Page 18 of A Night of Flesh and Gluttony: Part One

It’s a Knock Knock so you’ll have to play along.

Before I even get a chance to agree to play along his next text comes rushing in.

OTIS

Knock Knock

ME

Who’s there?

OTIS

Ben Dover

I can already see where this joke is going, but I’ll play along.

ME

Ben Dover, who?

OTIS

Ben Dover and I’ll give you a big surprise.

ME

You’re a dork. Thank you for the laugh. I’m going inside now and jumping in the shower.

My phone chimes in rapid fire as I tuck it away and I know what they’ll say when I check them later.

The heavy metal door to my newly acquired studio loft apartment inches open as I attempt to slip my key into the lock. “What the hell?” I mutter. I know I locked this door when I left this morning for work. Using my foot, I nudge the door open further. I poke my head inside and look around, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Not seeing anything alarming—red flags, flashing neon signs, or otherwise—I tilt my head, straining to listen for any indicators of an intruder.

With no visible or audible signs of danger, I reach inside and grab the first thing I can wrap my fingers around, my umbrella. It’ll have to do, at least it has a metal pointy end I can stick someone with. I press deeper into the apartment, leaving the door hanging open. My heart hammers against my ribs, threatening to break free with each tentative step I take. Nerves flood my veins with adrenaline and my fight-or-flight instincts are on overdriving, begging me to run, flee, be anywhere right now except here.

Every light is off, and the heavy blackout blinds are drawn, pitching the room in complete and utter darkness. I wave my hands around in front of me, unable to see a thing.

“Is anyone in here?” I call out stupidly.

Real smart, Devy. Just warn the person sitting in wait to murder you that you’re coming.

A crinkle, followed by another, under my feet gives me pause for only a second, the sound increasing with every step I take into the space I’ve designated the living room. I reach my hand out, looking for the lamp I know is sitting on the table between the sofa and chair. My fingers brush the soft fabric of the lampshade, and I follow the contours to the switch.

Horror and disbelief freeze me in place. Thousands of pictures are scattered around the room—on the floor, on tables, furniture, even taped to the walls and television. Nearly every inch of the area is covered in what looks like surveillance photos.

Cautiously, I bend down and scoop up a stack of photos. They’re all of me and … Cole. Our brief, yet connected, conversation at the club. The moment when he kissed my cheek before heading off to enjoy his night. Our unplanned reunion. Close ups of him staring at me and me at him.

Bile turns in my stomach and crawls up my throat as I move further into the room. More pictures of me from that night, of me and the guys. Intimate photos. Photos from my date, well, not date, really, with Dante the other night.

My hand flies to my chest as an invisible band tightens around my heart and lungs. I can’t breathe, I scream silently.

Air hisses through my clenched teeth as a heavy weight presses down on my shoulders until I collapse to the floor, landing hard on my hands and knees. Lungs burning. Body shaking. Grey spots dance around the edges of my vision, tunneling forward until it feels as if I’m moving backwards, away from the chaos ensuing around me.

You’re having a panic attack. Breathe, Devin, fucking take a breath.

I will my body to suck in a deep breath of air. Picturing the oxygen entering through my nose, traveling down into my lungs, and filling them up. Slowly, though uncontrolled, I release the air I sucked in and drag in another more controlled breath, and then another, and another, until the grey recedes, and my vision is clear.

Using my coffee table, I lever my still weighted body up to sit on the wooden surface. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a white envelope in the center of the table. Written on the front in a very loopy handwriting is my name, Devin Black. With shaking hands, I reach over and pick it up, turning it over. The back is blank, no markings, no indicators of where this came from on the outside.

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