Page 53 of Miserable Marionette

He stayed.

He took care of me.

Tucked me in and gifted me Krissy, who is currently resting on my bed… not the floor this time.

He waited until I fell asleep before he got into my bed.

It should feel like a violation, like Bryan.

But it’s Gideon.

A stupid, shaky smile lights my face as I place the dish in the sink, throwing on the hot water full blast to rinse away any syrup. Gideon wanted to be in the bathroom.

Wanted me.

The press of his cock, the sound of his breathing, the way he groaned, the shape of his hardened length through his pants as he carried me to the bed yesterday…

I shouldn’t be thinking about it.

I should be the grieving ex-girlfriend about to give a statement recalling when my abusive pill-head boyfriend suffocated me in his sister’s bed. I rush into the bathroom instead, stripping off my clothes in record time, barely waiting for the water to heat before I grab the shower head.

Audrey, Present Day, 1994

The damn truck won’t start.

I frown at the hood as I slam it shut, fighting the urge to batter it with my fists. Taking an extra ten minutes in the shower seems stupid now that the post “o” haze has evaporated and I’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to the station. Masturbating to the thought of my best friend, who broke my heart and disappeared for ten years twice in twelve hours, also seems stupid now, but here we are.

My eyes, entirely without my consent, slide across the street to the sight of the corner's van pulling out from the back entrance of Bell Funeral Home.

Bryan.

Good lord, this whole situation is screwed up.

It’s with no small amount of trepidation and a new flavor of nerves that I make my way across the street. The stairs of the porch are worn with time and use, but they don’t dare creak like the stairs on mine. As if it would be a disgrace to the griever climbing them, to let out such a weakened sound while they wage their own battles. Surprisingly, I think little of the body lying downstairs as I lift my hand, twisting the doorknob. My thoughts are tied entirely to the man lording over it, the one who holds—

I shriek as the door jerks open, the barely twisted knob flying from my palm, Gideon’s intense blue eyes boring down at me. “Oh my god, Gideon, don’t do that!”

“Don’t open the door for you?” he retorts, cocking his head slightly, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his strong nose.

The urge to reach up and adjust them makes my hand twitch. “I-ugh, thanks for breakfast. I know you’re probably busy, but my dad’s truck won’t start.”

He just stands there… staring.

Damn you, don’t make me ask.

The silence drags on for a moment longer until a sudden sharp meow breaks it, the same orange tabby cat that scared the shit out of me last week emerging from between Gideon's polished shoes. “What’s his name?”

Gideon’s brows furrow glancing down at the cat. “How should I know?”

“It’s your cat, right?”

“No.”

“It lives in your house.”

“Yes.”

“And judging by its fat belly, you’re feeding it. The mangy thing looks better than ever.”