Page 152 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

After I open my door, I have to work extra hard not to slam it. Though it still echoes in the parking garage before the sound of the lock being hit on my key fob makes the horn ring through the enclosed space instead. I huff and head for the elevator, telling myself that it’s fine.

He didn’t kill me, after all. I managed to get back to my car without seeing him, as if he hadn’t followed me at all.

But then again, why does he need to?

Larkin knows everything about me, doesn’t he? My finger hits the button for the elevator as I glare at the closed metal doors, hearing the grating sounds of the ancient elevator mechanism grinding into motion.

He knows my name, my address, my workplace, and what I did back then. And I don’t know a goddamn thing about him. Worrying doesn’t suit me, doesn’t look good on me, and isn’t my favorite thing by far, but I can’t get the thoughts of him out of my head. Not after last night.

Absently, my fingers brush over my bruised, scabbed lips. I’d come home looking like I tried to kiss a tiger and gotten mauled for my trouble, though thankfully Esme was already asleep with her door closed. As bad as I feel about her spiral, I have other problems to deal with right now.

Once the doors open I step inside, letting out a breath before sucking in another. By the time the doors reopen on the third floor, I’ve inhaled tranquility and exhaled strength enough that I feel as if I can at least seem semi-supportive to my best friend. She deserves that, even though I don’t know what the hell the fuss is about.

Alan was a piece of shit.

Alan is dead.

Living in the past isn’t going to help her, and I know for a fact she doesn’t miss him. “Be supportive,” I whisper as I trudge down the hall, our apartment door looming on the right. “Be a good friend. Fake it.” My pep talk probably isn’t particularly inspiring, but it’ll do for my benefit. “Fake it. Faaake it,” I repeat. “We’re faking it for Esme. She’s done a lot for me, so it’s time to try to do that for her.” I’m not usually one for talking to myself out loud, but this feels like the time.

The door is unlocked, prompting me to shove my keys into my pocket as I walk inside. “Hey Es?” I call, surprised to see the lights on in the main area of our apartment. That’s a good sign, right? It means that she’s up and doing things, instead of lying in her room like a human puddle. “Esme?” I prod when I don’t get a response.

The television is on, and when I walk into the open space of our living room and kitchen, I see Esme standing at the counter, pale and unmoving. My eyes narrow in confusion, and I follow her gaze to the TV, confused about what could have her so worked up and standing like a statue.

“Local authorities located a body today, close to where another was found only days ago. While unidentifiable on sight due to local marine life, police are hopeful they’ll find out the man’s identity back at the lab.”

The voiceover plays as the screen shows video of the bay, similar to the place where I dumped Alan’s body. Then we see a stretcher with a black body bag being rolled up a hill toward a coroner’s van, and at that moment, a bowl shatters on the kitchen floor, making me glance over at my roommate.

Her hands shake, and her face is so pale that I worry she’s somehow losing all the blood in her body to some unknown source. “That’s—it has to be—” She stumbles over her words, hands shaking. “It’s⁠—”

“Fine,” I finish resolutely. “It’s fine, Es. First of all, it might not be him. Second⁠—”

“I’m gonna throw up.” Clearly my words aren’t getting through to her. She wheels around, dodging the shards of ceramic from the bowl she was using to make dinner, and runs toward her room with its attached bathroom. The door slams, and I turn my attention back to the TV, watching just long enough to see the rest of the story.

I’m not afraid, exactly. There was always a chance pieces of Alan might be found, though I hoped that wouldn’t be the case. But Larkin’s presence and attention changes things, and the stress of both things, plus the sound of my sobbing roommate in the bathroom, makes me sigh with a hand pressed to my face. I can’t do this. Not yet.

I need to walk, to remember that I’m not the same person I used to be. To remember not to fall down that particular well again.

The fact Cass’s phone rings a total of three times before he picks up with a soft, “Yeah?” tells me he’s more than a little busy. Normally he’s an answer on the first ring kind of guy, and my crisis takes a back seat as a devious smile curls over my face.

“You’re busy.”

Cass sighs. “Sierra,” my friend warns quietly. “I answered, didn’t I?”

“One day, you’ll call me Tova,” I huff.

“No, I won’t. What do you want?” I don’t miss the hint of worry in his voice as I walk, though I don’t answer right away. I don’t like this kind of thing, and I don’t particularly know where to start.

“I’m not going down the well again.”

He hums in response to my words, and his silence continues as I walk. “Then what are you doing?”

Stopping, I gaze up at the darkening sky. It’s almost six, and the sun is low enough that the buildings of Seattle block out quite a bit of the light from the horizon. “I don’t know,” I admit finally. “But it’s not that. It’s…” I trail off. Fuck. “It might be that.”

“Sierra…” His sigh makes my skin prickle. I don’t like it when he sounds like that, and I don’t want his concern. I’ve never needed it before. Not exactly like this, anyway.

Not for years.

“Tell me about it.”