Chapter 9
CHAPTER
NINE
Britton
This is one of the funnest conversations I’ve had in a long damn time.
It’s not often I get to talk to people who know me, the real me, not the moniker I use on social media to talk about what I do and why I do it.
“Let’s see, in one of my series, they’re dealing with a serial killer.
In another, there’s a kidnapping ring where they’re auctioning off people like they’re livestock. ”
“What?” he splutters out the question. “How do you even begin to research those topics?”
“You’d be surprised what information is out on the internet, LoneStar.
I even happened upon a real site where they were selling people of different ages, genders, and skin color while researching that subject on my computer for the series.
I turned what I found into the authorities because I was so disgusted and appalled that I couldn’t let it stay online so people could bid on living, breathing, human beings without doing something about it.
My conscience wouldn’t have allowed it. I had to be proactive. ”
“It would’ve eaten you alive,” he states, knowing me well enough to say that. “Nobody with any sort of moral compass could’ve left that alone without reporting it.”
“The internet is a scary place to navigate sometimes,” I admit, hating that there are really individuals out there that make a profit off others in such evil-minded ways.
“Tell me about what you’re working on now?” he asks, changing the focus of our chat onto one that isn’t so depressing.
“I’m working on something that’s completely different to anything I’ve ever published. It’s based around a fairytale, but more realistic. I have both supernatural and paranormal themes going on.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?” he inquires.
“I guess that depends on how you look at it. I told you, I’m imaginative.
When I break it down in my mind, supernatural beings have magical gifts such as witchcraft, psychic abilities, and things along those lines.
Paranormal is full of shifters, skinwalkers, and such.
But when they work hand-in-hand, they become supernormals. ”
“You made that up on the fly,” he chokes out, laughing like a hyena. “Supernormals. You’ve created a new phenomenon.”
“I did,” I concur. “You have to admit, it’s a snazzy word.” I’m sure somewhere out there in the universe, somebody’s used that name to combine the two entities, but it feels good to take the credit if it makes him laugh out loud like he is now.
We continue talking, me telling him about the premises for my work in progress, and him telling me about the comedic things happening around the clubhouse. All in all, it’s a good talk and the more we chat, the more comfortable I begin to feel about coming back and facing him after what I did.
Over the last few days, I’ve been receiving calls that are unidentifiable.
At first, I thought they were spam or robo calls so I didn’t answer, but today, after the tenth time of them calling me in a row and blowing my phone up with their annoyingly intrusive calls, interrupting my work time, I broke down and accepted it.
“What?” I bark, irritated beyond belief.
If someone needs to hide who they are when they dial my number, I don’t have to answer with a mediocre amount of respect.
Heavy breathing greets me, and it causes shivers to dance along my skin.
I hold it between my ear and shoulder, listening for any detail that may help me uncover who it is.
But there’s nothing outside of whoever’s releasing air into the phone.
“Listen, creep. Stop fucking calling me. You’re disturbed and need psychological help.”
I hang up and go into my settings, banning incoming calls that don’t have a verifiable name or a visual number associated with the caller.
Once I’ve taken care of that, I put my phone back onto the cushion of the outside swing and continue working on my scene.
Not even three minutes later, it starts all over again.
“How many damn phone lines does this weirdo have?”
Instead of putting myself through that once more, I hit the ignore button and send them to voicemail.
It was irksome the first time, I brushed it off as a simple aggravation, kids making prank calls, but the second time it happens, makes me feel murderous—one can only handle so much panting in their ear before they snap, so I simply add it to my spam list. When it happens again, and again, and again, I shut my phone down and set my laptop aside, concentration now broken.
“I was on a roll,” I whine, thrusting my fists up and into the air at the cosmos in protest. “The writing gods are against me today.” I sit here for a minute, calming my temper before standing up, grabbing my computer and heading indoors.
It’s lunchtime anyway so I might as well take this time to decompress, fill my growling belly, and try again later.
Four days later, and the rasping, harassing calls continue. Every damn day, it’s the same thing. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t work because of the stress this asshole is giving me. This fucker is ruining my life!
“Enough!” I shout into the mouth piece of my phone, my growl fierce enough to rattle my teeth.
I am so pissed that all I want to do is find this jackass, wrap my hands around his neck, and strangle him.
Gathering every ounce of oxygen I can in my lungs, I bellow, “Get a life and leave me alone! Grow the hell up.”
After my enraged rant ends, something different happens. Something that has the wind knocked out of me, smothering my entire being.
He laughs, and it’s bone chilling.
Terrifyingly so.
