7. Girrrl, he’s not just living rent-free in your head. He’s hosting exhibitions there
7
Girrrl, he’s not just living rent-free in your head. He’s hosting exhibitions there
Chapter Playlist:
“I’m So Sick” – Flyleaf
“Because of You” – Kelly Clarkson
EVERLEIGH
I’m trying to forget him.
The music rolls like soft thunder through my body. I’m laughing, spinning, my friends pulling me into a chaotic whirl of limbs and wild grins. The tipsiness adds a silver haze to everything. The colored lights streak across the dance floor, the glint of sequins and glass, the heat of too many bodies moving together. It feels good to let go, to feel normal .
Now and then, random facts and stats about various artifacts I’ve cataloged this year pop up in my head, but they quickly swirl into oblivion.
I tilt my head back, arms up, letting the beat drown out the noise in my head. Two weeks . Two weeks of silence. Two weeks with no new sketches on my pillow. Two weeks without a masked figure lurking in the shadows, without the dark thrill of his presence curling around me like smoke.
Guilt stings my chest like a faint thorn in my side. I shove it down, trying to lose myself in the music. No matter what I do, I can’t make him fade. So, I dance harder. My friends cheer as I twirl, and that’s when I see him—a pair of eyes in the crowd, fixed on me.
He’s tall with curly brown hair, messy, but he’s handsome enough to pull it off with a charming smile. At first, he watches me with quiet confidence. I can feel my face flush as he steps forward, weaving through the crowd toward me.
“Mind if I cut in?” he asks, his voice smooth but loud enough to rise above the music.
I glance at my friends, who are already grinning and giving me not-so-subtle thumbs-ups. I roll my eyes but smile, taking his hand. “Why not?”
We move together, the music pulling us into rhythm. He’s a good dancer—better than most guys I’ve met in places like this. He doesn’t try to overpower me, doesn’t fumble or make it awkward.
I let myself enjoy it, even as the tipsiness whirls in my head. But guilt prickles again. I shouldn’t be thinking of Acheron. I shouldn’t be wondering what it would be like if he were dancing with me, knowing how well he can command a whole stadium with his performances, how well he can command…my body.
I’ve spent the last two weeks convincing myself that he’s gone . My masked stalker, who hunted me in the cabin and made me piss myself after he triggered the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever had.
My boss didn’t believe me. Justifiably so. All the recordings were erased. Wiped clean. The only thing he saw was me, frantic and wild, stumbling from room to room like a crazy woman.
“Everleigh, there’s no one here,” he’d said, his voice laced with pity.
I’d stood there, shaking, staring at the screen as I replayed the memories. I’d never been so relieved—so mortified—that the rest of it was gone. My boss hadn’t seen me sobbing, hadn’t seen me piss myself, hadn’t seen Acheron carry me away to the bathroom, wash me off, and put me to bed like I was a fucking child. But it didn’t matter. The damage was done.
His mask invades my dreams every night. I still feel his hands on me, his mouth on mine, his breath in my ear. But I can’t let him go. I spent a whole day sifting through every shred of footage I could find of Acheron. I’d memorized the way he moved, the tilt of his head, the commanding stillness of his presence.
I knew it was him.
The first time I saw him, how he opened his arms to the roaring crowd just like he did to my trembling, quiet figure in the kitchen…it was unmistakable.
Two weeks. He swore it wouldn’t be a one-time thing. He has more plans for me. My emotions have been a storm—hope and relief that he’s moved on, found someone else to stalk, wars against bitter resentment and a twisted, simmering fury that he could move on. I’m seriously fucked up.
“Everything okay?” the guy asks, snapping me back to the present.
I blink up at him, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just… got lost in my head for a second.”
He grins, his hand warm on my waist as he leans closer. “Let me buy you a drink. You look like you could use one.”
I hesitate, but only for a moment. “Sure.”
Cherry is stone-cold silent in my mind. Of course. She only gets loud when I feel like I’m in danger. And nothing about the guy I’m with even faintly resembles danger.
The air is cooler near the bar. My body still hums from the music and alcohol. He pulls out a stool for me, and I slide onto it, grateful to sit.
