Dirty Wife Games Read online

  Besides, it’s time for work, and if my supervisor sees me chilling, I know he’ll give me a lecture. One I want to avoid at all cost, considering I got this job through my parents … and … Greg.

  Just the thought makes me cringe.

  I scroll through the list of books as I finish inventory when my eyes catch something peculiar. A man wearing a long coat is standing near one of the bookshelves close to the exit. I’ve never seen him here before, and I don’t remember seeing him come in.

  What is he doing here?

  I watch him grab a book from one of the shelves, tentatively flipping the pages one by one.

  Until he lifts his head and looks me directly in the eyes.

  I freeze, my heart beating in my throat, as I realize he’s the same man who’s been watching me from the bench across the street from my house. The same man I saw from the parking lot the other day. I thought I was losing it … and now, he’s here, right in front of me, in the flesh.

  Looking straight at me with those hauntingly blue eyes.

  I grip the desk tight, feeling like it’s the only thing tethering me to this world.

  I swallow away the lump in my throat as he reaches into his pocket and takes out something small. I can’t see what it is, but he places it inside the book and puts it back on the shelf.

  After one last glance at me, he turns around and leaves.

  I don’t stop staring until he’s left the building and is completely out of sight.

  The door is still swinging back and forth, which is exactly how my heart feels right now.

  For a while, I stay put, wondering if he’s going to return, but as the people come and go, none of them are him. People hand me their books, and I scan them while vaguely being aware of them standing in front of me. I feel like a ghost. One woman even snaps her fingers at me as if she’s trying to wake me up.

  I rush through the line as quickly as I can until the last customer has left with her books. When I finally gather enough courage, I peel myself away from my desk and stroll to the shelf in question. My fingers glide along the familiar books until they find an anomaly. One spine pushed in a little too far.

  I grab it and take it out. I touch the front and back to make sure nothing’s changed. It’s a hardcopy of Gone Girl. I flip it open and sift through the pages until I find a thicker bit. There, I find a piece of paper.

  Taking it out, I go through all the pages to make sure nothing else is inside and then place the book back on its shelf.

  With the paper in my hand, I look around the library to see if anyone’s noticed me. I don’t know what’s written on this paper, but I don’t want to share it with anyone either. For some reason, it feels like this is a secret between us. A silent agreement to keep things hidden. And I don’t want people to know this; least of all at the place I call ‘work.’

  So I turn my back against the big hall and unfold the paper.

  It’s a typed out message.

  ***

  Drake

  This is a story about a young woman and the man who couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  She’s small and fragile like a lonely flower in a field weathering a strong wind. Her black hair tickles the back of her neck. She walks down the steps of her home with apprehension and haste. Something’s bothering her, and I can see from the way she clutches her purse she knows…

  I’m watching her.

  I know what I’m doing is wrong.

  But I can’t stop myself … I want her so badly.

  She’s the type of girl no one sees. She can vanish in a crowd, and no one would come looking. No one would know she’s gone missing. No one would care.

  But I would.

  I’m that man … the man who stalks because he’s afraid of what will happen when he decides to pounce. Because he secretly desires the forbidden. To run his fingers through her smooth, silky hair. To touch her naked skin.

  But he also knows … she does not want him.

  This man is undesirable, a freak, because he follows and stares, watches and listens … instead of starting a conversation.

  This man is not someone you want to be with.

  A man who desires a woman he can’t have only wants one thing …

  To stop her from being with someone else.

  She’s so beautiful … he imagines wrapping his fingers around her neck, one by one, until nothing but his love is left.

  ***

  Hyun

  My body feels numb and cold to the bone.

  I’m trembling. Not because of the goose bumps scattering over my skin, but because of what this message means.

  Is it a threat or a tale of admiration?

  I can’t tell … because I don’t know for sure if this is about me.

  But who else could it be for?

  He looked directly at me, so I must be the girl in the story, right?

  However, those last few words … make me imagine fingers squeezing my throat shut. A tight, suffocating hold only committed to robbing me of my life. An attempt previously made by a man I hated from the very first moment I met him.

  Gregory Warren.

  I wince at the thought and tuck the note into my pocket, realizing what this could mean.

  I’m insane for even keeping it—instead of shredding it—but I can’t risk anyone finding this, even in tiny pieces. Not when my safety is at stake.

  However … what’s to say this note didn’t come from Greg?

  Maybe he got someone else to deliver it to me. Someone who stalks me day in, day out.

  It’s odd, you know. To read the words you experienced only months before.

  Makes you wonder if your stalker was there to witness the whole ordeal.

  3.

  Hyun

  Accompanying Song: “A Reflection” by Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross

  6 months before

  I’m reading the newspaper while walking to work as I always do. With my favorite coffee from Starbucks in one hand and the newspaper in the other, I pass through the crowds of people on the way. It’s funny, thinking about it, that I drink coffee from Starbucks while going to work at a coffee shop … that is not Starbucks.

