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I’m drunk.
I ended up drinking two more margaritas, and Daya had the bright idea to take more tequila shots.
My world spins as I stumble up the stairs, a giggling Daya on my heels. We’re both on all fours, our hands planted on the dirty wooden floors so we don’t fall.
“Bitch, why did you make me drink this much?” I ask, giggling harder when I almost topple sideways.
“I felt it was appro-ahh—appro—priate while we’re inveshtigating a murder,” she stutters, her voice wobbly and filled with giggles.
I snort in response, my vision still playing tilt-a-whirl with my head.
I walk her to the guest bedroom and help her get to bed. I’m not much help, considering I nearly send us both crashing to the ground a time or two when I try to help her get her jeans off.
“How are you going to get yours off?” she asks, staring at my jeans.
I wave a hand. “I’m sure the stalker will help me,” I retort. She widens her eyes comically.
“If he puts his peen in you, record it. I want to watch it later.”
Right now, the prospect of fucking my stalker seems hilarious. We'll both regret it later, I’m sure. If we even remember.
We giggle like schoolgirls, her laughter following me out of the room. I lean heavily against the wall as I stumble my way to the bedroom.
I don’t even bother trying to take my jeans off. I just plop on the bed, on top of the covers and everything, and I’m out seconds later.
A brush of skin across my cheek wakes me. I groan, my world still spinning as I open my crusted eyes and see my shadow standing by my bed, brushing the hair from my face.
“Oh, great,” I grumble. “You’re here.”
“Little mouse, are you drunk?”
“Way to ask the obvious,” I mumble, slurping up some drool that’s leaking out of my mouth.
I’m still too drunk to be embarrassed. Shakily, I sit up and stare around the room. The lights are still on—I guess I forgot to turn them off—and it feels wrong to see my stalker in anything but the darkness.
It makes him more real, and I don’t like it.
“Turn the light off,” I demand, refusing to meet his eyes. I much prefer when I can only see shadows of his face.
He turns and does what I say. I’m so surprised that he listened that I almost snap out another demand when the light clicks off, just to see what he’ll do.
He’s once again hidden in the shadows. When he walks through the room, it’s like the darkness clings to him. He is darkness.
I can’t figure out what scares me more—him in the dark, or him in the light.
“I need to take my jeans off. I suppose you’re going to watch me, aren’t you?”
The alcohol is making me feel bold right now. I’m not thinking about consequences or his threats. Even the fear I feel swirling around is muted.
Right now, I feel like I can say or do anything. Like being drunk somehow gives me a protective armor, when in reality, it just makes me more vulnerable.
He leans against my door, his arms crossed as he watches me unbutton my jeans and slide them down my thighs.
“You know,” I start, stumbling as I try to get the pant leg around my foot. Who the fuck invented skinny jeans, and why am I wearing them? “I don’t even know your name.”
“You never asked,” is his reply.
“I’m asking now, kitty cat.”
