Page 65 of Hide From Me

Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe going back to therapy wouldn’t be such a bad idea, considering I feel like I’m having a psychotic breakdown. With alow groan in my throat, I open my closet, only to let out a blood-curdling scream that is quickly muffled by a hand clasping over my mouth.

“You said she wouldn’t be here!”

“That’s what Sam said!”

The voices overlap, and I can't tell who is speaking as I continue to thrash and wail, desperate to break free. My wrist is quickly caught and bent back, forcing me to drop the knife, so I start flailing my legs instead.

“Jesus, Sharkie, let the girl go!” one of them hisses, barely louder than a whisper.

I freeze, pretending to be still long enough for them to ease their grip. The moment I’m released, I suck in a breath and bolt for the door.

I’ve lost it. I’ve officially driven myself insane. My mind must have concocted this delusion, a hostage fantasy gone rogue. I always figured I’d be fine with a little forced captivity, but apparently, only if it involves a guy in a mask and a safe word.Thanks a lot, Laura, for yoursmutty book recommendations.

The hood of my sweatshirt is jerked pulling back mid-step causing me to choke on a gasp as I’m spun around like a rag doll and tossed to the floor.

“You didn’t have to be so aggressive,” one of them says, exasperated. “She probably would’ve handled it better if we’d just knocked like normal people.”

I follow the sound of a voice to the closet, where I find a girl flipping through one of my romance novels as if she were at a book club, not hiding in a stranger's closet. My brows furrow, and my lips part to demand that she put it down, but I clamp my jaw shut, realizing that probably isn’t the proper response for a situation like this. Her blonde hair, pulled into a tight bun, is somewhat recognizable, but the pieces don’t click together until she raises her head and locks her deep golden-brown eyes onto mine.

My head quickly jerks towards the soft footsteps that halt beside me. My gaze finally drags the length it needs to find blue eyes that could be compared to the ocean. I guess I should be thankful it was a masked-themed party in some way, as it forced me to focus on the most distinguishable parts of these women.

It’s Moe’s friends from the beach, and they’re absolutely psychotic.

“What the hell is wrong with you two?! This isbreaking and entering! Stalking! I could have you arrested!”

The blonde winces. “Relax—Bill’s not going to arrest us.”

“Who the hell is Bill?!” I yell.

Jasmine—that’s her name, I think—laughs like I’ve made a joke. “This is a bit, right?”

My jaw drops in shock. How much power can one tiny family business have to protect them from the law?

The other one—Cordelia? Sharkie? Whatever—tilts her head like a curious cat. I roll my eyes and crawl to grab the knife. Might as well put it away before I accidentally step on it and add "stabbed foot" to the list of today’s traumas.

She steps onto the blade.

I glare up at her, and she simply stares back, cold and curious.

“You're the waitress from the diner,” she says flatly.

“No shit,” I snap, yanking the handle from under her boot and falling back on my ass in the process. “Who else would I be?”

The silence is so thick I can hear the floor creak beneath my hands as I push up. Why is that a surprise? Didn’t Moe tell them? They’ve all been in the diner at some point—well, except Jasmine. But Sam, Cordelia, Moe…

Wait.

“How would Sam know if I was home or not?” I question as I rush to my feet and hastily grab my duffle bag. I'm still not getting a response. Jasmine's face has turned a few shades paler than I assume is her normal skin tone, but Sharkie's expression is unmoving—a long moment of tight-lipped silence and squinted eyes. As quickly as that stomach-churning expression appears, it dissipates into that unsettling smile again.

“What?” Sharkie tilts her head curiously.

“She said that Sam said I wouldn’t be here,” I explain, jabbing the knife in Jasmine's direction. The action surprises me, so I walk over to my dresser and toss it onto thewood before heading back to my closet to grab the clothes I was looking for in the first place. The tip of my boot accidentally hits Jasmine's shin, and she hisses in response.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“Wait—no, I’m not. Why the hell are you still in my closet?”

She doesn’t even flinch.Rude.

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