  I guess my preference for another brand of coffee really doesn’t support my case when I told my employer I wanted to work at his place. Really, I wanted to work there because I just needed a job badly, but he didn’t need to know that.

  Of course, I didn’t think I’d get the job. I hadn’t landed any of the others when I’d applied. Luckily, he hired me, and now, here I am … a barista for a few years now. I know it’s not the greatest job in the world, but it’s something. It pays well, so I’m happy. Besides, my co-workers are really nice, and I like them.

  Plus, my boss let me take a few weeks off for that wicked game that Max Marino invited me to … not that I needed the time, since I left early.

  I take a sip from my cup and enjoy the taste of cinnamon as I walk along the sidewalk while keeping my head down. I don’t look at people and try not to draw any attention to myself. I don’t want people to notice me. I’d rather disappear.

  I know people out there are watching me … other than my stalker.

  More specifically … one man and his wife.

  Max Marino, the most powerful banker I’ve ever met, once wanted me, along with nine other girls. And now that I’ve stepped out of that wicked game, I know they’re watching my every move … waiting for me to open my mouth. And I just know it won’t end well for me if I do.

  I have to be cautious. I don’t want to give them any reason to kill me because I know he’d do it in a heartbeat if he so desired.

  For that reason, I read the newspaper too. I’m searching for more information about them, anything. News. Updates. Any information to make me believe they’ve finally settled down and will leave me in peace.

  But the only bit of information I’ve uncovered since I left is who became his wife, and I expect
ed no one less.

  I sigh as I finish reading the front page. Nothing.

  Maybe it means they’re not interested in making their life public. Or maybe things really have settled down now that the game is over.

  One thing’s for sure, though … I will probably never feel safe again.

  Especially not when I meet him.

  I never thought I’d come face to face with the devil … and I never, ever imagined myself bumping into him and spilling my coffee all over his gray Armani suit.

  “Watch it!” he yells.

  “Oh, god,” I mutter, looking up into his dark, cold eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  He pats his suit, huffing and puffing, his face red from annoyance.

  I find myself enraptured by his presence. Not because he looks sleek with his black hair greased back, or because of the tiny gray hair I see dangling behind his ear, or because of the trimmed mustache above his thin lips.

  No, it’s because of the sheer dominance he exudes.

  “I’m so sorry,” I repeat, and I rummage through my purse to grab a tissue. “Here.” I try to pat him down, but he snatches it from my hand and wipes himself with it.

  “Thanks,” he says with a gruff voice.

  “I didn’t see you. I don’t know why. I should’ve looked up. Does it hurt? The coffee was scorching hot.”

  “No, it’s fine,” he says, this time showing a tentative smile. “Do you have more tissues, though?”

  “Of course.” I nod. Searching around in my bag, I find another pack and hand it to him. He pulls all of them out and pats himself down a few more times before discarding them into the bushes, just like that.

  I contemplate going after them to throw them in the trash, but his eyes make me freeze.

  “Where were you going? You seemed in a hurry,” he says.

  “Uh … work,” I mutter, blushing a little.

  It feels so awkward to talk to the stranger I just poured my coffee over. I look at my cup, which is now half-empty, and I wonder if it’s okay to drink a sip. It’s like it’s tainted or something.

  Suddenly, he sticks out his hand and says, “Gregory Warren.”

  “Uh …” I reluctantly take his hand. “Hyun Song.”

  He looks at my half-empty cup. “Let me buy you a new one.”

  “What?” My jaw drops a little, and I quickly take back my hand. “Oh, no. I ruined your suit. I should pay for you.”

  “No,” he says with a stern voice. “I insist. After all … your coffee is ruined too.”

  “It’s okay. You don’t—”

  “I want to,” he interrupts, and he steps closer, coming into my space.

  I instinctively lean back. “I’m fine … thank you. I need to get to work.”

  His eyes narrow as if he’s checking me out, trying to spot a lie, but it’s the honest to god truth.

  “Well, then … let me give you my number.” He quickly fishes a card from his pocket and stuffs it into my hand, wrapping both of his hands around mine like he’s trying to force me to keep it. He creepily leans in and whispers, “Call me.”

  I shudder, my lips quivering, and I pull my hand from his grip, turn around, and run.

  I don’t know what incited my response.

  Why I chose to flee instead of say goodbye.

  But one thing I do know for sure … I never want to see him again.

  ***

  Accompanying Song: “Logos” by Ludovico Einaudi

  Now

  I shoot up from my chair, dropping the book I was reading to the floor. I immediately grab the gun I tucked behind a vase in the corner of my room. My lungs fill with air as I take huge breaths, following my realization that it was just a dream. Still, I can’t help but point the gun in every direction in my own home … worried someone might have snuck in.

