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“Do you think Jane’s been acting weird?” I ask Branson while I absently pick at the pasta in front of me. The fucker’s gotten good at cooking, so at least there's one bonus to his new dull self. Jane left already, so it’s just us for the week. Even Bud won’t be around, so no victims either, unless I want to get one myself.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, and I groan, tossing my fork down.
“What do you mean, you don’t know what I mean? Fucking hell! Have a fucking opinion or something.”
He looks at me for a moment, seeming to consider my words.
“She talks to herself more,” he says finally, looking at me with hopeful eyes. I sigh and let my mind wander, thinking about how she was years ago when I first arrived compared to now.
“That she does,” I agree with a sigh. I poke at the food on my plate before dropping my fork and looking up at him.
“Did she ever tell you anything about her mom? Her dad?”
Branson shakes his head. “I know they used to own the house and antique business.”
“Clean this up, I’m heading into town for a bit.”
He nods and grabs the plate.
Fuck this place. I need something to play with.
I head upstairs and look down at my outfit, a lavender apron dress I sewed myself. Though I love my dresses, I know from experience they make it hard to blend in. I’ve seen what the average teenage girl wears, and they dress like women—whores, mostly. I laughed the first time I sat by a high school and watched the girls pass. Clothes that let their bellies and tits hang out, no subtlety or class at all. Men leered at them openly because those women made it easy.
I, on the other hand, enjoy the sneaky watchers. The ones who watch me in my little girl dresses from the corner of their eyes, and I know that they would hurt me if they could. Not that they ever could.
The power of turning a man who thinks he’s powerful into a sobbing pile of shit is one that I relish. Jane taught me that. The dresses are just another tool. There are few things better than bringing a man to his knees, except humiliating them while wearing little girls’ clothing.
But today, I don’t want eyes on me. Not if I am going to bring a new victim back.
Moving quickly, I make my way to my room and throw on my old victim hunting outfit from the city. The dark jeans and top do an excellent job at keeping me hidden at night, but during the day it just looks like a normal outfit.
Excitement courses through me as I make my way to the extra car sitting in the barn, an old station wagon. It took me ages, but I managed to get Bud to teach me to drive last year, and thank fuck I did. Making sure I have everything I need, I head to the city for some fun.
