dropped the wood and fled up the stairs.

Eliot floundered to his knees, splotches of bright silver tumbling across his vision. He crawled up the stairs, expecting Renae to try and lock him inside. If that happened, there would be no reasoning with her, for he had installed no other means of escape in the basement.

Surprisingly, she was gone. The shed door was still quivering. She must have run into his yard.

Pain began to pound inside his head.

This was his fault. He had not explained himself well enough, and Renae probably thought him a creep and a rapist, the lowliest scum. Communication was one of the foundations of a relationship, after all, and he hadn’t communicated his wishes and intents to the one person with whom he should

have been honest.

He must find her before she escaped. In her frantic state of mind, mistakenly believing she was a prisoner, she could get herself hurt in a dozen ways within minutes.

Eliot burst into his gilded backyard, looking for any sign of Renae.

No movement. He could hear nothing but an annoying whine in his ears, and for a moment had to steady himself against the shed as dizziness spun the world.

A flash of something brought him to attention. He looked in time to see a darting blue shape running from a bush to the front of his house.

His house doors were not locked. Nor was the garage door. The pickup keys were in the ignition. He had no reason to expect violence--something he might regret if Renae had the wherewithal to act with haste.

She had not been to his house, therefore was ignorant to its layout. The advantage was his for the moment.

Holding his head, pleased to feel no blood, Eliot splashed through puddles to his back door.

He was in the dining room. A hallway led right, to the bathroom and basement door, and the kitchen lay through the opening in front. He listened, heard no movements, and decided that Renae was most likely to search aboveground for a weapon first.

He moved through to the kitchen.

A floorboard squeaked somewhere ahead and to the right. The staircase was the only explanation; she was climbing it in order to search his bedrooms for any gun--something he did not own. He hated guns.

Unless...

Perhaps he had misinterpreted her actions. She could have been surprised when she hit him with the board, but then realized her mistake and now sought to lure him to his bedroom, where she could apologize with both her words and her body. She would know he’d follow her. She was a levelheaded woman, after all, and loved him.

He wanted desperately to believe it, but could not take the risk of being foolhardy. He knew enough about love to see that sometimes women, while in their monthly cycle, could be particularly irrational. The man in the relationship must protect her from everything, often times from herself. Thus, he would act with the belief that she was trying to escape--though she wasn’t a prisoner to begin with--and hold out hope for the other, more pleasant alternative.

From a drawer, he extracted a butter knife before crossing into the foyer and starting up the stairs.

On the second floor, he paused to see if there were any open doors or footprints. None. She must have removed her shoes, because they would otherwise have been tracking mud across the beige carpeting.

Three rooms on the right, two on the left, with one of those being the attic. It was unlikely she would go there: it was a dead end. In her mind, she wanted escape, and the attic would be the end of the line.

So, the other rooms.

He started in systematic order, silently opening each door and searching for any sign of his beloved.

He considered calling to her, trying to coax her into his arms, but each time his voice withered before he could speak. She had most likely worked herself into such a state that even if Jesus himself appeared, she would kick him in the crotch.

Renae. In pain. Scared for her life.

His

fault.

Love was a more complicated affair than even books and movies let on. He was beginning to wonder if he was destined to love at all--doubtful, if this was how it manifested.

Next room, next, across the hall, search, next room, under the bed, nothing, on to the next, in the closet, under the bed, behind the dressers, nothing, nothing, nothing.

The idea that he had fallen in love with a ghost was taking forefront in his mind. He had but one more room to search.

His own master bedroom. He pushed the door open and looked everywhere, from under his lush bedsheets to the private bathroom. Nothing.

Then, he heard something crash to the floor downstairs. He froze, unsure of what the sound meant.

She had tricked him. The creak on the stairs had been meant to lure him to the second floor when really she had remained downstairs

.

“Renae, you tricky woman,” he whispered.

Down the steps three at a time, into the living room: Eliot saw one of his lamps toppled onto the hardwood floor, shattered. A cursory search revealed nothing to indicate Renae’s presence.

Okay. Think. She would have continued through this room. What lay beyond? His study, a half-bath, and the garage entrance.

“Damn,” he said, sprinting to the garage door. It was open.

He entered with caution, holding the butter knife at his side. The garage, unlike the rest of his house, was sparsely furnished with only a single workbench, a few crates of miscellaneous tools, and his pickup and car. He circled the perimeter before realizing Renae must be crouched inside either vehicle.

“Renae?” he called out. “Renae, please, let me explain. This is my fault. I should have known you were different. You could understand my reasons. Please, come out and let’s talk.”

He peered through the window of his car and saw no body curled in the seats.

“I know you’re feeling confused, but baby you have to believe that I’m doing this for us. For our love.”

Something in the truck shifted. He jerked, waving the knife, and saw Renae peeking out from inside the bed. Their eyes locked, and she held up both hands.

“Please...don’t hurt me.”

“What? No, no, I’m not going to hurt you.” He threw the knife away. “I just had that because...I don’t know. Renae, come out from there.”

“Eliot, why...why are you doing this? I thought we were happy.”

“We are. I’m only trying to protect you. Now that we love each other, and we’re an official couple, it’s my duty to keep you from harm. I know it’s hard for you to understand, because you’re not as in tune with love and relationships as I am. But if you’d just let me explain...!”

He started inching toward her, arms imploring, not daring to break eye contact.

“I made a mistake earlier,” he said. “You didn’t need to be in the basement. You’re better than that. I was just...just excited, is all, because I’ve never had anyone to love before. Not like you, at least. Just let me explain. I swear I’m not going to hurt you. It’s still me, Renae. It’s always been me.”

