Chapter 2 #3
But the thought crosses my mind, over and over. Like an annoying commercial that you see a million times that quirks your anger for no actual reason other than it’s a nuisance to humanity.
Call 1-800-STEAM YOUR CARPETS…
Honestly though, how much are people paying to clean their carpets?
I take a deep breath, letting my feet pound the pavement as I cross under the I-35W bridge. My eyes notice a soaked piece of paper.
BEWARE. STALKER SEEN.
Gah, whatever… I would drive myself fucking insane if I didn’t get some fresh air and miles in. It’s probably just some freshmen trying to cash in the hype, maybe filming a video of me staring at the stupid sign right now.
If this so-called stalker wants to dash after me, I have two options. First, I can let him meet these fists. Second, I could outrun his ass to St. Paul.
A little spike of adrenaline might be precisely what I need to set some new stats for my page…
Everybody knows that stalkers like the chase, they ache to prowl the woods for their prey, like a werewolf on the hunt for their steaming hot meal. Too bad it’s not a full moon tonight.
He’s not going to shoot me down with a handgun. But I could possibly see a bow and arrow.
That’s a bit more romantic, in a sort of gothic way.
I shake my head. Focus Cooper. I pick up my pace, my fingers turning up the volume to the max. Fuck it.
I embrace the stretch in my arches, my tendons loosening on cue like the leaves falling in September, littering the path below my feet, providing the slightest cushion and a warning to those that might be lingering in the woods.
My eyes inhale the view of the dark river current swooshing to raise hell.
The air races through my lungs, tasting like the inevitable death of another year.
My legs carry me further down the hill, a breeze picks up to whip some leaves in front of me. The light from the city fading as I venture down to the darkness.
The trail is awfully quiet tonight, usually I encounter a biker, or a few dog walkers at this hour.
Huh. This stalker must really be making his rounds on the nightly news. Whatever, less objects I have to zig-zag around.
My hips sway in sync with my knees, each strike a match in harmony. I let myself absorb the euphoria of the run, a-washing my brain with a baptism of endorphins.
Aww bliss. Pure, reckless, fleeting bliss.
At last, even if it’s only temporary, it’s magical every time.
It lets me escape from the pressures that try to drown me on a daily basis, the stress of memorizing every tendon and bone in the fricking body? What’s the point?
Don’t we reference text as needed? It should be more fucking important for a physician to read a person’s soul than to know every bend and twist of their bones.
But, I digress.
I let myself soak in the pleasure of having the trail to myself, sucking in the dying air, maybe I should count my blessings…
Such as enjoying the perfect running weather before the dark and depressing Minnesota winter sets in. Four or five months of snow and temperatures below thirty-two degrees. It’s quite easy to find yourself in a slump in the woes of December.
Winters in Minneapolis aren’t as bad as Brainerd, but it still makes you ache for a Pina Colada on a Caribbean beach. Toes in the sand, sun on your back, some fruit in hand and no threat of a serial killer lurking in the brush.
I let out a frosty breath, a small puff appearing in front of me.
For a moment everything is calm.
Too calm.
I turn off my music, stop my steps, my ears perked as I scan the brush, my heart races in anticipation.
Something’s off. My body senses it.
The primal part of my brain screaming to run, but I stay still. Eager to feed on the fear and thrill swirling through me.
My reptilian brain shouting: You’re not alone. Run, you dumb bitch.
But I want to see him.
This infamous night stalker.
As I remain frozen, my lungs burn hot in my chest. Frost gathering at the tips of my nostrils. My eyes look toward the tree line, gaze sweeping for any silhouettes, my neck turning slowly to not miss a shadow.
Nothing. Go figure.
Just the darkness.
Should I go closer?
Don’t be a fucking idiot, Cooper.
Maybe Ava should have tied you to your bed.
I shift my weight back and forth between my feet, trying to balance common sense and reckless curiosity.
Any person with a tad of common sense would bolt to the nearest porta potty and lock themselves in.
But the curiosity runs deep in mind. What if he's hot? And aching to give me a chase?
