2. Mona #2
Oh no, this unknown person has been trying to better my life by giving me a bed, a fridge, blankets and pillows, flowers, and handmade cards.
Let alone he keeps my secret about me illegally living here.
You’d better arrest him fast, Officer. Clearly, he’s a menace who needs to be taken off the streets.
Dumb.
I’d be a freaking idiot to turn him in. Cops don’t do much about stalking until it goes too far anyway, so I’d be better off waiting until something more happens.
An image appears in my mind. Dark hallways. A full moon. A tall, shadowy figure standing in my room with that mask, illuminating my face with a purple hue.
For some crazy reason—an absolutely insane reason—I don’t think I’d run. I’ve never claimed to be sane or right in the head. I’ve been fucked up since before I was born. It’d make sense for me to end up with my stalker. Right on track with the shit show that is my life.
I want him … more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.
But not knowing who he is, what his past and future look like—it tears me in two different directions.
On one hand, I’m not one to judge if he has a questionable past. That doesn’t define a person, especially if they’re working on bettering themselves. Like stalking a young woman.
On the other hand, there’s a sexy allure to not knowing who’s under the mask. Reckless and dangerous for sure, but still hot. I have no doubt with the way he writes that he’s a confident guy. I’m hoping that extends to the bedroom.
I’ve slept with a handful of guys, all of which weren’t award-winning experiences.
Losing my virginity in high school was an awful experience.
It was in the back seat of this football player’s car after we got a little drunk.
It was so awkward and painful. When I look back, it’s clear how not ready I was.
As I began waitressing and bartending, the desperate men started rolling in. If I’d wanted to, I could have gone home with a different guy after every shift. But I chose three carefully.
The first of the bunch, I only hooked up with one time. He was sweet, but had no idea what he was doing, and I was not looking for a project.
The second guy was way too eager and lasted all of three strokes before he was done. It was flattering, but come on, that wasn’t what I’d signed up for. And he got way too attached when that was the opposite of what I wanted.
I feel like Goldilocks, saying the third guy was just right, but he was.
Independent. Not looking for anything long-term, just like I was.
Simple. We had a mutual understanding agreement for about six months.
Booty calls and quick hookups with none of the messiness or pizzazz.
All was well until I found out about his real last name and his wife. I never spoke to him again.
I want Mr. Masked Haunting. I don’t want the messiness or the feelings. But I’m not sure I can say the same about him. He already knows more about me than I’ve ever let someone discover willingly. But he did that sleuthing on his own; I didn’t volunteer the information.
Now I just want to figure out more about him so it feels less invasive and mutually vulnerable. Right now, I feel like a little bug in an enclosure, being studied by a hot masked scientist. Ooh, maybe we can role-play, and I’ll be his subject. He can poke and prod me all night long.
Mona.
But on a serious note, I think the pool of suspects should start with the staff for The Schrader House. It makes sense. It would explain how he knows me as well as he does, how he blends in without getting thrown out by our security, and how he’s able to sneak around at all hours.
Grabbing my journal from my bed, I plop down and put my pen to paper, jotting down the list of possible suspects in general categories. Scare actors, security, props, costume team, maintenance, sales, management, makeup artists, hairdressers, face painters, activity coordinators.
Well, shit. This is a lot longer than I expected. But this place is a goddamn amusement park, squeezed into an estate of four acres and a mansion.
I think the list may be horribly unhelpful because I don’t feel any closer to narrowing down this masked man. A light bulb goes off in my brain.
God, I swear, sometimes, I’m really dumb. He’s a masked man; of course, he’s a scare actor.
Probably. Maybe. Ugh, I don’t know. But it’s killing me.
I want to thank him face-to-face—maybe cock-to-mouth—and then also ask how he has the audacity to force himself into my life. Look, liking me is a double-edged sword, okay? But he chose this.
I have to slip out of my room to head to work soon, so I’ll focus on this later. Tossing my journal on my bed, I walk over to the glass-top wooden end table and grab my amethyst and my black tourmaline crystal bead bracelets and slip them onto my wrist.