Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Kit is rifling through my closet, muttering and griping.
He grabs a black dress and holds it up to himself in front of the full-length mirror hung on the back of the door before chucking it onto my bed like he has done with the past five dresses he pulled out.
“Fuck, Lacy. You’re hot. Why don’t you dress like it? ”
I scoff. “Uh, thanks? I like that dress. It looks good on me.”
“Of course, it does, but you have nothing that hits mid-thigh-level. Why don’t you have anything that hits mid-thigh-level? Have you seen your legs?”
I scoff again. “Have you seen my legs? I’m wearing pants, Kit. Do not tell me you’ve taken a peek at me naked.”
He rolls his eyes in the mirror, but that’s not a no. Asshole.
I am not going to tell him that I do have skirts that hit mid-thigh level, one in particular I am praying he does not find.
It’s black leather, and I exclusively wear it with tights and big sweaters.
It’s hiding on the floor of the closet under everything else I have that does not fit on a hanger or in my dresser drawers.
I cross my arms and lean back in my chair. “You want to tell me where you think we’re going? Maybe I can help you better.”
“From your wardrobe, I’d say not.” He pulls out another black midi-length dress of mine and doesn’t even bother holding it up to himself in the mirror before pitching it on the bed. “Maybe I should do pants.”
He swivels to my dresser and pulls out a pair of straight-legged black jeans, throwing them over his shoulder.
Back in my closet, he starts swiping through my shirts until he pulls out the top I had my fingers crossed he would not find.
It’s a red silk tank with lace lining the low-cut, fitted bust. Meggie purchased it for me a while ago, but I’ve never worn it.
He beams in the mirror. “Oh, now this is hot.”
Kit goes to remove the T-shirt I had put on yesterday evening before heading to the haunted house.
“Hey!” I shout, slamming my hand on the window. His hands pause at the hem of my shirt. “Stop undressing me!”
His shoulders sag in the mirror. “How am I supposed to change clothes or shower if you won’t let me undress you?”
I hitch my jaw. “I don’t know. Maybe you can un-possess me?”
“Not an option, babe.”
“I told you not to call me babe.”
“Babe, think of it this way. If we go out and happen to see someone you know, how would you feel if you looked and smelled like you haven’t showered or changed in a week?”
My lips press together. I would not like that. “Fine. You’re not allowed to look at me, though. You shower and change with the lights off. Capiche?”
He grins. “Capiche.”
He saunters over to the switch on my wall and flips it off. He removes my T-shirt and jeans and pulls on the black jeans and red tank. He flips back on the light before striding over to the mirror to consider himself.
“You look good,” he mutters. “But the top would look better without a bra.”
“I disagree.”
“Your tits are little. It’s not like they need the support.”
I huff, offended. “They are not ‘little.’ I’m a B cup.”
“Hey, I didn’t say they weren’t great tits.
” He reaches behind himself and removes the bra, yanking it out from beneath the shirt.
He turns side to side to contemplate himself in the mirror some more.
“See, they’re perfectly perky.” He scrutinizes the bra still in his hand.
Nude with a little lace around the band.
I like it. It’s comfortable. “We have got to get you some new bras.”
“I would appreciate it if you would not treat me like a doll you can dress up and down as you please,” I spit.
His eyes lift to the sky. “That’s not what I’m doing, but fine. If you don’t want a new bra, I’m not going to force it on you.” He tosses the bra to the bed.
He squats down and digs my black strappy heels out of a bin I keep on the floor of the closet before taking a seat on my clothes-covered bed to put them on. After another glance in the mirror, he decides he looks good and then heads to the bathroom to put on makeup and do his hair.
I refrain from commenting on how illogical it is that he is putting on his makeup and doing his hair after getting dressed and putting on heels.
I’m irritated, but I have to admit that once he’s done with my face, I do look better with the foundation he picked out.
And the mascara is nicer, even if only slightly, than my cheap mascara.
What I don’t love is the dark lines of eyeliner he has swiped over my eyelids.
It’s not that it looks bad, but it doesn’t look like me. Though this is not me.
He stares in the mirror for a while trying to decide what to do with my hair.
