Page 31 of Claiming His Bunny
Kayla
“To Kayla!” Michelle exclaims,raising her glass in a toast. The rest of our coworkers seated around a small table follow suit.
Though not as incredibly crowded as the last time I’ve been here, the Rusty Mug is brimming with life. A band of middle-aged men on the stage is blasting an old AC/DC song, a few inebriated patrons swaying to the rhythm of a very non-dance-y song.
I might be a little tipsy, too, and not just because we’re celebrating our victory in court. We proved it was Paula’s sister, Patricia, taking the drug tests all along. Now they’re both in trouble, and the possibility of Paula ever getting her hands on Saskia again is slim to none.
It’s a victory, sure, but it’s not the main reason I’ve helped myself to some liquid courage.
It’s the thought of returning home that scares the hell out of me. What will I find there? More flowers? A dead body? A man wanting to have sex with me?
A wave of arousal floods me as I imagine a masked assailant pinning me to the wall and taking whatever he wants from me. It’s a pleasant fantasy, but that doesn’t mean I want it to become a reality.
For the millionth time today, I consider calling the police. I consider a lot of things. Running away, for example. But what good would it do? He already found me when I left for Kansas City. I can’t hide from him.
I could stay at Michelle’s place for a few days. Having noticed how strange I was acting today, she reminded me that her offer still stands. But my stalker has already proven himself dangerous. Deadly. Do I really want to draw his attention to Michelle and her family?
If he’s fixating on me, he probably won’t like me spending time with other people. Other men. And Michelle has a son. Sure, he’s gay and in a relationship, but what if the stalker doesn’t care? I’d never forgive myself if someone got hurt because of me.
No, I have to solve this alone. Somehow. I have to go home, even though I’m scared to death. But what other options are there?
Clearly, the new locks didn’t deter him. Moving away is out of the question. I don’t have the funds for it and besides, he’d easily find me again.
Should I get one of those high-tech security systems? Cameras, alarms, gizmos like that? Hire a bodyguard? Get a dog?
I smirk at the thought. I’m not a dog person. Sure, they’re all cute when they’re puppies, but they’re just too much work. And they smell. I can imagine getting a cat, but that would hardly help me with my stalker problem.
I sip from my drink, the alcohol doing little to calm my nerves. The casual conversation around me shifts to local gossip, but I can’t bring myself to join it. What if the stalker is here? Watching me? What if I laugh at Jason’s joke and tomorrow it will be his photo on my windshield?
My stalker hasn’t threatened me yet, but that’s how crazy people work, isn’t it?
My heart rate picks up as I look around. Several men are looking in the direction of our table. Are they looking at me or admiring Beth’s plunging neckline? Is my stalker one of them? Or is he waiting at my house instead?
I can’t take it anymore. Finishing my drink, I stand, the world around me swaying a little. “Good night, guys,” I say, raising my voice so they can hear me over the music. “I’ll head home.”
“Already?” Beth asks. “Come on, girlfriend! I thought we’d dance!”
“Maybe another time. I’m exhausted,” I say, letting her down as easily as I can. She and Michelle are quickly becoming my friends. Michelle is more the older mentor/motherly type of friend, but Beth is my age and, as she herself said, she sorely lacks single girlfriends to go wild with.
She sighs. “Fine then. Buzzkill. Next week, we’ll have some fun together. But you’ll wear some proper clothes, not your court attire. And that’s an order, girlfriend,” she adds, wagging her finger in my face.
I run my palms over my pantsuit jacket. It’s not an appropriate outfit for an evening at the bar, that’s for sure, but I was too afraid to go home and change into something else. “You got it,” I promise with a weak smile. “Have a great weekend, guys. See you on Monday.”
Not wanting to wait outside like last time, I call an Uber from the restroom and wait until it’s almost here to leave the Rusty Mug. I’ll have to call one on Monday to get to work, too, as I left my car in the town hall employee’s parking lot.
The driver is mercifully quiet, probably sensing I’m not in the mood for casual conversation. Too soon, we arrive at my house, and I’m forced to leave the relative safety of the car and face whatever is waiting for me at home. Or whoever is waiting for me. Oh my god, what if he really is waiting for me there? Why the fuck didn’t I call the police?!
I still could. I could pick up the phone and have a laughing police officer escort me to my house. They’d be thrilled to help me after I told them my proof of breaking and entering is that my dishes are done.
As I rummage through my purse for the keys, I feel like that stupid girl from every horror movie ever. You scream “RUN!” at her and yet, she goes to check the creepy cellar. Alone. And then a monster eats her face because that’s what she deserves.
With the can of mace in one hand, I unlock the door and nervously peek into the darkness of my house. “I’ve already called the police,” I call out. “You better not be inside!”
There’s no response.
I flip on the light in my tiny entrance hall and aim the pepper spray inside. At least I hope it’s aimed away from me. With my luck, I’m just as likely to mace myself.
Nothing moves, the only sound being the soft whirring of the fridge from the kitchen.
