25. Stetson
TWENTY-FIVE
STETSON
April 26th, 2024
There’s cum in my hair for the second time—a punishment, no doubt. Much like the first time, I’m filled with a confusing mix of disgust, terror, and something else I refuse to examine too closely. He seems to be getting bolder, angrier, more controlling, and dominating. It’s terrifying, except I’m only really terrified of how not terrified I am.
I was born into a world where monsters were real, playing the role of people I should trust and worship, and experienced more pain by their hands than kindness. I think that’s how I got my wires crossed; where I developed a taste for the pain and punishments.
I’m not ignorant—I know I should be afraid. But I just can’t seem to muster the kind of freak out that a normal person would; not when I’ve been through so much worse. My default setting is to lean into pain and violence, instead of shying away from it, and I could hate that about myself. But I also recognize that because of that trait, I’ve survived in a life where others would have not.
And that has to be worth something. I have to be worth something .
I stare into the bleak darkness blanketing my small room. Not sure if it is night still, or early morning, based on the sheer silence around me. And the truth is, I’m too scared to roll over and grab my phone to see. Cum sticks to the side of my face, still warm from where he painted me with it.
That is, until I hear it buzz.
Only moments ago, I awoke from a dead sleep, unsure of why, other than my heart was racing and my instincts were blaring like a siren in my sleep-slugged brain. Now that I’ve had enough time to digest my current situation, and no doubt a mouthful of cum, based on the salty taste coating my mouth, I realize it’s because he was here.
I missed him by mere minutes. He may even still be in my house, wandering around, snooping farther into my life, or checking in on Gus downstairs.
Gus!
I bolt up, my head scrambling with the sudden movement, and I viciously wipe at the side of my face with my t-shirt. Scrubbing and gagging, I try to remove the evidence of him from my skin.
I have to check on Gus. I have to make sure my stalker hasn’t hurt him. I grab my phone, not worried about the messages, as I silently make my way to the window to see if I can see a vehicle or shadow lurking outside. Moonlight paints over the fields and roof of the barn, gleaming like a silver streak across a black canvas. My eyes strain, but I don’t see any movement or vehicles. Gus’s truck isn’t even here.
Where the fuck did he go?
I gave him a lift back from the hospital where he refused to have his knuckles looked over or cleaned, much to my dismay. I begged him, rather nagged him probably, and he only grunted and stormed to the truck to wait for me. The nurses looked at me with pity in their eyes as I raced after him, my irritation flaming back to life.
Fuck me for caring, right?
The entire drive home was painfully awkward, Dale’s normally easy presence doing nothing to help alleviate the overwhelming tension boiling between Gus and me. He ignored me, not that I made many attempts at talking to him. I was pissed and turned on, and the combination was confusing as fuck. That, and the face he made, which looked like he might snap my neck if I said a single word more to him, made me decide remaining silent was the best thing I could do.
But because of that, now I have no idea where he went.
What if the stalker killed him and took his truck to hide the body?
That thought has me bolting for the door and scrambling down the stairs. I don’t fucking care who hears me. I run toward Gus’s room and notice the door is swung wide open. I don’t bother announcing my arrival. He’s either gone or dead at this point. The room is empty, the bed still made as if it hasn’t been touched yet tonight. His clothes are still in a bag on the floor.
So, he hasn’t left for good, at least not by his own free will.
He didn’t run from the cops, did he? Maybe he’s already on the run and tonight will blow his cover. Fuck, fuck, fuck! My heart pounds like a drum, loud and out of rhythm. Hands shaking, I lift my phone and open the chain of messages I purposefully ignored until this moment, feeling more desperately alone than I have in years.
If Gus ran, if he left, as irrational as it would seem, I. Will. Be. Devastated.
UNKNOWN: I don’t lie, ever. So when I say you are mine, You. Are. Mine.
UNKNOWN: *Picture Attachment *
I gasp; the picture and message are only proof of what I already know. Except seeing it, and simply knowing it, are two different things. And as much as my stalker turns me on, he does nothing for me in comparison to Gus.
If he hurt Gus…
I reread the message over and over until the words feel burned into my brain, and my body begins to tremble. I have to call Gus. I have to see if he answers. Sure, it might seem desperate and unhinged, but right now, I’m beyond those things. There are no words to describe the panic clawing through my body as I stare at his empty bed and the threatening text of a stalker.
With shaky fingers, I pull up Gus’s contact. I’ve never used it, not even for work purposes, but I had insisted the first night he lived here that I have it. ‘What if the cows got out?’ I had said, but I think we both knew it was more than that. I dial, holding my breath, and attempt to count backward from fifteen. I don’t make it to thirteen before the other line clicks on, silence meeting my own.
After several seconds, Gus’s voice fills the line, and I sag to the floor at the foot of his bed. “Stetson, what’s wrong?” He sounds more concerned than irritated, and that does weird things to my stomach.
“Uh, I just woke up from a bad dream and saw your truck was gone, and I just—” I’m fumbling, I know it, but there are no good substitute words for saying ‘I thought you left me’ . I can almost see him smirking on the other side, and that ignites a flicker of annoyance in my stomach.
“You worried about me, Little Filly?” His voice is husky, and the rasp of it makes my toes curl.
“Just odd that you would be out so late.” As soon as I say the words, I want to bite my tongue. Unwanted images of him and that woman, whoever the fuck she was, that smells like cheap perfume and sex, crash into my brain.
Is he with her right now? If so, why would he answer?
He chuckles, and I instantly know he knows what I’m thinking. I want to scream, but I continue to bite down on my tongue, drawing blood.
“I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes, when things are especially fucked up, I go for a drive. You know, I spent the better part of twenty years living in the cab of this pickup. It’s not home, per se, but it is safe. And sometimes, I need that feeling.” He says the words so casually, but I hear them for what they are: a painful confession. This is something he hasn’t ever shared with another person, likely barely acknowledged for himself. Yet he told me.
“I’m sorry. Not having a home is the worst,” I whisper back, hoping he does not feel pitied, but instead, identified with. We are the same in that aspect—never having a place to call home.
“I know, Stetson. Sometimes, a person can be your home…” He stops, his sentence hanging unfinished between us. I wait, holding my breath, afraid to dispel whatever temporary peace is hovering over this magical line, but then he sighs. “You really should go back to bed. I’m headed back to the house now, but we will probably have a long day tomorrow.”
I stare at his bed, his bag of clothes and gear, and the little framed picture of his family; I have the overwhelming urge to cry. I can’t explain, but I can’t lose him. Not like this.
Be honest, Stetson—not ever.
I shuffle, stand up, and stare out into the darkness past his window.
“I don’t want you to leave.” I should be ashamed of the words, embarrassed by the admission. But I’m just not. Today has wrung too much out of me, and here in the anonymous darkness, I feel safe to express at least that much to him.
“Never, Little Filly.”