Then the chuffing picks up in tempo, it’s wheezy as if he’s a ten pack a day smoker. Then the caller says three words that has me clenching my eyes closed as fear encompasses me. My entire body goes taut with his declaration. “See you soon.”
This time when I gather my things, it’s done with gusto. There’s no stalling, no sitting back on the swing and rocking myself back and forth, no meditating to keep myself from freaking out, I haul ass inside, shut and lock all the doors and latch all of the windows as I attempt to catch my breath.
I have no enemies that I’m aware of, I don’t stick in one place long enough to gain any.
I stayed to myself at college. Outside of my friendship with Jersey, I didn’t associate or talk to anybody, had zero interest in putting myself out there—unless it was a professor while I turned in an assignment that was due or had questions about it, so the million dollar question is, who the hell has it out for me?
I can scratch my parents off the list of potential suspects, unless it revolves around them, they wouldn’t put in this type of effort to get my attention. They’d simply call, spout off at the mouth, demean me, stroke their egos, then go away until the next time the mood strikes to tear me down.
Jersey wouldn’t, neither would LoneStar.
He’s too in your face and she knows that if she needs me, all she has to do is ask me to come and I’d be there.
Nobody outside of them, my editor, and my folks have this number, and my parents having it wasn’t because I willingly gave it to them, they came across it when my insurance acceptance letter was mailed to their address since they were, at the time, my only option to have it sent to.
Carolina is too classy to stoop to such a low level, like me, she has an issue with someone, she tells them, she doesn’t hide behind anyone, let alone a damn phone.
“Who?” I murmur, moving the curtains to the side and looking out into the front yard of the cabin. The hair on the nape of my neck stands up on end, I don’t know how I know this, but my instincts are screaming that somebody is watching me. “Fucking fantastic.”
My nerves are shot as days pass with the continuing phone calls, and the dates that are flying by on the calendar, getting closer to my cycle.
“I’ve never begged for my monthly crimson tide before, but I’m doing it now,” I say, placing my hands to my chest in a praying position, hoping that whoever it is that’s in charge of that facet of my life is listening and hearing my plea. “I’d suck as a mom.”
I get up from the kitchen table too quickly and the room begins to spin.
I grab the edge of the table to help balance me until everything rights itself again.
There has to be several reasons for that to happen, right?
I internally question, trying to come to a conclusion that doesn’t mean I have a baby baking in the oven.
“Not eating and not sleeping could be why,” I reason with myself.
“Thanks, asshole,” I say, glaring at my phone that’s silent for the moment.
As I step away from the table, the damn thing rings causing me to jump.
“No. Not again. Please, I just need one day without having to deal with this psycho.” Shuffling over to the side table where it’s plugged in and charging, I notice Jersey’s name flash across the screen.
A relieved sigh escapes before I unplug it, answer it, and place it to my ear. “Hey, Jersey.”
“Oh, my God, Britton! The paperwork came in! I’m officially Elodie’s teacher!” she screams, piercing my eardrums.
“That’s amazing,” I comment, trying to add some enthusiasm to my voice.
“What’s wrong?” she asks and as soon as she does, the dam breaks and I begin blabbing about the incessant phone calls and the threatening message the jackass tacked on—just that once but it was one too many.
“Where are you, Britton? I’m coming, you shouldn’t be alone. It’s not safe,” she replies, sounding frantic.
“If it’s not safe for me, it’s not safe for you being around me, Jersey,” I protest. “I’d never forgive myself if something happens to you because some bozo is pestering me.”
“He’s more than pestering you, Britton! He threatened you,” she reminds me. “Safety in numbers, girl. How many times did you preach that to me when I wanted to do a late night study at the library?”
“Too many to count,” I say, though it comes out as barely a whisper.
“The way I see it… is either I come there, or you come here,” she adamantly states. “There’s no in between, Britton. I’d prefer you to be back here where the club can help protect you, but I know how hardheaded you are and know that you’ll refuse to let this person force you to leave.”
“I’m not hardheaded,” I deny. “I just don’t like others to tell me what to do and expect me to fall into line.”
“Come home, Britton,” she begs.
“I don’t have a home, Jersey,” I negate, even during my childhood I never felt like I had a home.
“I’m your home,” she murmurs. “Home isn’t a place, it’s the family you choose. My door is always open to you and you’ll always have a room here waiting for you.”
“I’ll think about it, Jersey.”
“Stubborn,” she says with an exaggerated sigh. I don’t have a response to that because she’s right, I am stubborn and I won’t apologize for it. Again, I assure her I’ll consider it, and I will, I just can’t make any promises—not yet.