“Jake,” he says, offering his hand again. “And you are?”
“Everleigh.”
“Pretty name.” He smiles, ordering us both drinks.
I smile faintly. I should be enjoying this—the normalcy of it, the flirtation, the promise of distraction. And for the moment, I do. I let Jake’s easy charm pull me into conversation, let his presence keep the shadows at bay.
But in the back of my mind, Acheron lingers. He’s gone, I remind myself. It’s over.
And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not.
Jake gives me the espresso martini I ordered. Caffeine and liquor buzz. I’ll hate myself in the morning. Who am I kidding? I’ve been hating myself for the past two weeks. Tonight, the self-hatred is at its peak.
“What do you do, Jake?” I ask, sipping at the drink that wires my nerves more. We have to raise our voices above the music and crowd.
“I’m a security guard. And I bartend most weekends. Here. But I’m off duty tonight.” He picks up his drink and raises it to me in a subtle salute. “And you?”
I straighten, a natural response, driven by passion more than pride. “I’m a historian.”
Jake lifts his brows. “Cool, what’s a historian do?”
I shrug. “Depends on where she works and what field she’s in.”
“You gonna share or do you like being as mysterious as your field?” He winks, and I can practically see the twinkle in his eye.
“I don’t really share who I work for, but I basically spend most of my time traveling and hanging around old, abandoned places that people have forgotten while writing down everything I can about them. Research is a huge part of my field, too.”
“So, you’re very smart, then,” he leans in to say, his smile friendly. “Way too smart to be hanging out with a plain ol’ security guard.”
“And bartender,” I add, tilting my glass to him.
When I catch a blur of white out of the corner of my eye, a wave of cold fear ices my blood, but when I turn, nothing’s there. I could have sworn I saw…
Stop it, Evie. You didn’t see a mask. You’re just being overly jumpy. Probably trying to self-sabotage again. Just like you do with every guy you meet ever since…I don’t want to think about my dead fiance.
When the music shifts to a new tempo, Jake nods to the dance floor. “Want to have another go at it?”
Jake’s eyes are kind. Periwinkle blue. Dreamy. Bartenders are great trauma dumpees after all. He’s nothing like the only man I ever loved. He’s nothing like the man I hate who makes me hate myself.
“Actually, since you bartend here, is there someplace we can go to get away from all the noise?”
His smile grows. “I might know a place.”
Downing the rest of my espresso martini, I grab his hand, slide off the stool, and practically pull him with me. “Great! Let’s go.”
The rooftop feels like another world, high above the city where the music and laughter from the club have faded to a hum, but I can still feel the vibrations giving me a buzz. The cool night air wraps around me, tugging at my dress, a sharp contrast to the heat of Jake’s hands resting lightly on my waist. The skyline stretches in every direction, dotted with lights that blur as I sway, tipsy and unsteady.
Jake’s smile is warm, the kind of smile that should make me feel safe, wanted. He leans in, and I let him, closing my eyes as his lips meet mine. It’s soft, tentative, and sweet—like he’s trying not to spook me. Like he doesn’t want to break me. My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer as if I can lose myself in him. I want to. I need to.
But the harder I try to forget, the more Acheron’s ghost curls through my mind. His kiss— that kiss —had possessed me, consuming me. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was fire and fury, the kind of kiss that stole the breath from my lungs and left me trembling, aching for more.
I’m desperate, forcing this kiss.
Jake pulls back suddenly, his hands sliding to my arms as he steadies me. “Everleigh, hey.” His voice cuts through the fog in my head. “I really like you. I do. And trust me, I want to kiss you. But I’m not this kind of guy.”
I blink up at him, my chest tightening with shame and relief. He brushes his thumb along my arm, his touch careful, reassuring. “You’re worth more than this,” he continues. “You deserve to be taken out on a real date. Somewhere nice. Somewhere you can feel special.”
The words settle over me, soothing and stinging at the same time. I nod, swallowing hard as my pulse slows. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Jake smiles again, softer this time, and I reach into my clutch to pull out my phone. I hand it to him, and he types in his number before passing it back. I text him.
