Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
All the while, he was my stalker.
The man who has been threatening to kill me for months if I even look at another man.
He’s deranged.
I’ve been looking over my shoulder every second of the day because of him.
Unbelievable. I have to call the police. I have to tell my brother. Now. Immediately.
So why don’t I?
Why do I sprint across the parking lot and across three lanes of traffic, instead, vanishing behind the gas station and furiously calling an Uber. One minute away, thank God. I’m covered in cold sweat, my sides heaving in and out. I’m shaking like a leaf. How is this happening? How could I fall head over heels for my stalker? Even now, when I think about the things he said to me, how I want to be preyed on, there’s a part of me that knows he was right.
That’s what scares me most of all.
I want to run away from him, but I also want to run toward him.
Allow him to drag the depraved urges out of my body. Make me his love and his toy.
I’m going to carry you in my arms around campus like a princess, then bang you like a whore. That growled promise continues to circulate around my head, over and over and over, but the one I should be focused on is the line that revealed him.
Scared or not, you’d suck it like one of those grape fucking popsicles you can’t get enough of.
He wouldn’t know that I basically live off popsicles unless he’s been watching me. I’ve never eaten one in front of him, as far as I know. He doesn’t follow me on social media, so he must be watching me from a backup account.
The Uber pulls up in front of the gas station. I peek around the corner of the building, and I don’t see him, so I run toward the vehicle, prying open the rear door and throwing myself into the back seat. It hits me in that moment that I can’t go to my dorm, because he’ll find me and…what? Will he kill me for running away from him? Will he make me a captive?
I staunchly ignore the hot shiver that runs down my spine and lean forward to speak through the plastic partition. Just as I do this, I see Cash. He’s exiting the movie theater with his fists at his sides, chest rifling up and down, looking positively out of his mind with rage. I choke on my fear, ducking down in the seat. “Go, please. Go. Get on the highway. I just need to change my destination a little. I’m sorry.” Through the car windows, I can hear Cash roaring my name and I curl into a ball on the seat, half terrified, half wanting to jump out and run to him.
Who am I anymore? What did he do to me?
“Where to, then?”
“Uh. Umm…” I desperately try and gather my thoughts. “There is a Motel 6 on the south end of the college campus. Take me there, please.”
“Yup.”
A minute later, we’re on the highway and I exhale in relief, sitting up in the backseat.
Think. Think. What do I need to do to stay safe? Undetected?
Obviously, he has been tracking me. But I have his phone, so he shouldn’t be able to see my location now, right? What if he has more than one phone? Or he’s tracking me on a laptop. I bite my lip indecisively for a moment, then roll down the window, throwing my phone out into the night. I can’t take any chances. Knowing it’s a fifteen-minute drive to the south end of campus, I look down at his phone, as if trying to see inside of it.
A person’s life is on their phone.
What’s on Cash’s?
I tap the side button, seeing a code is required to enter.
With a sense of impending doom bubbling in my belly, I enter my birthday and the phone unlocks, forcing me to swallow a whimper. But it’s nothing compared to the sound I make when I look down at the icons on his home screen and see a folder labeled Angel. After I work up enough courage, I tap the folder and the screen is flooded with images of me. Some of me walking to and from class, at the movies, shopping, on the bus, reading beneath a tree, sleeping.
And that last picture was taken from inside my room.
In the dark.
Breath racing out of control, I continue my search, trying to pretend the awful throb between my legs doesn’t exist, because how could something so unconscionable turn me on? How? There are documents in the folder outlining my class schedule, my daily activities, the names of my friends, teachers, every person I’ve ever interacted with, accompanied by notes about each one of them. My likes and dislikes. My shoe, bra and T-shirt sizes.