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That was freaky.
My best friend’s back to staring at me like I’m somehow the problem.
The door downstairs creeps open, and I freeze.
“Mr. Stan?” a girl’s voice yells. “I brought that lemon cake you wanted for dessert. Is the dinner invite still open?”
Shit. Now what? I don’t kill girls—she sounds like she’s fifteen! What the fuck’s a teenager doing hanging out with an old dude?
His gloved hand shoots out to grab my wrist, and he yanks me into the open closet so hard I stumble into the hung-up clothing, almost losing my footing a second time.
The closet closes with a quiet squeak.
It’s dark in here—dark dark. I can’t see shit, and I don’t have enough space to move without bumping into him. His grip on my shoulders tightens until my bones grind together.
“Mr. Stan?” the girl shouts again.
My heart pounds against my chest, my breath coming too fast.
I have half a mind to launch myself out the second-story window and take a chance on the fall. The snow will cushion it, right? I’ll be fine. Rabbits always land on their feet. Or is that cats?
His grip relaxes after another minute, heavy gloves slinking down my arms so gently I get goosebumps. Then he slides a hand under my mask and puts one finger against my lips. I know exactly what he means, but my teeth close around the glove anyway.
Nerves do weird shit to my brain.
He yanks it away, then wraps one hand around my throat and drags my chest against his. He squeezes until my knees go weak, white dots blinking in front of my eyes. My head swims.
I can’t even hear my own heart anymore.
This isn’t how I thought I’d die.
His hand shifts, easing just enough for blood to return to my brain in a hot rush. I suck in air. Gasping. The darkness tilts to one side. I cling to his jacket, inhaling whatever drugstore body spray he’s got on—amber.
Pitch black smells like amber.
As soon as he lets go, my knees give out completely. I slink down against his legs, resting my trembling forehead against him.
Sound returns in screwed-up pieces like an old TV set. Someone’s walking around downstairs. Pots open and close. The fridge makes a sucking sound that’s louder than all of it combined.
Shit.
I never, ever want to deal with that again.
I rub my mask against denim, and feel… something. He doesn’t use a gun—at least, I don’t think he does. My hands shake as I feel my way up his leg. Farther and farther up. Heat crawls down my neck when I realize I’m not near his pocket like I thought I was.
I am right at crotch level, and he is hard.
Maybe I should pretend I didn’t notice, except, well—I noticed. It’s definitely not the right place, or time, but my fingers trace the hard line of his dick through his pants.
His whole body goes rigid above me, and he fists my hair hard enough to send fire down the back of my skull. He drags me up against him again, his grip so damn tight I swear he’s going to leave me with a bald spot.
“I’m going to leave, Mr. Stan,” the girl downstairs shouts. “I left the cake on the table.”
The front door clicks shut.
He shoves me back hard, and the back of my head connects with whatever sharp thing is in here. My stomach twists as the white dots start up again, bile rising in my throat.
My best friend rips the closet door open, and light pours over me in white waves. It stabs straight through my eyeballs, and my head starts pounding all over again.
