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After three days of sleeping over at Cyril’s housewithout him there, I feel like I might be going insane.
According to him, it’s so that no one can swoop in and kidnap me again. Also, according to him, they’re going to take care of that problem.
And Isaac is still insistent on bringing me back a trophy.
Finally, on the third night of him not being there but stuck with his fancy TV, fancy high-speed internet, and PS5, I get a text that makes megroanwith relief.
It’s done. You’re fine. ‘Dave’ is fertilizing a nice field of flowers now.
I wait until my round of the game is over, letting out a sigh at thejoyof crushing some teen boy’s ego as he loses to me yet again in our competitive hobby, before I pick up the phone and text Cyril back.
What kind of flowers? And I’m taking the PS5 home with me for recompense.
I don’t fucking know, Wendy. Flowers. And why in the world do you deserve compensation???
Pain. And. Suffering. I set the phone down again, drawing my knees up under me as I wonder how much longer he’s going to be gone. It’s stormingagainbecause this is Washington and rainy days are our religion and truth, and I can’t help but be supremely happy to be winning battle royale-style games to the chorus of a thunderstorm outside.
You want it? You’re paying for it. He replies after another minute.
Yeah. Me and what savings account?While I'm certainly not broke, I don’t make enough to go out and buy a brand new gaming console that’s hard to evenfindon the market.
You’ll use your mouth to pay me for it. The words make a shiver go up my spine, and I stare at them for a few seconds longer, loving every bit of his almost threat.
God, sex in the shower was good and sweet andperfect, but I still really want him to make good on some of his threats.
Oh yeah? You’re actually going to follow through on that?I don’t know how to goad him any better than that, and if teasing him to the point of frustration and me being up against a wall with his hand around my throat is the best I’m going to get, then I’m damn well going to take every second of it.
When he doesn’t respond, I frown and glance at my phone, wondering if I’ve gone too far, he’s too busy, or he’s just done with the conversation.
He still hasn’t told me when he’s coming home.
With another half-disappointed huff, I pull the headset back over my ears and lean back on the sofa with my knees drawn up. I don’t work tomorrow since I took an extra two days off for all of this crap to be dealt with, and while video games are a great way to work off some of my boredom, I’m starting to get restless.
I want todo somethingother than be a lazy bum. I’m so good at this by now that it’s not a challenge to see how few times I can move in a day or how many naps I can take.
I’m ready for the Lazy Ass Olympics at this point in my life, but for some reason the committee hasn’t called me up to take my rightful place as leader of the team. It’s a real loss on their part.
A sound like a door closing breaks through my headphones a few minutes later and I turn, expecting Cyril to be at the door. My lips are already parted, a greeting on them, but then it’s just…not.
The door isn’t open. There’s no one standing in the entryway.
Slowly I get to my feet, not caring that I’m being murdered in my game, and the sound of my character’s death echoes through the dark living room as I pad to the door. This feels way too much like San Diego to be safe, and I know I shouldn’t open the door.
But I do anyway, like an idiotic woman with no aspirations of being the Final Girl in her own movie. My hand curls around the cool metal of the knob, and Iyankit open, hoping toGodthat there’s nothing outside other than the thunder and downpour of rain.
Instead, I get a scenerightout of San Diego. A man stands at the bottom of the stairs, just barely protected from some of the rain by the roof that hangs over the porch and steps. Lightning flickers above us, illuminating his red, Ghostface-style mask.
Shit.
Well, that oryay. I can’t tell which quite yet.
“Cyril?” I ask, my voice shaky as I stand in the doorway and prepare to close and lock it on the mysterious, masked person. My heart pounds in my chest, and my legs are ready torun.
He inclines his head, making a knot uncurl in my chest, though I don’t move from my spot.
“Prove it,” I say, unwilling to be taken in so easily.
Slowly the man brings what looks like a little walkie talkie to his face, and when I see him in the flicker of lightning again, I see that he’s foregone the classicScreamcostume to instead wear tight black pants with straps around the thigh, black boots, and a black jacket that’s zipped up and also crisscrossed with straps.
