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I laugh. It comes out crazy. “Bel Air. You moved me to Bel Air. Like Will Smith.”

He frowns. “What’s Will Smith got to do with my house?”

“Your house. This is your house.”

“I bought it yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“While you were in line at the bursar.”

I stare at him. He stares back. He’s not even sitting up. He’s lying there naked with his arm behind his head, like I’m telling him about my day.

“I’m calling the police,” I say.

“Go ahead.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“I’m calling my mama.”

That gets something. A little twitch in the corner of his mouth.

“What’s funny?” I scream. “What is funny, Sasha?”

“Call your mama, Dylan. Tell her where you are.”

I start to dial. And then I stop. Because what am I supposed to say? Hi, Mama. I met a Russian gangster at work four days ago. I let him take my virginity. He paid my tuition. He broke into my apartment in a mask and held me down and I came so hard I cried. And now he moved me into a mansion while I was sleeping, and I’m standing in his room butt-naked, and I don’t know how to get home.

She’d get on the first bus from Oakland with a cast-iron skillet.

I put the phone down.

He watches me do it.

“You’re crazy,” I tell him. My voice is shaking now. “You’re actually, really, for real crazy.”

“Yes.”

“Stop saying yes!”

“Stop asking me things you already know.”

I pick up the closest thing to me, a heavy silver clock off the nightstand, and throw it at his head.

He doesn’t even move. It misses by an inch and hits the headboard and falls on the bed next to him. He looks at it. Then he looks at me.

Then he gets up.

He takes his time. He swings his legs off the bed and stands up, all six-foot-five of him, naked in the sun. His thighs flex. His dick swings heavy between them, wet at the tip. All that ink on his stomach moves when he breathes. And he walks toward me. Slow. Not mad. Not nothing. Just coming.

My knees go weak. For real weak. My heart’s beating so hard I can feel it in my clit. And every step he takes, I can feel exactly where he was inside me last night, like my body’s remembering him out of spite.

Run, Dylan. Scream. Do something.

I back up.