My bare feet kick as I fight him, and my toes scrape the buckles of his boots as I scream and kick at him while whaling at his helmet with my Stanley cup.
“McCarthy, help!” I give in and scream for him. “He’s after me! He found me! Help!Please, McCarthy, help me!”
My stalker grunts as I pummel my Stanley cup into his stomach. Then he turns me around to hold me in a crushing bear hug while I scream like I’m being murdered.
Because, hello? Creepy stalker psycho? I totally could be.
A huge hand presses over my mouth as I fight.
I fucked up, my brain babbles.I screwed up. McCarthy was right.I should have just called him, should have admitted I was in over my head.
I do obsessively read true crime wiki pages when it’s three a.m. and the intrusive thoughts won’t let me sleep—it’s either that or relive all the most embarrassing moments from elementary school through college, all in full color and chronological order.
I therefore understand that I am, to use the technical term, fucked.
McCarthy can’t hear me all the way upstairs in his penthouse. I am about to be taken to a second location. They will never find my body. Truman’s my only hope…
My dog isn’t attacking. He’s bouncing happily around the psycho stalker murderer’s feet, doing hispet me—pet me—I know you love me, so pet me!dance.
“I’d ask if this means,” the psycho killer snarls through the helmet, “that you’re finally taking your stalker problem seriously, except that you’re half naked in the back seat of my car instead of coming to me for help. So you’ve obviously learned nothing.”
I stop struggling.
McCarthy lowers me, and I turn. His arms are still around me as I balance on the balls of my feet on his boots. My scared face is reflected in the helmet.
“Sorry, I …” I lick my lips, realizing how, in hindsight, this all seems like a little bit of an overreaction. Who else would be in McCarthy’s garage other than—duh?—McCarthy?
The huge man rips off his helmet, spins me off of him, then reaches through the broken window for my phone… and sees the photo.
“Did one of your fiancés”—he spits out the word—“send you this?”
“I don’t think I know exactly?” I admit.
He goes still for a moment as the implication settles in the dark around us.
“So you have multiple men out to kidnap and abuse you?”
I squeeze my Stanley cup.
“Jesus, what is wrong with you?” He’s pacing in front of me.
I take a sip from the straw. Somehow that makes him even angrier.
I cross my arms. My bra is too small because I don’t have the mental energy to try to find my newcorrect size. Shivering and wet and half naked in front of your client is not a good look.
“You’re not supposed to be driving. You lost your license,” I remind him.
A gloved hand slams on the car, and I scream.
“Admit it—you’re scared. That’s why you’re here. You need my help. You need me.”
“No, I don’t. Go away.”
He takes two steps away then turns back and steps up in my face, his hand on my jaw forcing me to look up at his steel-gray eyes.
“If you think for a minute I’m going to save you from yourself, carry you into my penthouse and keep you safe, even if you refuse to acknowledge the reality of the situation, you are severely misguided.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t need your help. And actually, I’m pretty sure it’s just my ex-fiancé… like, fifty percent sure Brock took the photo. I think…”
