to college. She, apparently, suffered horrible nightmares of someone hurting her, and frequently woke up in the middle of the night calling her daughter to check on her. When Russ died, she gave me a few of her stash. Then, when I left, she gave me what she had left for the road, which wasn’t much.
I’m going to need a few of these suckers tonight, after what happened. No doubt, my brain is just itching for the opportunity to freak me out with whatever that was just now.
I pop a few into my mouth and slide the remaining pills back inside my pocket, before heading back down to the living room of the house. Warm, muggy air leaves a thin damp layer across my skin, as I settle down onto the sleeping bag. I slip my shirt off, leaving me in nothing but the thin tank beneath, and remove my pants from over the strawberry print panties. Once I’ve stripped down, the heat isn’t as unbearable, and I stretch out over the cool fabric of the sleeping bag. Arm tucked beneath my head, I stare up at the ceiling, illuminated by the lantern still lit beside me, but a feeling of unrest still hums beneath my skin.
You knew this place might trigger your memories. That’s why you came here.
The room in the attic, clearly a panic room of some sort, seems to hold the worst of them, so far. Still, nothing to account for the key. Was probably a stupid idea going in search of its door at night, but what else is there to do in this place? Not like I can flip on the TV and watch a movie. I don’t even have a damn phone, in case something bad goes down tonight.
Or a knife, for that matter.
I packed Russ’s old crossbow, in case I might hunt, but contrary to The Walking Dead, it’s not easy to load an arrow in the thick of an attack.
Which brings me back to the thieving wolf who stole my means of self-defense.
And that smug grin I wanted to slap right off his pretty face.
The second I think of that sickeningly handsome face, all his annoying features come to mind: the dark, heavy-lidded eyes set beneath long black lashes, strong square jaw, and those ridiculously full lips that undoubtedly serve as a balm to the rough scratch of stubble, when he leaves a trail of kisses across the skin. The dirty things those lips probably whisper in the dark.
Squeezing my eyes shut on those thoughts only brings them to life inside my head. This guy has emotionally detached written all over his face, which might as well be a golden invitation for me, with little hearts doodled along his temples.
Everyone has a weakness, and mine has always been orange flavored gummy bears. And men who excel in ghosting.
According to my therapist back in Michigan, I have a thing for the unrequited variety of relationships. The promise of never having to be fully committed to something, or someone.
Maybe she’s right.
My first happened to be my former English teacher, who used me as a rebound for his flighty girlfriend. Our little affair should’ve stopped after that first romp in the backseat of his Subaru, but it didn’t. It didn’t stop there, or when he dragged me into his office and bent me over Shelby Crane’s rather bland argument on the fragile nature of women portrayed in The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. I read her wholly Stepford analysis, while Mr. Bradford disposed of the used condom in the teacher’s bathroom down the hall. I’m guessing it was guilt that eventually brought things to a screeching halt between us.
His, not mine.
Not that I wasn’t mildly disgusted by the whole affair, because contrary to the rumors that I was a whore, I’m not dumb, and I’m not the self-deprecating type, either. I don’t know why I prefer the unavailable. Maybe, deep down, a part of me feels more aligned with the fantasy of it all. Or maybe I just like the elusive nature of love. Always chasing, never grasping. The hunt for something entirely out of my reach.
My therapist also said I’m afraid of true intimacy, and she might’ve been right about that, too.
Aside from him, there was only one other. A camera salesman from the city, who popped into Roy’s while I was working about a year ago. His buddy owned a cabin, where he spent the weekend lying to his wife about nailing a