Chapter 9 #2
In a weird way it is kind of sweet that he didn’t just let us sleep on the floor.
And not only me, but he took care of my friend as well.
A little creepy. Definitely crossing boundaries.
Probably obsessive if I had to take a guess based on the whole stalking thing.
But sweet nonetheless. That fantasy is sounding like the better option more and more.
What does it say about me that I’ve gone from terror and panic to practically twirling my hair and kicking my feet over this situation?
The bar is in hell obviously.
“Is that what you wanted to say?” I ask, avoiding responding to her commentary.
“Oh no,” she laughs, shaking her head and pointing to the laptop screen again. “I was going to say that finger wave had no business being that hot.” She fans her face and then rewinds it to play the wave again.
Fuck. Why is she right?
“And the mask?” She wolf-whistles and I shove her shoulder.
“We’re talking about a man that broke into the house while we slept,” I remind her, even as I feel more at ease with her jokes.
She raises her brows in disbelief. “A masked, muscled man broke into your house to take care of you and—” she cuts herself off. “And what?” she asks. “How’d you know he was here before the video? More laundry?”
I shake my head. “More gifts,” I grumble.
Her eyes widen in excitement and I groan. “It’s a good thing you’re not the one being stalked. You’d jump into a kidnapper’s van, offer up your hands, say ‘thank you, Daddy,’ and then beg him to spank you.”
She throws a pillow at me, but noticeably doesn’t protest. “Just show me the goods, you whore.”
Oh, I’m the whore now. I roll my eyes but shut my laptop and head back to my room where I left the gifts behind. Summer is hot on my heels, a giddiness to her that can only be explained by…actually by nothing. She’s a deranged freak for enjoying this.
And me?
Well I’m a deranged freak with a better poker face, because I can’t lie to myself, hard as I may try. There’s a small thread of euphoria rushing through me after that video. Seriously, who knew a finger wave could turn a nightmare into a dark fantasy?
I shouldn’t admit that. Not even to myself.
Summer pounces on the gifts left behind, the same vibrator and Pop Socket from yesterday but in different colors this time.
She goes straight for the vibrator to nobody’s shock.
“This is a good one,” she praises, turning the box over in her hands.
“You gotta keep it this time. The cops don’t have to know. ”
“You want me to keep another break-in to myself?” I ask in disbelief. She would definitely be the first to die in a horror movie. “You realize how insane this is, right?”
“Insanely hot,” she retorts. “Plus, logically,” she drags out the words. “What can they realistically pull from that video? There’s no identifying markers. Sure he’s tall and well built, but not so much it actually narrows down a pool of suspects.”
Her argument makes sense even if I shouldn’t let it, but that thread of euphoria is burning to let it grow into something bigger. To let the fantasy grow and break me free from the monotonous daily routine my life has become.
When was the last time something this exciting happened to me?
Never.
Dammit, Berlyn. This shouldn’t be exciting. It should be horrifying. Terrifying. Wrong. We’re not supposed to invite the monsters in. But would they really be monsters if they were waiting for an invitation?
Then again, they sure as hell aren’t waiting, now are they?
“Come on, B,” she pushes. “Look how cute this is.” She holds up the new Pop Socket which is almost identical to the one that was left yesterday. I hate to admit it, but it really is adorable and would match my Kindle case perfectly.
Too perfectly to be a coincidence. Which should be another red flag but maybe I’m colorblind because it’s feeling pretty green to me. My stalker cares enough to color match the gifts he leaves behind. It’s adorable.
Still, I say nothing. My rational side prevents me from fully committing to entertaining this.
“Oo, did you see the note he left?”
Note? I hadn’t noticed it. “No, let me see.”
Summer points to a white envelope next to where the gifts were left. There was no note yesterday, only the small package the Pop Socket came in. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it earlier.
The words “Little Rabbit” are written in an elegant script across the white envelope in thick black marker, making the words pop off the paper. I turn it over and find nothing else written on the outside.