She was as pitiful and scared as a rabbit in a cage, but she allowed him to help her out of the pickup, and when he hugged her, she stiffened but did not resist.

Baby steps. Relationships were like houses, built brick-by-brick.

“Come with me,” he said. “Let’s go to the living room. I’ll fix us some tea. I know Earl Grey is your favorite.”

Her hand was so sweaty that his grip almost faltered several times as they went into the living room. They sat on the couch.

Renae’s face, though tear-stained, was still the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. Her trembling body aroused him even more now that she was safe inside his house.

“You could use a shower,” he said, intending to lighten the mood.

She glanced at him but said nothing.

“Okay. You’re right. It’s a bit too soon for banter.” Eliot reached over and tucked her hair behind her ears. As before, his touch left goosebumps.

“Please let me go,” she whispered.

“I will. In time. But you have to understand first. Please, Renae, would you just let me...let me...”

“What?”

“Kiss you.”

Her hand squeezed his, and he was adept enough at reading women to know that sometimes nonverbal cues were more telling than words.

He leaned in and kissed her. He could feel her lips quivering, but after a second returned his kiss. His attempts to ignite that passion they’d shared in the pickup were in vain: her mouth was on some kind of autopilot, repeating the same motion without the subtle liveliness that had always before marked Renae’s kisses.

Even so, something surged inside him as they touched. To feel her body, no matter how stiff and reticent, was exhilarating. He scooted closer, gently pushing them down on the couch, his hands running across her stomach, her chest, her hips. She did not respond with her own touches, but made no effort to resist.

Brick-by-brick. He would not have sex with her yet, because she had not fully come to understand his actions. No, for now he would just show her that his love hadn’t changed--that, if anything, it had grown stronger.

She was so irresistible lying underneath him. He kissed her harder, trying to get her body as alight with passion as his was. A nibble on her lower lip caused an involuntary moan of pleasure, and his questing hands brought forth another.

He broke their kiss to whisper, “I love you.”

She surprised him by grabbing his head--which made him wince as her hands touched the welt--and pulling him down once again.

Brick-by-brick.

He had just begun to think that their love might unfurl here on the couch when sirens trailed through the silence of the house.

He pulled away, stood, listening to the undulating rhythms. They were growing closer.

“What did you do?” he asked.

She slid off the couch and backed away to the hallway entrance, where she could easily bolt into the garage. No doubt by now she realized the keys were in both vehicles’ ignitions.

“You called the police

?”

He was in shock. While he searched upstairs, she must have phoned the authorities and told them her twisted version of the truth. She had allowed his kiss simply to keep him occupied until they arrived.

The cops wouldn’t listen to reason. They were closed-minded, and were part of the world from which he had been trying to protect Renae.

Suddenly, he understood.

He understood

. And it was caustic to his heart.

She had tricked him. It was the only explanation. She had used him for a few physical flings, free dinners, and company. In the pickup, when she expressed her love, it had been a ploy to see how he would respond. He had read about women like that, but had never expected sweet-tempered Renae to be one of the manipulators.

He had been betrayed, used, discarded like some Kleenex used to wipe away snot. His good nature had been twisted against him. Worse, he had believed everything she said. That was also a shortcoming of men he’d read about in novels, but he’d never considered that he would be one of them.

Tears fell down his cheeks as he rushed toward Renae. She screamed and ducked to the right, tumbling away from the hallway.

He didn’t halt. He was incapable of hurting her, even though she had lied to him. A lesser man might have taken out his rage on Renae, but not Eliot. All he could do now was focus on escape, on surviving, on running. Hurting a woman was out of the question; he could never hurt a woman.

In the garage, sweating, he jumped into his truck and waited, waited, waited for the garage door to slide open. When it was high enough, he skidded out onto the gravel entryway.

Sobbing both from anguish and rage, he fishtailed through puddles. Once, he looked in the mirror and saw Renae standing on his porch, hand on chest. She was shouting something, but his ears were filled with engine roar and internal thunder.

The gate to his house opened only by a code. Twice he punched in the wrong code, all the while knowing that the sirens were closing fast. They would descend with fury, and Renae would feed them more of her lies.

Love. His father may have been right when he said that most women were never up to any good. Michel Hardy turned out to be a drunken, ill-equipped, heartless, gutless, good-for-nothing human being, but in that one regard Eliot now wished he’d listened.

Maybe love was not meant for him just yet. This fiasco certainly hadn’t bolstered his confidence.

Finally, on the fourth or fifth try, he punched the right code and the gate opened. He paused for a moment at the highway. There was a curve in the road to the left, from where the sirens came, and he was allowed a brief time in which he could escape before they saw his pickup.

Hesitation would mean imprisonment. He was not equipped for such conditions.

Eliot sped along the open road, away from his house, away from the police, and away from Renae. He sobbed so violently at losing his first true love that several times he veered onto the gravel shoulder.

The police would search for him. Like bloodhounds, the agents of hate would not rest until they sniffed out the man who had loved a woman so much that he tried only to protect her from all harm.

He could run for as long as needed. After all, he’d been running since age thirteen. And there were millions of women out there. There had

to be one with whom he could share his enormous love, someone that could help him rebuild the shattered heart Renae had broken. There was, if not a soul mate, a woman capable of giving him peace, of understanding the profound logic he carried within. He must find the woman who was the exception to his father’s rule.

Into the glazed evening he drove, hopeful and sad, excited and fearful, a man with a singular purpose so worthwhile that surely not even the shackles of prison would be so cruel as to close before he experienced true love.

Impressum

Bildmaterialien: Google Images
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 07.02.2012

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