Good luck, buddy. My hair is a fighter, and I love it for that.
Composed of the wild blonde curls that take over my entire head, this entity does not respond well to brushing, straightening, humid environments, or the occasional salty glare.
Eventually, Kit decides to tightly braid a few strands along the right side of my head, letting my part lean toward the right so the unbraided section of my hair is taking over most of my head. Goddammit. It looks good.
Kit checks my phone. It’s ten p.m. I prefer to be in bed at this time of night if I’m not out investigating.
He doesn’t bother to grab a purse or wallet as he leaves.
He walks past my car in the parking lot of my apartment complex and keeps walking up the hill to exit the complex.
He takes a right once he gets to the main road and then left once he gets to the parking lot of the grocery store on the street.
This is a grocery store I frequent, mostly because it’s open twenty-four hours. Easy to stop in at after a hunt.
There are a surprising number of cars in the lot for the late hour. He approaches a car and yanks on the door. Locked. He keeps trying doors on different cars until he finally reaches a car where the door opens. It’s a bright-yellow Audi.
Kit crouches to reach his body under the steering wheel and, with more strength than I naturally possess, shoves his nails into a small opening and easily yanks down a panel, screws flying out, exposing wires.
The car is stationed under a fading streetlamp, offering hardly enough light for me to see what he’s doing.
Kit is faring fine, however. Again with his fingernails, he strips some of the wires.
He’s going to get me electrocuted. He twists the wires together.
The dash lights flash on at that, followed almost instantly by the overhead lights.
He strips another wire, and this time swears as his entire body twitches.
I’m hit with a sharp, sizzling pain as an excruciatingly bright light bursts in my void, fading as quickly as it appeared.
“Did you just get us electrocuted?” I hiss.
“It was a little shock,” he grumbles.
He takes the wire he just stripped and touches it to the twisted end of the other wires. The ignition starts, and the car sparks to life. Kit chuckles to himself, secures the wires, and climbs in the driver’s seat. He closes the door behind himself and revs the engine a few times.
I shake my head. “I cannot believe you hot-wired a car when you are fully aware that I have a car.”
He adjusts the rearview mirror so I can see his face. Him staring at me through my eyes. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.
“What’s the fun in that? Plus, this car is so much cooler than yours. No offense.”
“Offense taken,” I snip. “If you get me arrested…I don’t know what I’ll do, but I will find some way to make your life miserable.”
“Good luck with that.” He fixes the mirror and says, “We’re not going to get arrested.”
If he was alive at some point, he was definitely a white man. (I say as a white woman who frequently breaks and enters without consequence. Pot meet kettle.)
“You know,” he comments as he puts the car in drive, “you seem to be adjusting rather well.”
My hands form fists. “I am not adjusting—I’m surviving. I’m making do with my situation. I will never adjust to this.”
“Time will tell.” He slams on the gas, speeding off toward the main road. He pulls onto the street and takes off, I swear, fifty miles over the speed limit of fifty.
“Slow down!” I screech, hand bracing on the window.
He cackles in my voice and his laugh. “No!” He turns the volume on the radio up as high as it can go.
I cover my ears with my hands. “I cannot believe you stole a car!”
“Technically, I’m borrowing it!” he shouts over the music, making a sharp turn that causes me to tumble out of my chair.
I get up and fall back in my seat with a failed attempt to conjure up some noise-cancelling headphones.
Part of me wishes I would have remained unconscious and unaware of what was happening.
I’m glad he doesn’t have complete free rein with me, but I feel like my sanity would have a better chance of staying intact if I was blissfully in the dark.
Kit screeches to a stop, making my chair tip forward then fall back, hardly pausing to put the car in park before he leaps out of it.
Oh god. I recognize where we are. At a club.
My sister has dragged me here before, and I am not looking forward to being here again.
The last time I was here, I spent most of the night in the corner avoiding prowling men.
It’s not like I’m against having a good time, I just was planning on spending the night dancing with my big sister and she ditched me to grind on one of the more attractive and less creepy men in the vicinity. Which, whatever.
“We are not going clubbing.”
“Oh, but we are. Come on. Let loose. Have fun. You need it.”