23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Kayla

I'm having sex dreams now. Freakishly hot, naughty sex dreams where Ethan Bennett is fingering me. Oh, and he also says he loves me.

Silly, right? Men don't say that unless you say it first and then look at them meaningfully to let them know it's their turn. But of course, dream-men are a completely different matter.

I don't even know why I keep dreaming about him specifically. Sure, he's hot, but so are many other men. I barely even met him, and the one time I did, he was rather rude to me. Then why does my brain associate pleasure solely with him now? It's him I dream about, him I think about when I masturbate, and I can't fucking stop.

At this rate, the next time he plays darts, I'll be in the crowd with the other women, cheering him on and throwing my bra at him. I need to snap out of this stupid obsession.

Besides, I don't think my stalker would like me thinking about other men. We've evolved into a strange form of relationship I don't fully understand. I do know, however, that he's watching me. Listening. And I worry what will happen if he hears me moaning Ethan's name when I come.

It shows how messed up I am, to worry about what the stalker will hear me say and not about the fact that he can hear me say things. He doesn't scare me anymore, though. Truth be told, this not-relationship we have is the best one I've ever had.

I have the freedom of being single paired with the safety of someone watching over me. I get to talk to someone who simply listens instead of offering me unwanted advice.

Plus, free house cleaning.

I'm sure this situation won't last forever. The stalker will eventually escalate his behavior and then I'll be in trouble. But as days pass, I find myself curious about what his next step will be.

Will he show up at my doorstep?

Will he sneak into my bed at night?

Will he kidnap me to his evil lair?

I should be frightened by the prospect and yet, all I feel is the tingling anticipation. Like I said, messed up.

The bed is warm when I wake up. It always is. I still refuse to consider the implications of that fact. I just don't wear my warm socks to bed anymore, and all is fine. Just fine.

The day flies by, and for once, I can't wait to get back home, curious about what gift my stalker left for me this time. It's been a different kind of chocolate every day for the past week, and I loved every single one. If he keeps that up, then soon, I'll be nothing but a big ball rolling around.

I enter the house with nervous anticipation, my face falling when I notice the empty yogurt cup on the table, just where I left it this morning. Not on purpose! I picked up some slack in the housekeeping department, mostly because I was embarrassed about a stranger doing my laundry and my dishes, but old habits die hard. I blame my parents for spoiling me.

The cup on the table means my stalker hasn't been here today. I should be grateful, yet I feel a little disappointed. Is he bored with me already? Fed up with constantly having to clean up my mess? Maybe he found someone else to stalk?

I expected him to escalate his behavior, not abandon the game completely. What did I do wrong?

And what the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I thinking about how I might have offended my stalker? Good god, I've completely lost my mind.

Deciding not to think about him further, I go to the bedroom, wincing at the various clothes strewn over the bed. I couldn't decide on the outfit this morning and this was the result.

I'm such a slob that even my stalker left me.

I pick up the clothes and put them in the closet. It's not nearly as tidy as when my stalker does it, but it's a start.

I don't really feel like going out with my coworkers anymore, but I promised Beth and Michelle I'd be there, so I put on simple jeans and a T-shirt and grab my car keys again. No cocktails for me tonight. Just a beer or two, a brief chat with my friends, and then I can go back home and mope in peace.

Beth spends the entire evening talking about her upcoming wedding. Apparently, I'm her maid of honor. How that happened, I do not know, but it's written in her thick wedding planner, so it must be true.

As we argue about the color of my dress, I nurse a beer in my hands and glance at the other patrons in the Rusty Mug. Is he here, watching me? Or has he given up on me entirely?

It's only been one day, I remind myself. He could be busy with…what could a stalker be busy with? He must have a life outside of stalking me. A job, probably. He could be working overtime or be away on a business trip. Maybe he took his wife and kids to Disneyland for the weekend, I contemplate with a sneer. That would be just my kind of luck.

When I finally manage to extricate myself from Beth's claws, I head for my car. Michelle follows me. "Can you give me a ride home?" she asks. "I love Beth, but damn. She's turning into an absolute bridezilla."

"Yeah, tell me about it," I snort. "I have no idea how I even ended up being the maid of honor. I've literally known Beth for two weeks."

Michelle avoids my look. "About that… That's my fault," she admits. "She asked me first, but I suggested it would look much better if she had someone younger by her side."

"What?!" I gasp, playfully smacking Michelle's shoulder. "Traitor. You threw me to the wolves!"

She just grins, faking a nonchalant shrug. "Tough world, girl," she teases. "I thought that—Ohmygod! Isn't that your car?"

I frown in the direction she's pointing. It is my car, surrounded by a small crowd of onlookers. What the hell? I march closer, gasping when I see all the car windows are smashed, as if someone took a baseball bat to them.

"We didn't see who did it," a man from the crowd tells me as I approach. "We've already called the police, but you might want to get a tow truck, too. The tires are slashed."

Icy dread seeps into my body, battling over control with seething rage. The rage momentarily wins.

Was this some drunk idiot throwing a temper tantrum? Was my car simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or was this him? My fucking stalker?! Is this his idea of escalating things?

As I look inside my poor, mangled car, the fury leaves me at once, leaving only dread behind.

There's a dead animal on the front seat. A cat, probably. Butchered. Its blood is seeping into the cushions, gleaming in the light cast by the street lamps.

This wasn't an act of random vandalism. This is a threat. A very real, tangible threat to my life. And unless my stalker has suffered a complete personality change in the past 24 hours, this was someone else. Someone who hates me and swore to take revenge on me.

Could Benjamin Adams really be this unhinged? Or did I make another enemy I'm not aware of?

Dammit. Why did I ever come to this stupid town?