Page 17 of The Art of Obsession
Now and then, random facts and stats about various artifacts I’ve cataloged this year pop up in my head, but they quickly swirl into oblivion.
I tilt my head back, arms up, letting the beat drown out the noise in my head.Two weeks. Two weeks of silence. Two weeks with no new sketches on my pillow. Two weeks without amasked figure lurking in the shadows, without the dark thrill of his presence curling around me like smoke.
Guilt stings my chest like a faint thorn in my side. I shove it down, trying to lose myself in the music. No matter what I do, I can’t make him fade. So, I dance harder. My friends cheer as I twirl, and that’s when I see him—a pair of eyes in the crowd, fixed on me.
He’s tall with curly brown hair, messy, but he’s handsome enough to pull it off with a charming smile. At first, he watches me with quiet confidence. I can feel my face flush as he steps forward, weaving through the crowd toward me.
“Mind if I cut in?” he asks, his voice smooth but loud enough to rise above the music.
I glance at my friends, who are already grinning and giving me not-so-subtle thumbs-ups. I roll my eyes but smile, taking his hand. “Why not?”
We move together, the music pulling us into rhythm. He’s a good dancer—better than most guys I’ve met in places like this. He doesn’t try to overpower me, doesn’t fumble or make it awkward.
I let myself enjoy it, even as the tipsiness whirls in my head. But guilt prickles again. I shouldn’t be thinking of Acheron. I shouldn’t be wondering what it would be like if he were dancing with me, knowing how well he can command a whole stadium with his performances, how well he can command…my body.
I’ve spent the last two weeks convincing myself that he’sgone. My masked stalker, who hunted me in the cabin and made me piss myself after he triggered the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever had.
My boss didn’t believe me. Justifiably so. All the recordings were erased. Wiped clean. The only thing he saw was me, frantic and wild, stumbling from room to room like a crazy woman.
“Everleigh, there’s no one here,” he’d said, his voice laced with pity.
I’d stood there, shaking, staring at the screen as I replayed the memories. I’d never been so relieved—so mortified—that the rest of it was gone. My boss hadn’t seen me sobbing, hadn’t seen me piss myself, hadn’t seen Acheron carry me away to the bathroom, wash me off, and put me to bed like I was a fucking child. But it didn’t matter. The damage was done.
His mask invades my dreams every night. I still feel his hands on me, his mouth on mine, his breath in my ear. But I can’t let him go. I spent a whole day sifting through every shred of footage I could find of Acheron. I’d memorized the way he moved, the tilt of his head, the commanding stillness of his presence.
Iknewit was him.
The first time I saw him, how he opened his arms to the roaring crowd just like he did to my trembling, quiet figure in the kitchen…it was unmistakable.
Two weeks. He swore it wouldn’t be a one-time thing. He has more plans for me. My emotions have been a storm—hope and relief that he’s moved on, found someone else to stalk, wars against bitter resentment and a twisted, simmering fury that hecouldmove on. I’m seriously fucked up.
“Everything okay?” the guy asks, snapping me back to the present.
I blink up at him, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just… got lost in my head for a second.”
He grins, his hand warm on my waist as he leans closer. “Let me buy you a drink. You look like you could use one.”
I hesitate, but only for a moment. “Sure.”
Cherry is stone-cold silent in my mind. Of course. She only gets loud when I feel like I’m in danger. And nothing about the guy I’m with even faintly resembles danger.
The air is cooler near the bar. My body still hums from the music and alcohol. He pulls out a stool for me, and I slide onto it, grateful to sit.
“Jake,” he says, offering his hand again. “And you are?”
“Everleigh.”
“Pretty name.” He smiles, ordering us both drinks.
I smile faintly. I should be enjoying this—the normalcy of it, the flirtation, the promise of distraction. And for the moment, I do. I let Jake’s easy charm pull me into conversation, let his presence keep the shadows at bay.
But in the back of my mind, Acheron lingers. He’s gone, I remind myself. It’s over.
And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not.
Jake givesme the espresso martini I ordered. Caffeine and liquor buzz. I’ll hate myself in the morning. Who am I kidding? I’ve been hating myself for the past two weeks. Tonight, the self-hatred is at its peak.
“What do you do, Jake?” I ask, sipping at the drink that wires my nerves more. We have to raise our voices above the music and crowd.
