Page 54 of Hunt for You

Shaking for entirely different reasons this time, I shook my head and pushed away from the wall.

No.

No.

No.I wasn’t giving him that power anymore. Never again.

Swallowing curses, desperate and frantic and lost, I made myself go through the motions.Pick up the soap, rub it all over my wet body, rinse, repeat, then turn off the shower and get out.

I grit my teeth and dried off, focusing on the work meeting I was late for, and refusing to think further than that, because the truth was, I knew I was fucked. My entire life was unequivocallyfucked.

I’d given her far too much control, let her way too far in. And now I had broken every rule I’d ever set for myselfprecisely to avoid this exact scenario.

The chances of me getting to the end of this without losing were so small, I didn’t even consider it.

Whether Bridget lived or died, my life as I knew it was over. It was only a matter of time.

But then the sound of her laughter echoed in my head and I sighed because… even if she was the drug that I was going to overdose on, even if she was the noose that was going to tighten around my neck, the other truth was… I was going to die smiling.

19. Make a Plan

~ BRIDGET ~

EMAIL FROM: The Dick (Richard Fitch)

TO: Bridget

SUBJECT: Don’t forget that coffee!

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FROM: Asshole (Jeremy Haines)

TO: Bridget

SUBJECT: What the fuck are you up to?

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EMAIL FROM: Asshole (Jeremy Haines)

TO: Bridget

SUBJECT: Answer me

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Checking my email was a smorgasbord ofnope.There was a reason I didn’t have this account linked to my phone. But it had been three days since I had seen or heard from Cain and I was losing my mind. I barely slept last night. I was checking my DMs obsessively. And the itch between my shoulder blades was starting to feel like a fist planted and trying to shove me forward.

Cain had said he would choose where and when he came for me. He’d said I couldn't try to entice him, or he’d never come back. But with every passing, neurotic moment, as my skin felt too tight and the darkness over my head began to press down, I got closer to doing something stupid.

Gerald tried to tell me this was a panic attack. He claimed I confused thrill with connection, and was unconsciously trying to soothe my loneliness and distract my brain from trauma by weaponizing adrenaline.

“You’re self-medicating, Bridget. Just without the pills.”

I grimaced at the sound of his voice in my head. I wasn’t panicking. Not really. I was bored. And didn’t like being alone in silence.

In the past I would have already been out looking for some fun—and found it. But this past year I was starting to find most of those distractions were so hollow and unsatisfying, they did little more than keep my body moving for a few hours.

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