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I grab my things inside and her dog, bringing him to her as she stands over Tustin.
If I never see him again, it will be too soon.
If I do see him again, all bets are off.
I kiss her forehead as she holds the phone to her ear. She’s giving the address to Dr. Silverberg’s beach house. “How long now?” She pauses. “I see.” Another pause. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
“Two minutes out,” she mouths to me.
That’s my cue. I kiss her forehead, and against everything in me, I walk toward my truck, scooping up Tustin’s phone. I place it under my truck tire and crush it in the street as I drive away.
TEN
A WINK AND A GRIN
LIVY
Iwake after the sun and head to the beach with Kyle in tow. I also bring my phone and that old kitchen knife I found last night.
I got to sleep way too late. After the police showed and let Tustin go with a warning, I had a hard time settling my racing heart and my worried mind. My body was exhausted from the orgasms, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the stress of knowing he was following me. Following me and photographing me.
I had held it together, but when they rolled Tustin to stand and we all realized that he’d not just been watching me, but touching himself while doing it.
If he’d done that at my house, it would’ve been different, but since I didn’t own the property and there was no proof of voyeurism, it was my presumption versus his denial.
The pictures on his phone could have put him in jail, but they’d have put me in unemployment at the same time, so I was deep in that pickle.
Layton texted—three times, to be exact—but I didn’t respond. I took a hot bath, indulged in more wine than I typically drink, and spooned with Kyle, all the while trying to listen for any noise that indicated a threat.
I woke after fitful dreams and a few hours of that sleep where I’d swear I’d been awake except for evidence to the contrary—wild dreams, a crick in my neck, and crust in the corner of my eyes.
Kyle’s barks pull me from my focus on my body, my breathwork, and the rolling waves. I turn and lunge for the knife in my bag. Dr. Silverberg approaches. The athletic shorts and long-sleeved tee show a side of my boss I rarely see. He holds his hands up as his eyes shoot to my hand. I release my death grip on the knife—his knife—and wait.
“Eventful night?” he asks, stepping along the sidewalk, not entering the sand.
I nod. “I’ve had enough of those for a while. Two is too many as far as I’m concerned.”
He nods.
“I’ll be good if I never need to see squad cars with lights or have my name in another police report.”
“They contacted me. It’s a small community, and they know Georgia and me. She sits on the board of the community theater here, among other things. They saw our address and gave us a call.”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t apologize, Livy. I’m only here to check on you.”
“I’m okay, Dr. Silverberg.”
He looks at my hand again. “Livy, you’re white-knuckling a boning knife that you brought to the beach.” It’s half statement, half question.
“I didn’t sleep real well last night.”
“Ah. Why don’t you come back to the house, and I’ll make you breakfast? How does an omelet sound?”
“I don’t eat eggs.”
“Vegan. Right. I forgot. Fruit and sprouted toast with avocado?”