It’s a secret fantasy I’ve had for years—to be chased down through the woods, a man howling, while I am shaking with the delirious anticipation of being murdered… or dicked down.
Fifty-fifty odds. That’s the thrill.
My pulse roars in my ear like a rumbling church bell, my fingers twitching at my sides from the debate ripping me apart, while the darkness stares back at me like it’s waiting for me to make a choice.
Run?
Or invite?
Like—bend over and strip my shorts down for him?
Here you go sir, please use me responsibly.
Maybe he would just drag me into the bushes. Maybe he would leave a few love bruises. Or maybe he would toss me into the river like a bag of bones.
He could slit my throat.
Or… give me the best night of my life.
I inhale a deep breath, the air cutting deep in my chest. The tension in the air is driving me bonkers. Somewhere behind the tree line, someone is standing still as a rock or maybe camouflaged with the trees.
Waiting. Watching.
I can sense the presence, their eyes devouring me.
And they are probably wondering why their prey is monologuing.
I summon an exorbitant amount of confidence. “Look,” I shout. “If you are going to strangle me, at least do it gently.”
Then a mask appears from behind a birch tree, a tall slender figure, shirtless, wearing black pants, and holding a rope in his right hand.
How would it feel to be strangled by that coarse fabric? Would it be joyful, before my last breath?
The mask looks like it’s carved from a human skull or exquisitely painted to perfectly mirror one.
His abs are as defined as the peaks of the Himalayas, every ridge a death trap for me to stumble across. There’s a tattoo of text above his right nipple that is too small to make out at this distance.
Fuck me.
That’s all my brain can muster. Not run, not hide, just fuck me, pretty please with a cherry on top.
My cock twitches in my shorts as if it missed the email memo that this is a life or death situation, while my heart beats like I’m about to get murdered.
I need to get out of here.
As the masked man steps forward, his swagger is commanding, while his lips stay silent.
Okay, Cooper. Time to evacuate this situation.
But my feet don’t move. It’s as if they have forgotten how to move. This is treacherous. I’m frozen like a deer in the headlights, death incoming. The universe giving me the moment I so desperately ached for.
My brain accepts the fact that this is it. All twenty-five years of Cooper Larson’s life culminating to this moment. To be memorialized in a true crime documentary.
“He was a promising young medical student—with dashing looks—who had no survival instincts.”
His pace increases as he strides toward me, the masked man tilting his head, examining me up and down.
I swallow the dryness overwhelming my throat, my lungs stuttering for their last breath.
“Stay back,” I muster, as he approaches within an arm’s reach of me.
He pauses his movement for a second, like he’s chuckling behind his elaborately painted cover. Then continues his advance until the teeth of his mask are hairs away from my own.
“Run Boy, Run,” he rasps.
The words strike through me like a command from the heavens. I take off down the path, my legs galloping like a gazelle’s. My heart racing to beat out of my chest and explode into a million bloody pieces.
Branches whip at my arms from the sides of the trail, pebbles kicking up from beneath my shoes. I don’t feel any pain from the cuts, just his presence. I can't get enough.
I risk a glance over my shoulder.
He’s moving.
Not like a man desperate for a jump and a go, but a confident predator on a mission.
He’s stalking.
Long powerful strides, like he knows he’ll catch me eventually. His abs flex with every step, those ridges beaming bright under the dim light. They move with a sly, distinguished grace.
Holy fuck. He is enjoying this.
Just as much as I am.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Is he the man of my dreams?
Or the reason I’m about to be found face-down in the Mississippi?
How do I know this isn’t a game before he leaves me cold and breathless? A pretty corpse left to the vulture?
“Keep running,” he calls out with his deep rumbling voice.
The words splinter through me like an explosion of dynamite down my vertebral column, my back aches from the adrenaline.
My thighs burn as I pick up my pace into a sprint. My lungs ache. My vision begins to blur.
I keep running as if my life depends on it.
Let’s see if he can catch me.
Finally—something worth living for.