Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
Margot
Caine: I’m having a computer issue.
Me: What’s wrong?
Caine: It’s on fire.
Caine: Do you do house calls?
Me: Goodbye.
Caine: Text me when you get there, please.
Caine: And when you leave.
Caine: Proof-of-life texts every fifteen minutes would be great too.
Me: Don’t make me block you.
If this were a horror movie, not letting Caine drive me to class would be a bad decision.
Truthfully, it’s not the wisest choice in real life either.
But I know myself, and it’s a slippery slope from letting Caine come with me tonight to needing him.
I’ve worked too hard to feel confident taking care of myself to risk becoming insecure again.
From a practical standpoint, Nicholas has also only come to the house, and my gut says he’s far less likely to try to bother me in a public place.
Harassing me in public runs the risk of there being witnesses who could vouch for my side of the story.
Even so, I choose a well-lit parking spot with high visibility.
As I cross the parking lot to the university, Caine’s “five years” comment fills my head.
Was he serious, or messing with me? As long as I’ve known him, Caine’s been a flirt, but not in a serious way.
I always took it as social flirting, or teasing, not flirting with intention.
While he didn’t explicitly state it, five years could mean the last person he was with was me at the haunt.
There’s no way.
Claire’s voice fills my head, her response to finding out Jeremy and I weren’t actually engaged.
Please tell me this means you and Caine will finally either get together or you’ll put him out of his misery.
He watches you like you hung every single star in the sky.
Her words, plus Caine’s earlier, have me coming up with possibilities that I shouldn’t even be considering with Nicholas breathing down my neck.
A future, an actual healthy relationship, feels like a big ask.
Whether I should blame it on nature or nurture, I’m not sure, but I struggle to accept good things.
When unpleasant things happen, I know what to do—go into attack mode or grit my teeth and ride it out.
Good things are trickier. Good things sit there and look at you, asking questions like How did this happen?
, What if you ruin it?, and my personal favorite: the guilt-inducing Do you even deserve this?
Unpleasant things bring something to fight against, a problem, or even a person.
Good things hold up a mirror and make you wonder if the problem is you.
On that happy note, I enter the enormous brick building.
At 7:00 p.m. on a weeknight, the library isn’t bustling, but there are plenty of people browsing the rows and reading or studying.
I greet the librarian on duty, Carl, complimenting the calico cat pin on their sweater when I pick up the card key for computer lab E.
It’s on the ground floor, one of the closest computer labs to the main entrance.
Three long tables arranged in a horseshoe shape hold computers, and there’s a large whiteboard on a wall at the front of the room.
Due to the program’s informal nature, participants can wander in and out at any time during the ninety-minute window.
Most weeks, my cohost, Sydney, is here too, but today she’s out of town, so I’m flying solo.
I set up my laptop at one end of the horseshoe and wait for participants to arrive.
· · ·
The time passes quickly. In addition to the usual crew of retirees that come as much for the social aspect as they do to use the computers, there are several new attendees.
I feel as if I’m continuously hopping from computer to computer answering questions, but I don’t mind it.
This is the kind of social activity I enjoy—being useful.
There’s no trying to make small talk or wondering if I said the right thing.
Someone has a problem, and I try to help them solve it.
The simplicity is delightful. It isn’t until the session’s nearly over that I realize I feel watched.
Not watched as in someone’s waiting to catch my eye and ask a question, but watched in an uncomfortable way.
Two of the room’s walls are made of frosted glass, offering slight but not complete privacy.
My gaze keeps wandering to them, but all I see are the silhouettes of library patrons coming and going.
Wren, a cheerful woman with a spectacular wig collection and a passion for clicking questionable links in spam emails, waves me over.
When I reach her station, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that she hasn’t gone adventuring into her spam folder “just to see what’s going on in there.
” I help her complete the two-step verification process to log into the patient portal for her new doctor’s office, then step away to give her privacy.
I have only five minutes of peace before the unsettling feeling of being watched is back, descending on me like a shroud.
Instinct makes me whirl toward the door, just in time to see it close.