“Open it,” Summer whispers in my ear, making me jump.
“It said ‘Baby Girl’ yesterday,” I say as I open it and pull out a piece of paper with the same cursive handwriting on it.
Summer lets out a low whistle. “And I thought the wave was hot.”
The letter trembles in my hands and the sides of myself war with each other. Everything about this should be abhorrent. I should already be on the phone with the police because who believes the words of a deranged psycho who breaks into your house?
Apparently me.
“The writing at the bottom is different,” I say, my voice strained as I attempt to keep my logical side in charge.
Summer looks at the letter over my shoulder. “It’s in a different color too.” She points out and we both look at the bedside table where my colored pens I like to take notes in are. “He must have added it in a rush after finding you on the floor?”
Seems like the only logical explanation.
“Unless you really do think you have a harem of stalkers,” Summer suggests, her eyes flaring with a wild kind of excitement. “It does say ‘give in to us.’”
True but still. “I think you’re letting your imagination run wild again.” I read through the letter again quickly. “I think every time he uses ‘us’ he’s referring to me and him.”
Summer shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.” I roll my eyes, she’s enjoying this far too much. “There have been two different nicknames. And two different types of handwriting.”
I scoff, she’s really pushing this harem narrative of hers. “The handwriting could just be the difference in his cursive and regular writing,” I argue. “Don’t get carried away.”
“You,” she says, pointing at me, “are the enemy of fun.”
“And you’re the enemy of common sense.” Picking up my phone, I find the business card the officer left yesterday. They did end up being somewhat helpful. At least with everything today, I have proof I’m not insane.
Summer slaps the phone out of my hand. “You’re really calling the cops?”
“Of course I am,” I hiss. “Someone is breaking into my house.”
“Not just someone, a hot masked someone.” She says it like it should make all the difference. It shouldn’t. Ugh. But why does it kinda?
“We don’t know he’s hot. We don’t even know for sure that he’s a he.”
She takes the letter from my hands and turns it over but there's nothing on the back. “Fair enough,” she agrees easily. “But based on this, I don’t really think they’re going to make that much of a difference.”
Another fair point. But what does that matter? “Am I supposed to go quietly then? Let him win without fighting?”
“Okay, okay. You’re right.” She nods and I give her a suspicious look. That was too easy for such a dramatic change in her. “I was getting carried away,” she admits when she catches me staring at her. “In my head, the masked man is your hottie from the other day.”
Wouldn’t that be something? The man I’ve been secretly crushing on being secretly obsessed with me.
Why does the sigh that comes out of my mouth sound so sad? Embarrassing.
“It can’t be,” I answer. “He wouldn’t do something like this.
He’s too nice,” I explain, but that’s not quite the right word.
“Too refined.” That’s a little better, though still doesn’t encompass the energy Ezra exudes.
“Plus, if he was breaking into houses, I don’t think his brothers would be far behind.
They seem the type to help hide the body. ”
“Harem,” she says in a sing-song voice before cutting off. “I mean, this did all start happening right after we bumped into him and they came over.”
I’m already shaking my head, knowing where she’s headed. As nice as the idea would be, it can’t be them. “It started before,” I answer and even I can admit my voice sounds defeated.
“You’d totally let those three stalk you,” she teases, laughing.
I have no response to that. Not one I could admit aloud. “But it’s not them, so it doesn’t matter.” Picking up my phone and card again, I dial the number on it.
“Keep the gifts,” Summer mouths.
Turning my back on her, I greet the officer and explain the situation to him. He’s a lot nicer today and doesn’t seem to have any lingering doubts about my story.
I know this was the right call, but when he and his partner show up, I hand over the video and letter.
There’s nothing for them to gain from the gifts.
If I did give them the gifts as evidence, I’d probably receive the same things again tomorrow.
I’m rationalizing the irrational and yet I can’t bring myself to care.
If he wants to make this a game, he’s going to find out I only play to win.
Games are supposed to be fun, aren’t they?
Is it that wrong to find some enjoyment along the way?