Chapter Eighteen
Delilah
All three of my boyfriends are in the same building. Which means I am, briefly, unsupervised.
This is a dangerous window of opportunity. A sexy little pocket of chaos where I can run errands and commit minor emotional crimes. Love crimes. Devotion-based trespassing. Normal girlfriend stuff.
I have a list.
A pretty one. Pink stationery with a glittery bow at the top and heart stickers I award myself when I complete tasks.
First on the list: Return Benji’s spare key.
I made a copy. For safety. For emergencies. For bedtime comfort. For reasons that are sealed in the cunt-clutching archives of my heart, Your Honor, and inadmissible in every state except emotional crisis.
I also brought a thank you card, a rose from my neighbor’s garden (I asked the bush for permission), a GPS tracker for his keyring, and a full-size candy bar. Toffee. He had some in his kitchen. Three bars, tucked behind the oatmeal. A little hidden indulgence. I saw it. I see him.
I let myself in.
My entire nervous system sighs like I just walked into a hug. Which, functionally, I have. His house smells like a hug. Like dryer sheets and cinnamon and masculinity with a day job.
“Hi, house,” I whisper, because it feels rude not to. “It’s me again. Your future.”
His house is exactly the same, but different now. It’s not just “Benji’s place.” It’s a place where I’ve come apart in his arms. Where I’ve pressed my face to his chest and whispered filth into his skin. Where I’ve made noises I can’t replicate without him.
The candy bar goes on the counter. The rose gets gently placed in an empty mug.
The thank you card is tucked just slightly under the corner.
I leave the original key right there, under the mug, like a totally normal person who absolutely isn’t nesting like a love-crazed magpie while her man is at work. My copy is tucked safely in my bra.
I take a moment to really look.
I’m not distracted this time. Not fogged up with Benji’s ridiculous arms or his polite smile or the way he says “ma’am” like I’m both his teacher and his sin. No, I’m clear-headed and alone and free to soak in every quiet, wholesome detail of his space.
There’s a sticky note on the fridge that says “trash tomorrow.” His handwriting is neat. Practical. Slightly tilted. It feels intimate, like a glimpse inside his brain.
I consider stealing it.
I do not steal it.
Growth.
His couch has a blanket folded with military precision. There’s a dent where his body rests, soft and deep. I want to curl up right there, but I don’t.
Rhys would be proud.
Benji’s bookshelf is alphabetized. The coffee mugs are all big enough for two-handed sipping. There are three unopened scented candles in the drawer under the sink. He has intentions.
God, he’s such a good boy it makes my teeth hurt.
I drift to the hallway and peek through the cracked door to his room like a raccoon in a crime documentary.
There she is, officer. That’s the one. We caught her rubbing her face on the bedsheets and whispering “mine” into his laundry hamper.
The room smells like him. Like soap and warmth and something unshakably Benji. I breathe it in. My whole spine goes soft. My soul sighs. My panties? Absolutely furious at the lack of dick, but we’re soldiering on.
I don’t mean to take anything. Not really.
But there it is. Peeking out from the top drawer.
A shirt. Heather grey, probably soft. It’s a little scrunched, like he tugged it off lazily. Maybe in a rush.
I press it to my face.
Benji.
I fold it neatly and tuck it into my bag like I’ve just acquired a rare and precious artifact.
Something to hold onto when I miss him.
I blow a kiss to the room and quietly slip back out, locking the door behind me.
Sticker heart.
Task one: Complete.
Task Two: Margo.
She’s only a few doors down from Benji. Unacceptably close. I don’t like how close her bed is to his. The same walls that hear Benji moan might hear her too, and honestly, that’s a form of terrorism.
She wants him. I saw it. The lingering touches. The look she gave him at the pool. She’s still damp from the idea of riding him like a pool noodle on dollar beer night. And what does she do with that horny little brain of hers? She tries to blackmail him into her bed.
Blackmail.
Like some kind of lingerie-wearing loan shark.
She needs therapy.
Luckily, I know a great group. I’ll save her a chair and stare at her until she stops ovulating.
But this is about message delivery. And I’m nothing if not poetic. Subtle, but clear. Civilized, but a little scary.
I found the perfect vessel at the dollar store.
A gnome.
A horrible little bastard of a gnome.
Its proportions were wrong. Its eyes too wide. Its smile deranged. The paint was off-center like it had been applied during an earthquake or a breakdown or both.
It clutched a tiny spade like it was waiting to dig a hole.
For what, exactly? We don’t ask. We respect his silence.
I bought three. Just in case she’s the kind of woman who thinks a warning needs to be repeated. Or reinforced. Or franchised.
I leave my car at Benji’s house to avoid suspicion. No reason to give the Neighborhood Watch HOA whore any ammo. I’m trying to get out of the court system, not run a fucking residency there.
I crouch like a raccoon on a recon mission and gently place the gnome right in front of her door, angled just so. He’ll be the first thing she sees. Or trips on. I’m fine either way.
Beneath him, I slide a card. It’s tasteful. Cream cardstock. Embossed border. Just enough glitter to stain her soul permanently.
Inside, it says:
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, he’s not into you at all
Rhymes make threats worse. No ending punctuation. The lack of a period is menacing.
This is science.
I walk away calmly. With dignity. Like I didn’t just threaten violence with a garden statue.
Sticker heart.
Task Two: Complete.
My glitter-based threats have been deployed.
Let’s see if she bleeds sparkles when she cries.
Time’s slipping like lube in a baptism and I still have so many sacred duties to perform. Chad. Kira. Office Bitch. Rhys. And of course, the post-fingering thank-you note for Jett.
I wouldn’t want him to think I judged him for breaking so quickly. Or that I was the type to ghost after one orgasm. Because he may be, but I’m not rude. I was raised better than that, even if most of my manners are covered in glitter and expired lipstick.
Jett goes first. Not because I like him more. He’s just chronologically urgent. He’s still in Rhys’s office, probably repressing emotions and mentally cataloguing every time I’ve winked at his trauma. Sessions don’t last forever, though, and I can’t risk him coming out to find me mid-crafting.
The bag’s ready. Every item is handpicked, scented, blessed, and laced with emotional manipulation.
I park beside him, get out, and unclip his bag. My eyes land on the gloves. Black. Fingerless. Worn down and fraying at the seams like they’ve survived bar fights, blood oaths, and handjobs from demons.
He let me keep his hat. Technically. Lost his goddamn mind. In a biblical, “shove-my-fingers-in-you-until-you-weep” kind of way.
So really, the gloves? Practically begging to be claimed. Sex tokens. I take one like it’s a relic from a holy site and slide it on. It dwarfs my hand, but the effect is powerful. Wicked. Like I’ve borrowed just enough of him to be dangerous.
If the hat got me fingered in public, maybe this’ll earn me the full exorcism package. Wall sex. Mirror sex. A polite apology after. I’m manifesting.
One glove stays in the bag. The other stays on my hand. That feels fair.
Before I leave, I swing a leg over his bike, freshen my gloss, then lean forward and press a kiss to the painted reaper on his gas tank. My lip print blooms hot pink over the skull.
Sticker heart.
Task Three: Complete.
But time’s up. The sun’s shifting, the air’s got that “if you stay here any longer you’ll get arrested again” feel. I’ve got too many tasks left and zero alibis.
I can’t stay to leave Rhys anything today. Tragic.
He’ll survive.
Barely.
I’ll bring him something extra special tomorrow.
Something thoughtful. Meaningful. Deeply inappropriate. Something that says I see the fractured boy behind the rules and also I would lick your precum and make you question every professional boundary you’ve ever held sacred.