I do a quick head count, but all the participants are still seated.
Unease is a threatening hand clamped on my shoulder.
Stop.
It was just someone seeing what’s going on in here.
· · ·
Class has ended, and I’m on high alert. That prickly sensation of being watched occurred several more times, but I don’t know if it’s my imagination.
Stepping outside the building, I freeze when a tall figure moves behind a column.
Fear rushes in, and I’m amazed at how quickly my body goes from fine to terrified.
I’m also amazed that my first thought isn’t to scurry back inside the library—it’s to set a trap.
The angel on my shoulder warns, This is such a bad idea, but the devil on the other says, Let’s fucking go.
At least now I’m expecting it, not being surprised.
And perhaps more importantly, I don’t see how anyone could possibly blame me for defending myself if I’m attacked by a man at night.
Shoving my hand into my purse, I debate between pepper spray, stun gun, or knife, all the while trying to keep my movements casual, as if I’m feeling around for my keys.
Breathe.
The cool metal cylinder of the pepper spray grounds me.
I’ll start with that. The idea of keeping a little distance from the figure stalking me is appealing.
I act casual, like I don’t notice them peeking at me from behind the pillar.
Instead of walking across the parking lot to my car, I turn right, walking along the front of the library.
I’m sure it looks innocent enough, like maybe I’m parked in the side parking lot, or heading to the student center next door.
Looking back isn’t necessary. I know he’s following me the same way I know there’s ground beneath my next step.
Bracing myself, I duck around the side of the student center.
Every step feels loaded, the tension building to an unbearable point.
Spinning and confronting him would ease it, but I have to be sure.
I’m not about to mace some poor person who just happened to go the same way as me.
I’m about to turn behind the building when I spot a big, black truck parked in one of the farthest parking spaces.
There’s a small fluorescent pink sticker on the back window.
While I can’t read it from here, I recognize the shape. It’s the logo for Hardline Tattoo.
Fear that made my chest feel tight has shifted lower.
I’m still a live wire, but I’ve gone from grim anxiety to an aroused anticipation.
Caine fucking Underwood’s truck should not be in this parking lot, but if it is, Gremlin better be inside it.
If he left her home alone, his ass is getting maced.
Several ideas of how I should react to him following me pop into my head.
There’s the mature one: discuss boundaries.
Boring.
The angry one: come out guns blazing and tell him off on principle, pretending I’m not a teensy bit flattered and extremely aroused.
Harsh.
Or the fun one: fuck with him.
Winner.
One of the parking lot lights reflects off the windows of the student center, and I catch a glimpse of the figure trailing behind me.
Now that I’ve seen the truck, I wonder how I didn’t clock the man as Caine.
He’s close but not too close. I take a hard right at the end of the building, walking past a dumpster and a bunch of abandoned pallets.
It’s darker on this side of the complex, and while I’m sure there are security cameras, it’s definitely not somewhere I’d take a stroll for the hell of it.
But revenge is dirty work, so here I am.
One more turn, and I’m fully behind the building. Footsteps sound on the concrete behind me; he’s getting closer. I keep walking, walking, walking. Slipping my hand into my purse, I feel around until my fingers close on my Mace. I’m not going to spray him, but I do want to scare him.
Three.
Two.
One.
Gotcha, creeper.
I whirl, pepper spray in hand, finger nowhere near the button. “Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time you surprised me?”
He stops hard, a scowl on his handsome face.
In the near dark, he looks scary, but not in a let me grab my stun gun way.
Scary in a my heart is beating so hard it might fly out of my chest way.
Scary in a Why is heat spiraling up from between my legs?
way. Scary in a make me scream from fear, then make me scream from pleasure way.
I’m very annoyed, but even more aroused. Annoy-roused, even.
“You knew I was behind you?” he demands, like I’m the ridiculous one here. “The whole time?”
“Yes,” I spit. “Do you think I walk around behind buildings in the dark for fun?”
“Maybe.” He sighs. “You do some weird shit.”
“I do weird shit? You followed me here.”