CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX #2
She sticks her neck out, lashing up a stiff hand toward the bathroom. “He’s probably ready to grope you again! How am I supposed to distract him from that?” she whisper-shouts.
“I don’t know, but I’m running out of time.” Leaving it at that, I pull the door open and make quick, quiet steps past the bathroom.
Running water is trickling through the door, meaning he’s most likely cleaning the makeup from his face. It usually takes him roughly four minutes and thirteen-ish seconds to remove it all, so I fly through his dark bedroom and into his closet, rummaging through the hamper he shares with Xene.
It sounds insane that I know that, that I know how long it takes him to melt the facade into the dreamboat that’s always made me a nervous, stuttering mess.
But I used to try my hardest to avoid him.
I avoided everyone, to be honest. So, I’d keep track of who was where and at what time, and how long it would take them, all so I could go get water, or shower, or grab a handful of dry cereal, without any small talk to distract me from how much I hate it here.
That slipped away over time. And I’m glad it did. But it’s also made everything difficult.
Isolation is easier when you have goals. There’s no one to tug you back ten steps when you get too close to a finish line.
I don’t know where Razor’s sweatpants are, the ones he wore last night. I’m sifting through all the damp, musky clothes from he and Xene, and everything’s blending together in the dark.
I need those keys. He locked the office after we left and that’s the only place I can think of to run off to right now. It’s somewhere with answers and a lock, somewhere far enough to give me a head start without a travesty happening.
The faucet turns off, leaving the draining water to whoosh through the plumbing you can hear right through the lack of insulation.
“Shit,” I murmur, rifling down to the bottom of the hamper, squinting through the umbra playing tricks on me.
He must have started his wash routine way earlier than I thought.
“Bunny!” Ora whispers aggressively.
It spikes the adrenaline of being sneaky, fumbling to pick up the socks and underwear that have toppled over and landed on the floor.
Her shadow stretches inside the room. “He’s coming!”
Come on, where’d he take them off at?
Rewinding through the night, I forcefully blow past the ghost sensation of him inside me, mentally fast forwarding to him standing next to my closet with me. After Ora snapped and left, he… Okay, not reliving that right now.
“Bunnyyy!”
Fuck! Okay, focus!
Snapping upright and moving into the center of the room, my eyes dart every which way, playing the visual of him slowly prying his sweatpants down and kicking them off onto my bunched-up sheet.
“Oh, goddamn it,” I seethe, catching a glimpse of Ora aborting mission and running off into the light coming from the living room.
I’m so stupid. My room. They’re in my room.
I don’t manage to lift a foot. I can’t even engage a muscle, before the bathroom door is scuffing open.
My heart swells, my stomach falling to my butt. I audibly track the two steps he takes out into the hall, most likely to check in through my open bedroom door, then his footsteps are coming my direction.
Can you do something? Anything at all at any time!
Fear sedates me, trapping a whine in my throat and turning to the predacious presence faltering to a stop just past the doorway.
His brows knit, his eyes sharpening to carve down me. “What’re you doing?”
“Uh, j-just waiting for you.” Instinctively, my fingertips are finding the distressed hem of my shorts, nervously shifting and fidgeting with the denim fluff.
Moving closer to me, he looks around, deliberately taking his time to thicken the air with skepticism. “In the dark? In my room?”
“Uh-huh,” I nod, tracking him coming around me, his heat migrating off his body and separating my skin.
“Just standin’ in here, huh?” he questions, his voice husky and raw, like the truth I’m hiding is the drink he needs.
“Yep,” I chirp, eyeing the door.
Fear stands my hair on end, recounting each time he felt crossed by someone, how scary he becomes, how volatile his hands can be. Deep down, I know I’m different to him. I know he’d never lash out and hurt me the way he doesn’t mind hurting others. But on the surface, I’m scared.
“Bunny…” Stopping in front of me, he lightly cages my jaw, tilting my eyes up to the darkness that haunts his. “What were you looking for?”
He’s asking. Just tell him. Tell him. Just tell him.
My toes squirm in my shoes, controlling the balloon trying to come up my throat. “I need in the office.”
Something urgent slides over his eyes, shifting his carnivorous stare into mania. “For what? Why would you ever go in there?”
“I want to see my file,” I murmur.
His hold on my face tightens, the dull ache flaring up a wince, my arms pinning straight and my knees locking.
He immediately relaxes his hand, coasting his fingers back into my hair and cupping my cheek while lowering his wild eyes to mine. “And who told you that you have a file?”
I’m still afraid, but his gentleness is convincing me it’s okay to tell the truth. I start to. I stutter nonsense, my shoulders hanging my weight heavier through the pads of my feet.
But how do you tell someone a ghost hangs out next to a dead guy and has a manipulative, mental pull on you?
Something tells me everyone in this house already believes I’m a nutjob. I can’t imagine it’d go over well if they found out I see dead people.
Well, dead person. It’s only been… him so far.
“Answer me,” Razor rasps, his brows flattening and his face softening.
The mint on his breath sticks to my lips, innately melting into his touch. “I don’t know who he is.”
“He?” his eyes thin. “Who’s he, little bunny?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug stiffly, my jaw wiring itself shut. “I bumped into him that morning I woke everyone up and he, like, lured me into the office.”
Staring, his fingers twitch in my hair, his other hand finding my waist. “Did he touch you?”
“No… Well, I-I bumped into him b-but-”
“Hey, you’re okay, baby. Come here.” Pulling me into him, his arms wrap around my waist, triggering the natural reaction to anchor my arms over his shoulders for a protective hug.
He’s doing it again. And I’m falling for it.
At least it’s on purpose this time. It’s probably best if he views me as something he can manipulate.