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And fuck, why is this so hot?
I tread the outskirts of the road, watching him watching me. It’s like he’s hunting me. I pass him by, and his dark figure doesn’t move an inch. He lets me go, but I feel him there. It feels like his every breath is on the back of my neck, caressing, demanding. It’s dangerous. It’s a thrill.
And I’m high on the sensation.
I all but run the last few yards to my place, my fingers fumbling against my keys, my breaths coming out labored. It’s a strange mixture of fear and excitement. With anxious nerves, the keys slip from my cold fingers and clatter to the ground, forcing me to rush even faster. I have to get inside. The slamming of my heartbeat heats my ears. Any second, he could come out from the shadows and grab me. He could push his way through my door.
Would I let him?
Is it weird if I say yes?
I’d fight him. Of course, I’d fight him. But I can’t help but think of how alive I’d feel beneath his hands.
Everything pieces together in this instant. I suddenly know: He sent me the gifts. He sends me birthday cards every year. He saved me. His essence is scattered everywhere across my life, and I’m just now seeing it.
I push inside the apartment and slam the door behind me. The metal lock slides in place, and then I’m peering out the small window.
But no one’s there. The street is empty, and the golden streetlight above shines steadily across the silent night.
When I’m inside, I wonder if he’s watching me through another window. I take it all in slowly, going into the bathroom, buying time to think this through.
Will he come into my apartment?
Will he hide in the shadows inside?
Is he already inside?
I don’t know what’s come over me. My body is too hot, too wired. Because of him.
He broke Nathan. He took care of that man in the alley. He’s been following me.
That should be frightening. It is.
But it’s also hot in a consuming way.
What does that say about me? That I like to be protected? Does it make me weak? I don’t care. I’ve been strong my whole life. I’ve been dealing with so much shit that the prospect of being out of control. Of being stalked and followed and protected by this man is not a bad one.
For the first time in years, I feel safe. Because of him.
When I walk back out of the bathroom and over to my bed, I know from the sensation slithering down my spine. I know he’s here.
And I’m about to drive him as mad as he’s driving me.
Thirteen
Atlas
“Come out!” I yell into the darkness of my own room.
Dahmer lifts his tired head, his hooded, judgmental green eyes looking up at me like I’m a madwoman.
I grip the closet handle and throw open the sliding door. The wire hangers scrape, and the thin dresses flit in the aggression of my discovery. Which is nothing. There’s absolutely nothing but a few forgotten dust bunnies residing within the little closet.
But there’s more too. My fingers trace a hole that’s indented into the wall at the back of the closet. It looks like a car tried to make a fast escape out of my room and failed. It’s large with cracking white paint that’s flaked onto the carpet. This hasn’t always been here. It’s massive. I’d have seen it when I moved in and every time I do fucking laundry.
As I stare at the evidence, I realize I’ve been too busy and too self-absorbed to really consider what he’s been doing. How long has he been a part of my life and I’ve been too in my head to question it?
My palms rest against my hips as I go through the sequence of events. I saw him at the party. I heard his footsteps following me home. I saw him outside. I—I know someone’s been doing my laundry! I don’t just throw washed clothes into the dryer the same day! I just don’t.
