18. Stetson
EIGHTEEN
STETSON
April 13th, 2024
Rolling over, I pause—hair clinging to the side of my face, the familiar smell of salt and ball sweat filling my nostrils. I gag, sitting up, but don’t brush it away, too grossed out to touch it. The only thing worse than waking up with cum in your hair is not knowing where the cum came from. And the only thing worse than that? Knowing the cum came from either your stalker or your unbelievably irritating ranch hand; not sure which option is preferable.
My heart races, the loud roaring filling my ears. He was here, in my room while I slept, and fucking jerked off into my hair. He was so close, standing over me, breathing on me, and I didn’t even hear him—I didn’t wake up or even notice.
Some fucking instincts.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the small vase sitting next to my lamp, a single poppy flower blooming in it. My stalker, then. Is it crazy that I’m slightly disappointed it wasn’t Gus? Sure, that would make things more complicated, but fuck, it would be so hot to be wanted by a man like him. A small note rests against the vase, and I gingerly grab for it, folding it open.
This should be my greatest nightmare, so why am I turned on? No matter how much I know I should be repulsed by the idea of a stalker, I just can’t make myself.
I can, however, be repulsed by the fact that it turns me on; that is a feeling I am all too familiar with.
Even now, my instincts are all haywire. Do I shower and brush this latest development under the rug? Do I call the police? Do I want people digging into my life? Do I want to dig into my life?
No, fuck that.
I’ve always dealt with everything on my own, and this is no different—not really. I swing still trembling legs over the edge of the bed and slink toward my small adjoined bathroom. Turning on the shower to a full, heated blast, I climb inside and wash away the evidence. I scrub at the side of my face, trying to wash away my unwanted feelings with it.
But unlike cum, years of untherapized, crazy desires do not wash away so easily. So, I decide to do the next best thing: get raging drunk with my best friend.
Water dripping down my back, I dial Dale, the phone ringing for what feels like hours. It is early on a Saturday morning, and I cringe, wondering if she’s with a guy. I’d hate to cock block her—something tells me Dale would be beyond pissed. Finally, she answers, her voice groggy .
“Hello?”
“Dale, can you come over today? I… I need to get drunk—like a full-day bender. I found cum in my hair this morning.” There’s shuffling in the background, and I wince. “Shit, are you with a guy? Or-or girl?” I stumble. Dale still refuses to tell me about her sex life, even when I beg. I don’t want to judge what I don’t know and would love her regardless of her preferences. I want her to know I will accept her, always. But now does not feel like the right time to confess that.
She barks a laugh on the other end and then stops, her teeth audibly clacking together. “Wait, slow down. Did you say you woke up with cum in your hair? From fucking who? Wait, why are we upset about it?”
“Dale, it was him.” More shuffling. “Are you with someone?” I hate bugging her, but I refuse to pull her away to deal with my shit.
“Okay, okay. I have the coffee pot going. Repeat the story,” Dale states, still ignoring my question. I try not to let it bug me. I really do.
I sigh, dispelling some of my frustration—one thing at a time.
“Not much to tell. I woke up with cum in my hair, a poppy on my nightstand, and a note. A very ominous note. Whoever my stalker is, they are getting bolder.” My voice trembles, and I hate it. Dale will take it as fear, when really, it’s shame choking me up.
“I’ll fucking say. Fuck! Do we still think it’s kind of hot, or are we in full-on panic now? I need to know before I say something stupid. I mean, he left you those flowers and note over a month ago, leaves you alone forever, and then jerks off in your hair? That’s definitely an escalation!” My stomach plummets to my toes. I forgot to tell Dale about the messages; about the very many, very hot messages that led to such an escalation. She doesn’t miss the silence.
“There’s more.”
Well, fuck.
“Well, there have been some text messages.” I hear her sigh heavily through the phone, and I once again hate myself for being so fucked up.
“I’m going to chug this pot of coffee, make an overnight bag, and head over. Get those texts pulled up; I want to read them. Then we can figure out what to do.” I want to kiss her—always so ready to be here for me, even when I don’t deserve it. The years apart have done nothing to our friendship, and for that, I’ll forever be grateful.
“And Stetson, you need to move that guard dog of yours into the guest bedroom. He might not like it, and I know you won’t, but it might help keep you safe. I know I will feel better if you aren’t the only one in that spooky house by yourself.” Dale hangs up the phone without waiting for a response.
I scream into my pillow. I don’t want him in my space. I don’t want to trip over him every time I go downstairs. I don’t want him to know I watch trashy television, make a full dinner at ten p.m. just because I’m a little hungry, wear nothing to bed, or masturbate regularly with his name on my lips.
