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I thought I wanted Brett to take care of my stalker, but if my stalker was Zak, did I really want him to kill him for me? Even if he’d filled my life with uncertainty lately, he was still my first love. Was I okay with having him killed?
My hesitation in reaching an answer, one way or another, felt wrong, but when you were numb, sometimes things just didn’t matter.
I got home within twenty-five minutes. I brought my bag upstairs with me, not finding Brett anywhere in the house. I was so busy replaying that phone conversation with my stalker that I neglected to realize he might’ve ran away and left, thereby going back on our deal.
But then I pushed into my bedroom and found Brett laying on my bed, all stretched out, his long legs making the twin-sized bed appear smaller than it was. His head was on my pillow, his eyes closed, but when I strolled in, they cracked open, and his lips tugged into a low smile.
“How was school?” he asked, not moving a muscle and acting like he was really comfortable.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want him on my bed, it’s that—okay, no, itwasthat. I didn’t want Brett on my bed. Not one bit.
I dropped my bag near the base of the bed and yanked the pillow out from under him, causing his head to fall down. When his eyes opened fully and he stared up at me, that smile of his only growing, I told him, “Get off my bed.”
“No, I don’t think I will. Here’s an idea. Why don’t you sleep in the treehouse and I’ll sleep here, so if your stalker comes, thinking he’ll find you under the covers, he’ll find me instead—” Brett wasn’t able to say anything more, mostly because I swatted his face with my pillow as hard as I could.
Which, okay, in hindsight, probably wasn’t a smart thing to do to a serial killer, but I didn’t care.
“Get. Off. My. Bed!” I hit him with the pillow after every word, and I was going to hit him more, but he grabbed the pillow and sat up, jerking it away from me as the smile fell off his face.
“That’s not very nice,” he hissed out, his blue eyes unblinking. “That’s not very nice at all. You should let me relax anywhere I want to, even in your precious bed. I am helping you with your stalker problem, let’s not forget—”
I tried to reach for the pillow, but he’d switched the pillow to his left arm, the arm closest to the wall, to hold it further away from me. Even leaning over him wasn’t enough to grab it. “And let’s not forget I saved your life.”
“After hitting me with your car,” Brett reminded me. His head had angled at me, his other arm helping to prop himself up. With me trying to lean over him to get my pillow, we were close… too close, just like this morning.
I didn’t like it, so I did something else. I couldn’t get my pillow back? Fine.
I poked him in his stomach, right where the bandage made his shirt all bunched up. Not that hard, but not that soft, either. Still, the action served its purpose, and Brett winced. He muttered, “Low blow,” and scooted around me to get off my bed while holding onto his stomach.
As he went to lean against the nearby wall, still holding onto his stomach, I fixed my pillow, placing it where it was meant to be and pulling at my sheets to undo the wrinkles his large body had created.
“I got a call today,” I said, slow to turn and sit on the edge of my bed, even slower to bring my eyes to him—mostly because I hesitated to suggest he was right in that my stalker might be my ex. Up until today, I’d thought there was no way Zak could be involved in anything like this, but you know what? Given what he did to me, it shouldn’t surprise me at all if it was him.
“Yeah? From the fake IRS or from your buddy the stalker?”
I glared at Brett. “You know, for a serial killer, you sure make a lot of jokes.”
“Well, someone has to, and it obviously ain’t gonna be you, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? That was the first time he’d called me that, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit. I opened my mouth to tell him off, but I stopped seconds before I did, noting the smug look on his face. It was like he wanted to egg me on, wanted me to snap at him.
So, I didn’t. I pretended like he hadn’t said that last word and instead went on, “My stalker. He asked if I liked the picture he left me. He… also said I looked worried.”
Brett’s brows came together. “You looked worried? I don’t get it. How could he know—shit. You think he was there?”
“I don’t know. Either he was, or—”
“Or he was just saying that, knowing you’d think he was nearby. It doesn’t take a psychic to assume someone’s worried when their stalker calls them. Did you get a number, by any chance?”
Shaking my head once, I whispered, “It was a restricted call, and I answered it without thinking.” If there was one thing to learn from this, it was that it was never okay to answer your phone. “But,” I went on, “he said something that makes me think you were right.”
Admitting Brett might be right was perhaps one of the hardest things ever, mostly because I knew he’d get even more smug. Something like that you’d think wouldn’t be possible, but you’d be wrong.
All Brett said was, “Elaborate.”
“Just, the words he said reminded me of what Zak said the last time we spoke.”
Brett’s demeanor changed. He no longer held onto his stomach, and he pushed off the wall, suddenly more interested in the conversation. “Your ex. Huh. Who would’ve thunk it?” His sarcasm was pointless, and I shot him a glare to tell him so. “He goes to your college, right? So he’s around. He could’ve been watching you while you talked. Did you recognize his voice?”
