Page 9

Me: Who is this?

Unknown: You know who. You hung up on me. Then you stayed. Then you found him. I watched you take your jacket off. I watched you put it over him. Was that kindness, or could you not look at him anymore?

I feel sick. I set the glass down hard.

Me: You killed him.

Unknown: He wanted you. Even with another man’s mouth on his cock. I told you. I don’t share people who look at you like that.

Me: I am calling the police.

Unknown: Do it. I will still be here. You looked better on your knees on nineteen. I want you like that in your own house. Towel off. Legs open. My glove on your cock until you forget your own name. Then I want my mouth on your cock. Slow. I want to kiss the whiskey off your tongue first. Then I want to lick the head of you until your hips lift off that couch.

I read it twice. I start getting hard and I hate that I do.

Unknown: You thought the stairwell was only talk. It wasn’t. I want you on the back stairs in this house. Hand on the glass. Towel around your thighs. I want to spit in my hand and stroke your cock until you drip on your floor. I want you to stay quiet, because you always stay quiet. Then I want to fuck you right there. Deep. Until your knees go. Until you have to hold the wall so you do not fall.

I type. I delete. I type again.

Me: You don’t know this house.

The next message takes longer. Long enough that I think they have gone. Then the photo lands.

It is me.

I am on my own couch. The lounge. The glass. The television light on my chest. The white towel around my waist. My face is turned toward the phone, like I knew I was being watched and still sat there. The shot is from outside. Low. Through the leaves. Close enough that I can see the water still in my hair. Not close enough to show a hand or a face. Just bushes. Just dark. My own window looking back at me.

I stand so fast the whiskey tips and runs.

The towel slips. I catch it. I go to the glass. The night is only trees and my own reflection. I turn the television off. I turn the nearest lamp off. It does not help. I already sat there with the lights on and let them look.

The phone rings in my hand.

Unknown number.

I answer because they are close enough to take a photo of me on my own couch.

“What?”

The tap. Soft. Close.

“Don’t scream. Kiss me.”

“Where are you?”

“Close enough to know the towel is too high on your hips. Close enough to know you stood up. Close enough to know your cock moved when you read what I want to do to it. You’re looking for me. I like that. Look harder.”

I move. I do not run. I take the hall to the kitchen and turn the garden lights on. The slope below the glass comes up white. Bushes. A stone path. The pool cover. No one standing in the open.

“Keep walking,” the voice says. “Search the house. I want you hard while you do it. I want you to hunt me with your cock lifting that towel. When I get it off you, I am going to put my mouth on your cock until you grab my hair and forget the police. Then I am going to turn you around and spit on you and push inside you. Slow at first. Then not slow.”

“You are on my land.”

“I am in your head. I want you against that glass. Chest on it. Cold on your skin. Towel gone. I want my hand around your cock from behind, tight, slow, the way I had him, except you get to live through it. I want you wet. I want you leaking on your own window while you try to see me in the trees. You won’t. Your cameras did not catch me. Your gate did not stop me. I am already closer than you think.”

I go to the screen by the kitchen that shows the drive, the gate, the pool, the back path. The drive is empty. The gate is shut. On the back path, the leaves are moving. It could be the wind. It could be someone standing in them. I cannot tell which.

I am getting hard under the towel and it pisses me off. I like what he is saying. I hate that I like it. I try to make it stop. It does not stop.