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I cleared my throat. “Listen, I’m going to tell you a little about why I’m trying to stay so private. I’ll tell the house too, I think.”
“Okay.” She stared at me with her eyebrows up.
“There’s a stalker obsessed with finding me. He wants to kill me. Shot up the last house I was staying at and thew a bomb in.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah, it’s bad. He might find me here. If you want to move out, I’ll make it as easy for you as I can.”
“Um—I don’t know…”
“Well, talk to Forest about it.”
She nodded, her eyebrows drawn together.
“At least there’s a private drive up to this house,” I said. “You know what, I’m gonna get a gate installed and some fencing too.”
“Security cameras?” Layla said.
“Yes, more of those.”
She nodded. “I don’t want to move but I guess I should think about it.”
I sat staring at the pool. Layla drank a can of soda next to me. “I wish Clint had managed that breakup better,” I said.
“I think he’s been trying all summer. Typical lazy-guy style. Didn’t, like, really make it clear.”
“Yeah.” Sounded like Clint. He’d probably been shopping around for another school to play football at for the last year and had figured the problem of Blakely would solve itself when he left.
I did what I could to get rid of the social media posts. My lawyer and I began an email exchange about how to approach Blakely, which I left in her hands. The photo Blakely had put online had me in profile and partially blocked by Clint’s body. And the dark hair really did make me appear to be a different person.
Clint knocked on the door again that night at eight. He stared at me with his hands in his pockets when I opened the door.
“Hi,” I said, turning around to walk to the kitchen. “Lock that door behind you. Want a beer?”
“Yeah, all right.”
He was sore and a little cranky from a long day of football and logistics for his move. I handed him a beer then he grabbed my hand and pulled me to my bedroom. I managed to snag my wine glass on the way.
My clothes were off and my back on the bed in under aminute. He shoved a condom on, pulled my hips to the edge of the bed, then hunched over and used the tip of his pecker to rub and massage me open and wet. He slid inside, shuddering, staring at me through slitted eyes. I reached down and rubbed my nub then put my feet up against his chest as we thrust against each other. He grabbed my thighs and lifted my hips up, wheelbarrow style, as I came and he pumped into me for another minute.
“Sally,” he said, sounding a little mournful as he pulled out and collapsed next to me on the bed.
“Come on now. I don’t want to be sad for the next week.”
“Why didn’t you call me? Or message—you could have moved to Nebraska.”
I got up and put on my robe. Wine glass in hand—I was going to need it for this conversation—I sat next to him. “Hon, do you know what happened to me?”
He put an arm over his eyes. “A little bit.”
Staring at the wall, I gulped down wine. “That fucker tied me to a bed and recorded himself screwing me for three days. The footage was leaked.”
“God, Sally…”
“Media camped out in front of my parents’ house. Hopefully the interest has died down, but I want to stay hidden. I can’t go and be your girlfriend.”
“We’d weather it, whatever happened.”
