Page 37 of Mastered By Lust

I run him through sample test questions. Next, I have him practice the steps of organizing short essays for the free response portion of the test.

By the end of our hour, Hector is smiling and joking about the perfect score he’s going to get. I feel like I’m really making a difference in a kid’s life.

It makes me wonder about the students whose parents can’t afford my rates. What sort of help are they getting outside the classroom?

“Hey, Hector,” I say as we walk out. “What are the rest of your classmates doing for AP test prep? Like, the ones who don’t have tutors?”

“Our teachers give us practice tests and stuff. It’s just harder to get more individual help.”

I tuck that information away. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it, but helping Hector study for the test unlocked something in me—a new desire to help more students.

Hector is parked closer than I am. I wave goodbye as he gets into his truck before making my way to my car.

The rain picks up again, big fat drops falling swiftly. I break into a jog—I don’t want the water to soak through my bag and ruin my laptop.

Halfway to my car, I skid to a stop.

My heart jumps into my throat.

The white car is back.

No, I need to act casual. I glance around as if taking in the general surroundings, but I pay special attention to the car. Is someone in the driver’s seat? I can’t tell. It’s too far away.

It could be a different car. White cars are common. But something about itfeelswrong.

Chills race up and down my spine. I unlock my car and throw myself inside, locking the door after me and starting the engine.

As I drive out of the lot, I try to see the white car’s license plate number through the rain. My windows are too blurry.

On the plus side, the car doesn’t follow me.

This is too much of a coincidence. I’m certain it was the same car. I have no proof, and if I tried to tell anyone, I’d come off like a paranoid drama queen.

I drive to Gage’s penthouse—it’s still hard to think of his place as my “home,” as much as he wants me to. The entire way, I check my mirrors, on the lookout for the white car.

It makes no appearance, but the itchy, creepy feeling along my spine doesn’t disappear.

Because it didn’t follow me before, yet it found me again. Did another car follow me instead? I didn’t notice anyone.

Something else is up. The realization hits as I pull into Gage’s parking garage.

Electronic trackers. Someone could have stuck one in my bag, or on my car, and I’d never know.

I check my bag but I don’t find anything unusual.

As soon as I get out of my car, I drop to my hands and knees on the concrete and start searching. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. Where would I put a tracker, if I wanted to be sneaky about it?

I run my fingers under the wheel wells and make my way to the rear bumper. The license plate looks a little crooked, and one of the screws isn’t pushed all the way in. When I push on the plate, it doesn’t go all the way against the car.

Dread pools in my stomach as I twist the screw loose. When I free the loose side of the license plate, I can tug it outward just enough to feel behind it.

Holy fucking shit. There’s something back there. I pry it free with my fingers, breaking a nail in the process, but I don’t care.

It’s a disc, about one and a half inches in diameter. It bears a star symbol.

It’s a Tagger. Hastily put on the car, if the state of that license plate screw is any indication.

But who put it there? Who’s driving the white car?

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