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Skids
Phoebe has been staring at me since the opening credits. I’d be willing to bet she doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on in this movie, and that’s a shame because it’s a good one. The awareness of her has dipped this room in a tension that I can’t shake, and I can’t quite make out if it’s fear or… something else.
I don’t look at her in case it’s the former, but if she scooted just a couple inches closer I could have my hands on that perfect skin of hers. Hell, I could reach over and push that tiny little patch of denim she calls shorts to the side and have my fingers inside her if I leaned to the right.
I clasp my hands together, lest they work on their own accord and start acting out the things going through my mind. I’d love to lean her back and watch her pant beneath me as I work her out in a totally different way.Fuck.
“You want something to drink?” I ask, moving to stand. I need to get out of this room and out of the potent lust or fear that’s surrounding us, making me go wild with it.
Phoebe shakes her head and waves for me to sit. “I’ll get it. You’re enjoying the movie.” Then she gives me the gift of watching her walk to the kitchen. Her shorts are painted on just so, showing me one ass cheek, then the other as she struts to the fridge, then she bends over in the white light from inside and I roll my eyes to the ceiling.
We’re not going to fucking make it like this for much longer. I’ve always got my hands on her, pretending to subdue her to teach her how to protect herself should she ever find herself threatened by someone that’s really a danger to her. She gets so frustrated with me and I work hard not to grin wildly every time the kitten shows me her tiny claws.
Phoebe places a cup in front of me and drops back onto the couch, tucking the blanket around her hips again, hiding away my greatest temptation, thankfully.
She fidgets and I bite back the urge to reach out and stop her hands. I don’t know if I have the ability to be comforting to her or if she views me as just another menacing savage that could harm her. I would never do that, but she doesn’t know me well enough to be sure of that.
She won’t let me know her either. She digs her heels in every day when I bring up the subject of the note or her past, and I’ve taken to using it to push her to run when she begs to stop. Eventually, she’s going to tire of running from it and confess. Not today, obviously, but hopefully soon.
I’ve considered every possibility I can come up with, but nothing quite fits. Nothing makes sense. All the evil things I imagine don’t mesh with the image of the sweet, blue-haired woman sitting beside me, sneaking peeks at the side of my head. How could she have possibly done something bad? Even thinking of it makes me shake my head.
There’s no way this woman hurt, robbed, or killed somebody. She just couldn't have done it, not because she’s small, but because she’s fraught with guilt over it to the point of not being able to speak about it, because she’s running from it, because she’s just so goddamn… gentle. She’s meek and quiet most of the time, unless I’m asking her to learn to fight off an attacker, then she’s feisty as hell, but I can’t sort out what she thinks she did that she was so bad that she doesn’t deserve to enjoy her life.
I also have, frustratingly, not found any more information online about her. There are tens of thousands of Phoebe’s, assuming she changed her last name. I know she’s always been Phoebe because that’s the name she whispers when the memories overtake her, but with a name like Phoebe, I have no hope of finding her history from that alone.
I’ve searched every inch of the past few towns she lived in before coming here, but they aren’t turning up any helpful results. It’s not uncommon for cases involving minors- assuming she was one at the time of the incident- to be redacted and sealed, but I can typically find my way around those things. Not this time. I can’t find a goddamn thing. I can’t find her birth records, her parents, any history of anything, and I’m growing increasingly aggravated by it.
I have figured out a few things in my search, though. The first is that the people she was born to very likely didn’t get on well with the government. I can’t find a birth certificate, kindergarten registration, high school honor roll listing- nothing from her childhood. The second is that Phoebe has been hiding for a fucking long time, and she’sreallygood at it.
I’d love to know who taught her that, because I doubt her ability to figure that out on her own. She seems intelligent, but intelligence can’t overcome the panic that assails her every few hours. The anxiety attacks are becoming less frequent with every day that passes, but we’re in a fucking safehouse. She’s been staying at a popular hotel chain for months and working with the public. There is absolutely no way she was able to put together a way to stay off the grid so perfectly between bouts of terror. I refuse to believe she managed to keep herself hidden this well in the short reprieves she gets between experiencing sheer horror that rocks her to her core. There’s no way in hell.
The third thing I learned is that Phoebe’s parents also seemed to be afraid of doctors, because there are similarly no records of her ever being seen by a physician. So that leaves me with two options for what this woman is hiding: either she’s some kind of spy or her parents were cult-style psychos that were more paranoid than I am.
I don’t believe she’s a spy for a few reasons, although I admit I only briefly allowed the thought to enter my mind. She’s never been near my computer, she doesn’t try to leave or communicate with anyone outside, and she doesn’t snoop through my shit. I have cameras and sensors all through this house- I would know if she was going through something or trying to access the files on my computer.
If her parents were crazy, I can’t find any proof of that either because they, like Phoebe, don’t exist in my searches. There’s a girl sitting on my couch that didn’t exist before adulthood and is constantly moving to new cities and taking on new jobs, who cries when you say the word ‘tomorrow’ and has some kind of threatening stalker.
Something doesn’t add up. People don’t just appear out of thin air, not that she’s ready to give me any indication of where she actually came from or what her past holds. I understand, from the perspective of a secretive person, why she wouldn’t want to be incredibly honest and forthcoming with a stranger like me, but that’s not how the human mind works.
Phoebe isn’t just being shy. She is actively hiding something, and she has been for a long time.
She shifts in the seat, tilting further away from me so she can swing her legs up onto the couch. As she readjusts the blanket to cover her bare feet, her toes brush against my leg and she yanks them back, tossing the blanket over them quickly. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I didn’t mean to.”
“No problem, kitten.”
Her frown is obvious in my peripheral vision. “I’m not a kitten,” she hisses, and it draws a chuckle from my chest before I turn and level her with my gaze.
“Whatever you say.Kitten.” I like teasing her. When she gets angry, she reminds me even more of a kitten, and it’s adorable. Now I’m wondering if I could push her far enough to get her to try to fight me here and now, giving me a chance to get my arms around her and pull her body against mine. I wouldn’t mind wrestling with her until she submits to me.
I’ve got to stop thinking of shit like this. I take her silence as a response and reach forward for my cup to get a drink. Just as I lift the cup to my lips, Phoebe’s blanketed foot nudges the bottom of it and sends water spilling down my shirt.
“Oops,” she whispers, batting her eyelashes as she withdraws her foot and smirks at me. “I was stretching.” She reaches her arms up and smiles at me. “See?”
I put my cup back on the table and turn to give Phoebe a smirk. “You want to play, kitten? We can play. I’ll make you run again.”
Her chest heaves as she watches me, probably trying to decide if I’m kidding or not- I’m not kidding. I absolutely will get her running again. “You’re trying to play tag?”
“If we’re going to play, there are rules.”