  Someone who wants to hurt me.

  For a few seconds, I stand in the middle of my living room and listen to the sound of my own heartbeat. The sole clock hanging on the wall is a solemn reminder of the silence surrounding me … comforting me with the idea that nothing is wrong. Everything is as it should be.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  Calm down.

  I tell myself this over and over until my heart no longer beats out of my chest. Then I lower the gun and put it back behind the vase. I walk to the kitchen to boil some water so I can make some much-needed tea. Rubbing my forehead, I try to push the memories from my head, reminding myself they were only dreams … and dreams can’t hurt you.

  Suddenly, I hear a ticking noise in the back of the room.

  Not the ticking of the clock … but ticking against the window.

  As the water begins to boil, I slowly tread toward the sound. My heart races and my legs quake once again, but I continue. I want to know what it is, even if it kills me. So with trembling fingers, I grasp the curtains and jerk them aside.

  The ticking stops.

  Nothing’s there.

  Not a bird in the tree.

  Not a soul on the street.

  I stare at the road for a few seconds, and I honestly wonder if I’m starting to lose my mind.

  Frowning, I turn and shut the curtains again.

  Only to hear the ticking begin again.

  My eyes twitch, and I march toward the front door, yanking it open like I’ve got beef with someone. Maybe I do, or maybe this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done … but I’m doing it anyway.

  I walk to the other side of my house where the ticking on the window occurred, but I don’t see anyone.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Anyone there?”

  Yeah, like that’s going to work.

  I check my surroundings, but no one appears from behind a bush or a tree. No one leaves their home. No one even replies.

  See? I am losing my mind, after all.

  But as I turn around … a familiar scratch beneath my shoes compels me to look down.

  Pebbles.

  Ten, maybe fifteen, all right in front of my window.

  My garden doesn’t have any pebbles.

  I pick one up and look at it as if it’s going to tell me where it came from. The sound of an engine pulls my eyes away from the pebble and to the car driving past me. I glare at the driver to see if he gazes back. He doesn’t.

  I let out a long, drawn-out breath and tuck the pebble into my pocket, making my way back into my house. I slam the door shut behind me, hoping it can keep whatever’s trying to come in out.

  However, the moment I set foot on my carpet, I stop.

  There’s a red envelope on the floor.

  Did I leave the door open?

  I didn’t close it.

  Someone came in and left this here.

  I immediately rush to the vase, pick up the gun again, and search the house. Sweat rolls down my back. One by one, I scan all the rooms, pulling up blankets and pushing aside curtains wherever I go. Leaving nothing the way it was. In the end, my house is a mess. But an empty, lonely mess with me as its sole occupant. Exactly how it should be.

  I sigh and tuck the gun back behind the vase.

  My attention focuses on the red envelope, which lies on the floor like a gift begging to be opened … and I just know I can’t resist.

  ***

  Accompanying Song: “Game of Survival” by Ruelle

  Drake

  Hours before

  Through a narrow gap in the curtains, I watch her.

  She sits behind her vanity, looking at herself in the mirror as she paints a thin black line along the top edges of her eyes. The way she elegantly yet carefully swipes the small brush along her eyelids has captured my attention, along with every other little detail. Her black hair floats in a gush of wind coming in through the window while her eyes remain fixated on the mirror and her fingers finish the lines gently. She’s poised. Sophisticated in her movements. Perfectly beautiful in her lonely existence.

  A per
fect victim for my crude desires.

  I know it’s wrong to desire her.

  To watch her from the window … or all the way from my car, where she can’t even see me because my windows are tinted black.

  Just as black as my heart …

  I clutch my chest as I think about her. Day and night.

  Her entire existence consumes me to the point of wanting her so badly I’d kill myself if I couldn’t come close.

  I’m dangerous. The worst kind of enemy to cross your path.

  But as unlikely as it seems, I’m not the bad guy in this story.

  I’m the one who wants to give her everything she needs. The one who wants to take her and lock her up where no one can find her.

  I watch her every morning … while she drinks her favorite coffee from Starbucks as she reads the newspaper all by herself, the ticking clock on the wall her only companion.

  At night, I peek through the small gap in her curtains hanging from her window and admire her in her sleep. She’s half-naked, wearing only a small green bralette and matching lace panties. My hand reaches for the window, and I let my fingers slide down across the cold glass, wondering if she’ll notice I’m here.

  I know she knows.

  I’ve seen her look at me from her window.

  I watched her pick up the notes I left for her.

  I hope she likes them.

  She wrestles with the blanket, the nightmares from her past clearly occupying her. But as her face contorts and her sweet, wet lips purse, I find myself so … fucking … aroused.

  I don’t know if it’s the desperate look on her face or my fucked-up mind … but I want her so badly.