But I refuse to be more of a disappointment to Dale.
Even still, my fears race like horses on a track—one pulling ahead of the others. What if the stalker hurts Gus because he’s getting closer?
What if I do?
“I’m sorry again for not offering to move you in sooner. Truly, I didn’t realize how hot and dusty it got out here.” I know I’m saying it for the hundredth time in less than twenty minutes, but the guilt is eating me alive. How could he have worked in the brutal Texas heat every day, only to return to this dusty oven every night? I’d have lost my shit if I had to do it even one night.
“I said it’s fine,” he grunts, and I sigh heavily. Would it kill him to be polite?
“Is this everything?” I point toward his clothes, piled on the pink frilly bedspread, and cringe. I should have gotten something more manly on the bed before I moved him in, but I forgot. “Want me to get you a different comforter?”
He shifts, his muscled arms still wrapped suspiciously around a brown box. “It’s fine, really. I don’t mind.”
“Do you ever mind? Anything?” I can’t help the irritation in my voice. He makes me crazy.
“I mind you being nosy about my personal things.”
I quirk my brow and look back at the personal things he’s referring to—a small pile of clothes, a heavy bag that looks to be filled with rodeo gear, a single picture with two adults and two little boys, and that fucking brown box. He catches me eyeing it again and turns slightly.
“What’s in it?”
He growls, stepping past me and slides the mystery box under the bed. “That’s the nosy shit I’m talking about.”
I roll my eyes and place my fists on the curve of my hips. “Well, maybe if you were a little more open with me, I wouldn’t be so worried you might murder me in my sleep and could leave you alone. As it is, I know more about the owner of the feed store—and as pissy as he is to me, he’s still friendlier than you.”
Between clenched teeth, Gus grunts.
“What, have nothing to argue there?” I know I’m pushing the beast, but my earlier guilt is quickly disappearing. I might just kick him right back out.
“You’ve got an awful smart mouth for someone who doesn’t have a lot of friends.”
“Coming from the man with no friends.”
He nods, his curls bobbing with the motion, but his eyes look anything but understanding. They look hungry, and it sends an unwanted thrill straight to my core.
“So, what—We’re not friends anymore?” His voice is gentle and quiet, but by now, I know it’s all a mask.
“Not when you act like a dick.”
“I can show you a dick if you want. Then you might have something to do with that smart mouth besides bitch and moan.”
I blink rapidly, the implication of his words pelting me in the face like a wall of Texas sand. Did he just…
“Did you really just say that?”
“What? That’s how you and Dale talk. Figured that’s what friends do. Not that I have any experience, as you have so nicely pointed out.”
Fuck, he’s right. I’m being a bitch, and I hate that he brings that out of me. But even if I can acknowledge it, I refuse to admit it to him. He already has too much power over me.
I force a small, weak smile in his direction—more of a grimace—and slap my thighs. “On that note, I’ll leave you and all of your personal things alone. Just how you like it.”
“Thanks,” he states gruffly as I turn around to leave. “Glad to see you can take a hint and be less of a smart ass sometimes.”
I pause, rage replacing irritation. It’s like he sees my buttons as shiny flashing lights and can’t help but push them. And I am incapable of walking away. I’ve always had to have the last word, and today is not the beginning of some sort of fresh start.
“The room is bigger than your last, but don’t you dare bring your hoes here. I don’t need this room reeking of hooker perfume.”
I storm from the small room, not giving him time to respond. I have zero interest in hearing what he has to say; I know it’s only going to piss me off more. I’m not jealous, as he has tried to imply. I don’t care who he fucks. But he will not do it in my house.
Heavy footfalls thud behind me, approaching alarmingly quickly. I speed up my steps, my heart rate spiking, and my breathing becomes more rapid. A large hand grips my hip, and I yelp, electricity shooting through my body, causing all the little hairs to stand up.
“What about your perfume?” he whispers, his lips feathering over my ear. I shiver, hating myself for showing weakness, and shiver again. My nipples pebble, and they strain against the fabric of my bra, aching. It’s too much sensation, too many mixed signals. But my stupid pussy can only think one thing, and I’m a weak woman, remember?
Before I can come up with a response, the front door clangs and Gus drops his hand from my waist. I’m still panting, my heart erratically pounding against my rib cage.
“Okay, bitch. Let’s see these fucking text messages. There better be some dick pictures with a massive twelve-inch cock in them to justify you acting like a dog in heat over a—” Dale rounds the corner, spotting Gus and me, a sheepish grin spreading across her face. “Oops.” But the bitch doesn’t look the least bit sorry.
Gus growls, stomping back down the small hallway, and slams the door to his room.
This is going to fucking suck.