“I’ll call you,” he says, slipping his hands into his pockets as he steps back, giving me space.
He’s a good guy. The kind of guy I should want. The kind of guy who doesn’t stalk me and leave nude sketches on my bed.
“Goodnight, Everleigh,” he says, voice echoing as he heads back inside.
I stay there on the rooftop, the wind pulling at my hair, my lips still tingling from Jake’s kiss. I touch them absently, my eyes drifting to the dark horizon.
And yet, all I can think about is Acheron haunting me.
Pfft, honey, you’re not haunted, you’re possessed. He’s rich, he’s hot, he’s talented, and he’s not just under your skin. He’s built a penthouse there with an elevator that goes straight for your pretty pussy . She blows me a kiss.
If he’s under my skin, he’s a disease. I sniff and lean against the nearest wall, trying to ignore the goosebumps prickling my flesh.
Hmm… try billionaire artist? Check. Hauntingly handsome? Check. World at his feet? Check. You being hopelessly obsessed? Double check.
Oh, so now noticing someone exists means I’m obsessed? Great logic, Cherry. Truly groundbreaking.
Girrrl, he’s not just living rent-free in your head. He’s hosting exhibitions there. Honestly, Evie, if I had a man like Acheron ruining my life, I’d thank him for the privilege.
I am not some “pick me” girl.
Oh, sweetie, you’re not a ‘pick me’ girl—you’re a ‘pick me apart because I can’t stop thinking about him’ girl. Big difference.
Cherry, I love you, but if you don’t buzz off like the annoying little mosquito pixie you are, I’m putting you on mute. Permanently.
Ha! Good luck with that. She turns, flutters her wings, and flips me the bird. I’ll be off…forming a fan club in Acheron’s honor. Feel free to join when you’re done pretending he’s not the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to you.
The music is still thundering as I step back into the club, the bass vibrating through my chest like a second heartbeat. Multicolored lights flash across the dance floor, and everything feels normal. Just a crowd of people dancing, laughing, living.
And then the screaming starts.
It cuts through the music like a knife spreading across the room in waves. People turn. People point.
I follow their gazes upward.
A body swings from the rafters. Hung. Lifeless. The rope creaks as it sways, back and forth, like a grotesque pendulum.
Horror rips through my blood and ricochets my heart.
My stomach plummets, and a strange, cold numbness washes over me. No. I don’t want to look closer, but I can’t stop myself. His dark jeans, the crisp white shirt, the tousle of hair—until my gaze locks on his face.
Jake.
Jake who kissed me on the rooftop and said I was worth more.
His lifeless eyes stare blankly down at the chaos below, his mouth slack, his head hanging at an unnatural angle.
The world tilts.
I stagger back, a strangled noise catching in my throat. No, no, no.
The crowd around me is screaming, breaking apart like a stampede. Someone crashes into me, and I stumble, nearly falling to my knees. But I can’t look away. My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
This is my fault.
My blood congeals. Because it’s Acheron. This was him.
He’s here.
The realization jolts me out of my frozen state. I turn and run, shoving through the crowd, my legs barely holding me up.
The night air hits me as I burst through the doors, gasping for breath. I don’t stop running until I reach my car, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip my keys.
I fumble with the lock, desperate to get inside, to escape, to breathe . My chest is tight, my vision swimming.
It’s not real. It can’t be real.
I’m shaking head to toe even when I get inside. My fingers are clumsy, too slick with sweat.
And then I hear it.
A sound like leather tightening.
Before I can react, a rope slips around my throat—rough, firm, unyielding. Not choking me, but tight enough to pin me against the headrest. My breath catches, my pulse a frantic drumbeat in my ears.
I freeze.
I feel him before I see him—his presence thick and suffocating, a shadow folding around me. His heated breath against my cheek. Leaning in close, he lowers his voice to a guttural growl against my ear.
“Look what you made me do, Little Quill.”
The words carve through me like a blade.
I don’t scream. I don’t move. I’m paralyzed as Acheron lingers—close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell the smoke and leather drifting from him.
Oh, God! Jake is dead.
And I’m more damned than ever. Because all I can think about, all I can feel is the man behind me.
“Acheron.”