Page 6 of Shared Obsession

He scribbles it down and mutters something to his partner. I’m loaded into the back of the squad car, hands cuffed behind me, adrenaline still pounding in my veins. The cop drones on about my rights—Miranda, something about an attorney, blah blah blah—but I don’t hear a word. All I can think is: it was fucking worth it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Automatically, my hands try to go to my pocket, attempting to search for my phone—only to remember I shoved it in the storage compartment under my bike seat before everything went down. The bike’s as good as impounded now; no way I’m getting out tonight. Fuck. That means I can’t text Ayla. She’s going to think I’m just ghosting her, radio silence at the worst possible time. The thought gnaws at me even as I’m marched into the harsh lights of the station, booked, fingerprinted, shoved into a holding cell with a bunch of other unlucky bastards.

Everything aches, but the satisfaction is a dull, angry pulse under my skin. I don’t know how much trouble I’m in—don’t care, really. I’d do it all over again, and more, if it meant keeping her safe. Let the world throw whatever it wants at me. I’ve already made my choice.

Chapter Four

Ayla

I’m sitting in my apartment, heart racing and nerves shot, still shaken by what happened. I slump onto the couch, double-checking the door lock—once, then again, then a third time for good measure. I’m usually so fucking careful, so the fact that I let myself get that drunk tonight pisses me off. I know better. I deal with creeps and assholes all night at work—I’m supposed to know better. The image of that man’s hand on me keeps replaying, but so does the memory of other nights—other hands, other times I couldn’t fight back. Sometimes, in the worst dreams, it’s not a stranger’s face at all. Sometimes, it’s his—my father’s shadow, looming and cold at the edge of every nightmare. I shake the thought off, but it lingers, sour and thick.

I rummage for something to eat, pop some ibuprofen, and gulp down a glass of water. There’s barely any food left, so I settle for instant mac and cheese in the microwave. I sit in silence, waiting for it to finish, deciding I’ll eat and then shower. The food is tasteless, just something to fill the void. I feel gross—sweaty, sticky, like the night still clings to my skin. Out the window, I catch a flash of lights—red and blue flickering against the brick. An ambulance is parked near the curb, police cars crowding the street. The chaos outside almost makes me feel safer, like the world is paying attention for once. Or maybe it just means tonight was uglier than most.

My mind drifts to Alex. The way he crossed the club and just claimed his dance, like it was never a question. I’ve never felt this way before—so fucking unsteady, like he’s gotten under my skin and I can’t shake him. Part of me is still buzzing from the way he looked at me, not just with interest, but with something sharper, something almost protective. It’s driving me insane. I reread his text, nerves buzzing, before finally replying:

Let me know when you’re not busy. Would like to chat with you more, Alex. Then maybe we can actually discuss dinner. ;)

I step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away every unwanted touch, every memory—just like I do after every shift. The water soothes my nerves, helps settle my racing thoughts. I wash my hair, scrub off the glitter and makeup, and scrub my skin raw, needing to feel clean again. When I finally step out and dry off, I pull on my favorite pajama pants and a baggy T-shirt, the softness a small comfort. I check my phone—no texts from Alex. My heart sinks a little, which irritates me. Seriously, Ayla? You just got free; the last thing you need is to be pining after some guy. But the truth is, I want to hear from him. I want the rush, the attention, and that feeling of being seen. I want to believe someone could look at me and see more than a mess to fix. Still, I can’t help thinking about the way he looked at me—like I was a puzzle to solve, not just a body to use. And that scares me as much as it thrills me. What if he’s too much? What if I am?

As I head into my room, the ambulance is pulling away, lights still flashing. I wonder what happened, but this is New York. Shit happens all the time. I crawl into bed, exhaustion finally pulling me under. Sleep comes hard and heavy.

I wake in the middle of the night, gasping for air, heart pounding as phantom hands seem to grab at me. I jolt upright, ripped from a nightmare—faces flash through my mind: the Uber drivers, the creepy men at work, and tonight, worst of all—my father. For a moment, I can’t move. I force myself out of bed, flick on the light, and scan the room, needing to reassure myself that I’m really alone. No one’s here. I grab my phone. Still no text from Alex. My fingers hover, then I type:

Hey, are you awake?

But it just sits there, delivered and unread, like the last message. I curl up, doubt gnawing at me. Did he actually like me, or am I just desperate for someone to see me? Did I make it all up in my head? Was I reading into something that wasn’t even there? I can’t tell if I want him because he makes me feel alive, or if I just want someone—anyone—to make the loneliness go away. Shame and irritation twist together in my chest. Why do I keep letting myself get like this? I should know better than to hope. Men are unreliable at best, mostly awful, but still—why do I want him to text me so badly? Why do I care this much?

I turn off the light and try to settle back into bed, but sleep won’t come. It feels like I’m being swallowed whole by my emotions, pulled between longing and self-loathing. Alex—his gaze, the way he treated me—it wasn’t normal, and I can’t get it out of my head. And then there’s the pregnancy test scare. I’m still furious at myself for being so reckless. Was my father right? Maybe I really can’t do this on my own. The thought makes my head throb and my heart ache. I’m supposed to be able to take care of myself, supposed to be strong, but here I am, making dumb choice after dumb choice, and wondering if I’ll ever be enough.

Eventually, sleep creeps in—hesitant, uneasy—and I drift off, tangled in worry and self-doubt, uncertain if rest will bring any real relief.

Alexander

The station lights are blinding, harsh enough to make my eyes ache. I’m still covered in blood, and when they shove me into a holding cell, the other men size me up, but nobody makes a move. Not at first. It’s like they can smell the trouble rolling off me. My phone’s locked up with my bike, and all I can think about is Ayla. She probably thinks I’ve ghosted her by now, and the idea gnaws at me. I can’t stand the thought of her waiting for a message that’s not coming.

My parents drift through my mind—if they could see me now, blood on my shirt, knuckles raw, locked up like this… My mom would cry. My dad would shake his head and say he raised me better, and for the first time in years, I actually care what they’d think. I want to call them, to explain, but what would I even say? That I lost control? That I did it for a girl I barely know but suddenly can't breathe without? Would they be disappointed or proud that I stood up for someone who needed it?

Some guy in the cell looks over, eyes wide, and nods at the blood. “Shit, man. You look like you got into it with a pack of wolves.”

“Yeah? Maybe I did,” I mutter, voice flat, not interested in conversation.

Another guy with tattoos up his neck grins, leaning over from the bench. “What’s your story, hero? You the white knight type, or just have a death wish?”

I glare. “Neither. Just had enough of assholes thinking they can do whatever they want.”

He laughs, but it’s not friendly. “That so? You look like you don’t belong here.”

“Maybe I don’t,” I shoot back. “But I’m here now.”

A third guy, big and broad with a busted nose, sizes me up. “You throw down for a girl? Or was it just for fun?”

My jaw tightens. “I did what I had to.”

He shrugs. “We all do. But you look like you might break if you stay here too long.”

I level him with a stare. “Try me.”

Another guy with a shaved head chuckles. “Look at pretty boy getting tough. You ever been in a cell before?”