8. Scott #3
The bed creaks when I step on it, and I freeze momentarily before continuing on my mission. I open the light fixture and unscrew all the light bulbs, running my fingers over every surface that I can’t see.
The shower cuts off, and my heart skips a beat. Shit.
In quick, quiet movements, I reattach the bulbs and the glass casing for the light fixture. I tense as I step down from the bed as slowly as possible, but I’m not able to mitigate the creak of the bedframe.
The bathroom door handle turns, and I know I’m in trouble. The covers are all askew, and I’m just standing here like an idiot. For one horrifying second, I picture trying to explain why I’m standing on his bed inspecting the light fixture.
I’m pretty sure that conversation ends with me sleeping in the lake.
In the split second between the door opening and Naz sticking his head out, I dive onto the bed, arranging my body into a relaxed pose.
“What are you doing in my room?”
“Waiting for you to finish showering. I figured there probably isn’t room in there for both of us, which I am assuming is why you didn’t invite me in the first place,” I say casually, letting my face spread into the wide, toothy grin I know he loves to hate.
“You’ll be lucky if there’s room for you in there at all,” he snarks. “Oh and I used all the hot water,” he says matter-of-factly before gesturing for me to go ahead.
I take the out and jump up, letting my body get a little unnecessarily close as I skirt by him before closing the door behind me.
My pulse is still beating double time as I use the toilet and step into the shower.
He didn’t lie about me barely fitting in the tiny phonebooth-style shower.
There still is some hot water, but it doesn’t last very long before the spray gets cooler.
It’s enough that I’m able to wash all the important stuff, most notably scrubbing the dried cum from the hair on my lower stomach and groin.
More importantly, it gives me some time alone to think.
The last week or so has been a mindfuck.
I don’t know what to do.
Part of me wants to reach out to Cory and let him know what’s going on, but what if that makes things worse?
He and the rest of the security team already stood up for me when I was questioned about my whereabouts during the bomb threat.
If it hadn’t been for them vouching for me, I feel positive the label would have fired me just as a precaution.
I wouldn't have blamed them, which is why I know that adding another suspicious black mark to my file is likely to change their minds.
I would have brought up the texts before if I had thought it was important.
And now… I want to tell them, but now there are too many unknowns.
I can’t risk losing my job, not because of money or anything other than I wouldn’t be able to deal with not being the one to protect Naz. I need to keep him close.
There’s also the fact that I don’t know enough about the threat to know if reporting it will set them off and potentially put Naz or the other guys in more danger.
Because now I know they’re a real threat. Assuming they are connected to the attempted bombing. Which I don’t know for sure, but I’m treating it like they are. I’m taking them seriously now.
Whatever they’re after, they finally have my attention. I can’t remember when the texts started. I blocked them at first. Thanks to mainstream and social media, everyone knows I’m connected to Lest Is Moore.
At first, I just assumed some asshole journalist had tracked my phone number down.
It’s not like it would be hard to do considering it’s the same number I’ve had since high school.
I haven’t changed it because it’s the only connection I still have to my sister.
It’s been eight years since I left home, and I don’t even know if she still lives there, much less have an easy way of contacting her to give her a new number, so I’ve kept this one.
Other than my employers, no one ever calls me.
It’s been years of mostly wrong numbers, sales calls, and spammers, all of which I block after I hang up.
But I still answer every time it rings and read every text that comes through.
Hitting the block button is second nature.
Except this time. This time they got my attention.
The night before last, just as I was walking out of the meeting clearing me of any misconduct, I got a very pointed message that sent a chill through my bones. One that let me know, under no uncertain terms, that these texts haven’t been random.
It was a photo of Naz, wearing a ball cap and a jacket with the collar pulled up as if it could make him less recognizable. It looked like he was getting into a vehicle at a private airfield. Very recently, if I’m not mistaken.
Below that was a text.
Unknown: Are you ready to listen now?
Someone had been watching him. Someone knew where he was, and presumably, could have followed him anywhere.
And they’d wanted me to know it.
He’s okay though. There’s no one here, no signs of danger. And I won’t let him out of my sight.