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I grabbed the wastebasket beside my small desk by the window and brought it back before emptying most of the little Styrofoam balls into it. Once it was clear enough that I could see what was inside, I was surprised it wasn’t something small and fragile considering how many packing peanuts had been in the box.
Instead, it held a bottle of my favorite lotion with an envelope with my name scrawled across the front. Smiling at the thoughtfulness of whoever had sent me the rose-scented lotion, I picked it up. I loved this stuff, and I’d been out for the past few weeks. But with Christmas coming up, I knew at least one of my sisters or my mom would get me some as a present because they all knew how much I loved it.
My smile dimmed when I felt how light the large bottle was. At least half the contents were gone, but I didn’t see any spilled inside the box. “Someone really sent me a half-full bottle of lotion?” I muttered to myself as I rolled my eyes.
Tossing the bottle onto the bed beside the box, I picked up the large envelope. It was at least 9 x 12, so I figured it held a document that needed my attention. Wondering if it was from my agent, I lifted the flap. As my fingers slid over the glossy top page, I realized it was actually photos and pulled them out.
“Holy shit,” I whispered when my gaze landed on the first picture. Bile lifted into my throat as my brain tried to block out what I was seeing.
It was obviously a guy in the picture, although all that was showing was the lower half of his body. His naked lower body. In one hand, he held the bottle of rose-scented lotion, the other one must have held the camera he took the picture with.
Unable to stop myself, I flipped through the next few pictures. The second photo showed him squirting a huge glob of lotion down his shaft. In the third, he was stroking himself, massaging the creaminess into his slightly above-average member.
Fingers shaking, I pulled the last picture free from the stack and saw that he’d obviously made himself come. The mess was on his thighs and lower abdomen. Sickened by it all, I dropped the pictures at my feet.
As they landed, the last picture fell facedown, and I realized something was written on the back of it.
I can’t wait to rub this all over your sweet body, little bird.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper-shouted and ran for the bathroom.
Just the thought of the guy in those pictures touching me made me sick, and I dropped to my knees in the nick of time to empty my stomach into the toilet.
When
I was face-to-face with my entire dinner once again, I flushed and then dropped down so that my back was pressed against the sink cabinet. I felt drained and still nauseated. Reluctantly, I looked into my bedroom, as if those damn pictures could see me, and fought a shudder.
I received inappropriate fan mail all the time. It was part of being famous. But I’d never gotten something like…that. It was disgusting—and creepy.
And scary.
I started to shiver so hard my teeth began to chatter. My first thought was to take a hot shower to warm up, but the thought of being naked while those pictures were only yards away made me feel too exposed.
First things first. I needed to get those damned things out of my personal space.
But I didn’t want to touch them again. I felt unclean, knowing I’d already handled most of those pictures. Standing, I washed my hands—three times—before brushing my teeth to get the taste of vomit out of my mouth. Still shaking, I walked into the bedroom, but I kept my distance from the scattered photos as I sprinted to the kitchen.
After finding a trash bag and some tongs, I went back to my room and put everything into the bag.
But as I was about to carry them out to the garbage chute, I realized I couldn’t just toss them. I needed to tell the authorities about this. Shit, how did I even do that? I couldn’t just call 9-1-1 and tell them I thought some guy was possibly stalking me. The dispatcher would probably laugh her head off at me.
Sighing, I picked up my phone and called my agent. Cathryn Schneider had been in the business for decades; she must have dealt with similar shit before. She would know what I needed to do.
“Hey, doll!” Cathryn greeted after the fourth ring. “Listen, how do you feel about doing a musical? I just had a script land on my desk, and I think you would be perfect for it. Your father has the voice of a fucking god, so I know you must have at least a little musical talent.”
“Um, I can sing,” I assured her, but my voice shook with a mixture of fear and anxiety. I quickly cleared it, hating that I sounded so weak. “That isn’t why I’m calling, C.”
“Uh oh,” she said. “This doesn’t sound good.”
I quickly told her what happened and heard her grumble something I didn’t catch.
“Fucking pervs,” she seethed. “Okay, I’m on my way to your place right now. I’ll turn the bag and everything in it over to the authorities. My PR people will make sure this doesn’t leak to the press. Your dad will have a coronary if he hears about this.”
I gulped. The thought of what this might do to my dad hadn’t even entered my head. But now that she’d put that image in my brain, I suddenly couldn’t stop shaking. “No!” I cried. “You can’t let that happen, Cathryn!”
Nearly losing my dad to liver disease, then Pop-Pop dying so suddenly, made the idea of something taking my dad from me more terrifying than the creep who’d sent those pictures.
“I won’t,” she rushed to assure me. “This is just between you and me right now. When I talk to the cops about this, I’ll make sure they keep your information confidential.”
