Read Online Find Me in Manhattan (Finding #3) by Shealy James - Free Book Online
Authors: Shealy James
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agreeing with my mind. My body seemed to know something my mind didn’t because, the next thing I knew, there was a pounding on my door.
I pressed my hand to the fingerprint reader of the gun safe under my bed and pulled out one of my guns. At the door, I made sure all the locks were turned and the chain was pulled into its holder. That was when I heard him yelling. “Come on, Sarah! I know you’re home. I saw you look out your window.” The pounding paused. “I just want to talk. I’m sorry about the other day. I was out of my mind.”
Another less forceful knock followed by what sounded like his head hitting the door. “Come on, baby.” I cringed at the pet name. I had learned that he only used them when he was apologizing or trying to sweeten me up. Otherwise, he called me Sarah. “I’m sorry. You’re all I think about, everything I want. The thought that someone might take you away makes me crazy.”
“Leave, Jameson!” I called out from my safe place inside the apartment. “I have a gun, and I will shoot you if you come through that door.”
“Please, baby.” More pounding on the door followed his plea. He was trying to sweet talk me, trying to convince me to fall back into his trap, his claws, his web. He had become a monster, and I had let myself fall for his trickery. Never again.
“Sarah, baby, please,” he continued to beg.
I would not fall for this. I knew this was how the cycle of abuse started. Victims would forgive once they heard how sorry their attacker was. There was always an excuse and an apology, some sort of emotional blackmail. I knew the pathetic whimpering outside my door was simply one tactic. When it was not successful, he would move to the next. I dreaded what came next but reminded myself that his behavior was predictable. If I gave in, the abuse would progressively get worse. I would be allowing him to make me a victim. Instead of shooting him through the door like my trigger finger was itching to do, I gave him one last warning. “I’m calling the police.” My trigger finger had lost its damn mind, and it was only by the grace of God that I was still thinking rationally at this point.
Another knock, even quieter this time stopped me mid-dial. “Sarah, please. I’ll do anything you want. I’ve already talked to Dr. Wright about getting help. He’s referred me to someone. Please,” he begged again. It seemed like forever went by while I listened to him cry outside my door and beg while I went back and forth about hitting the last number on my phone to call the police.
Then something occurred to my tired and emotionally charged brain. Logic flew out the window, and some weird sense of empathy took its place. Maybe I could help him. I was going to be a psychologist. It was going to be my job to help people, right?
Mama and Daddy believed fate was what brought them together. They always said God had their life together planned from the beginning. Maybe I was supposed to meet Jameson and help him, not be with him. I thought I might be the person to save him. I hit the button on my phone that turned the screen black. It was time to be brave. I stood from the floor and took a deep breath in preparation for opening the door. Jameson was emotional and out of control, so I needed to have a steady plan in order for this conversation to be successful.
Sudden arguing in the hall brought me back to reality. He was arguing with someone. A female. Lana .
“Get out of here or I’m calling the cops!” Lana had yelled before the locks started to turn. I put the safety on the gun then ran over to unhook the chain right before she slung the door wide open. “You weren’t listening to that shit, were you?”
That was enough to remind me that I never wanted to be a victim, and not everyone could be helped. Foolish plan aborted, I decided it was time to lie my ass off before my roommate realized what a pathetic human being I was becoming. “No. Of course, not.” Thank God Lana
I pressed my hand to the fingerprint reader of the gun safe under my bed and pulled out one of my guns. At the door, I made sure all the locks were turned and the chain was pulled into its holder. That was when I heard him yelling. “Come on, Sarah! I know you’re home. I saw you look out your window.” The pounding paused. “I just want to talk. I’m sorry about the other day. I was out of my mind.”
Another less forceful knock followed by what sounded like his head hitting the door. “Come on, baby.” I cringed at the pet name. I had learned that he only used them when he was apologizing or trying to sweeten me up. Otherwise, he called me Sarah. “I’m sorry. You’re all I think about, everything I want. The thought that someone might take you away makes me crazy.”
“Leave, Jameson!” I called out from my safe place inside the apartment. “I have a gun, and I will shoot you if you come through that door.”
“Please, baby.” More pounding on the door followed his plea. He was trying to sweet talk me, trying to convince me to fall back into his trap, his claws, his web. He had become a monster, and I had let myself fall for his trickery. Never again.
“Sarah, baby, please,” he continued to beg.
I would not fall for this. I knew this was how the cycle of abuse started. Victims would forgive once they heard how sorry their attacker was. There was always an excuse and an apology, some sort of emotional blackmail. I knew the pathetic whimpering outside my door was simply one tactic. When it was not successful, he would move to the next. I dreaded what came next but reminded myself that his behavior was predictable. If I gave in, the abuse would progressively get worse. I would be allowing him to make me a victim. Instead of shooting him through the door like my trigger finger was itching to do, I gave him one last warning. “I’m calling the police.” My trigger finger had lost its damn mind, and it was only by the grace of God that I was still thinking rationally at this point.
Another knock, even quieter this time stopped me mid-dial. “Sarah, please. I’ll do anything you want. I’ve already talked to Dr. Wright about getting help. He’s referred me to someone. Please,” he begged again. It seemed like forever went by while I listened to him cry outside my door and beg while I went back and forth about hitting the last number on my phone to call the police.
Then something occurred to my tired and emotionally charged brain. Logic flew out the window, and some weird sense of empathy took its place. Maybe I could help him. I was going to be a psychologist. It was going to be my job to help people, right?
Mama and Daddy believed fate was what brought them together. They always said God had their life together planned from the beginning. Maybe I was supposed to meet Jameson and help him, not be with him. I thought I might be the person to save him. I hit the button on my phone that turned the screen black. It was time to be brave. I stood from the floor and took a deep breath in preparation for opening the door. Jameson was emotional and out of control, so I needed to have a steady plan in order for this conversation to be successful.
Sudden arguing in the hall brought me back to reality. He was arguing with someone. A female. Lana .
“Get out of here or I’m calling the cops!” Lana had yelled before the locks started to turn. I put the safety on the gun then ran over to unhook the chain right before she slung the door wide open. “You weren’t listening to that shit, were you?”
That was enough to remind me that I never wanted to be a victim, and not everyone could be helped. Foolish plan aborted, I decided it was time to lie my ass off before my roommate realized what a pathetic human being I was becoming. “No. Of course, not.” Thank God Lana
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