Page 47 of Claiming His Bunny
“Yeah, I’m definitely not there yet,” I reply, frowning all the way back to my car. Having a child right now would be a disaster. I can barely afford to have my car repaired, let alone support an infant.
I ponder the baby question as I pick up supplies for Georgia Simpson from the food bank and drive over to Sunrise Terrace. Georgia is handling it. Eighteen years old, with no support from her family or the baby’s father, and she and little Arya are doing well. They might never live in luxury, but they have each other. And each time that baby gurgles or smiles, my heart flutters.
Oh, boy. I have baby fever.
Moving away from the crib, I help Georgia unpack the food I brought. Her apartment is in much better shape than the last time I was here, albeit still slightly messy. I guess she doesn’t have a personal stalker to clean for her.
“Thank you so much for this,” Georgia says as she regards the box of food. It’s just the basics, like rice, pasta, and various canned goods, but it should last her a while. “I got the money from the government and the food stamps, but I had to buy some new things for Arya and pay the rent I owed, so it’s almost all gone. You’re a godsend.”
I shake my head. “It’s my job. A job I happen to love. So don’t mention it.” After unpacking the last items, which are some cleaning supplies, we sit down at the small table. “How are you doing, Georgia?” I ask the visibly exhausted girl. “Are you getting any sleep?”
She snorts. “Sleep? What’s that? But really, it’s getting better. Especially since I moved the crib right next to my bed, so whenever Arya wakes up, I just pull her closer, whip out a boob, and keep sleeping. Don’t worry, I’m being careful,” she adds hastily. “There’s no chance she’d fall off the bed.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I reassure her. She’s still afraid that if she does one thing wrong, I’ll take her baby away. Gaining her trust is a slow process, but I feel like I’m on the right track.
The tiny TV in the corner is running, the sound muted. For the third or fourth time since I arrived, there’s a picture of a middle-aged man on the news, and judging by the reporter’s expression as she talks about him, something serious happened.
Georgia notices me looking at the screen. “Terrible, huh?”
“I don’t really watch the news. What happened?”
“Oh, this guy got murdered. Baaad kind of murdered, if you catch my drift. Tortured and cut to pieces,” she explains with teenage excitement.
A shiver runs up my spine. “That’s awful! Was it somewhere close?” That would be just my kind of luck.
“Nah, not really,” Georgia says dismissively. “And it’s not awful. Well, it is, but…based on what they’re saying, the guy deserved it. He kidnapped kids and…used thembefore killing them.” She shudders, her gaze seeking Arya peacefully napping in her crib. “He took another girl last Thursday, but someone got to him before he could really hurt her. If you ask me, I hope the police never find out who killed this guy.”
“Vigilante justice is not a good thing, Georgia,” I admonish, feeling like a hypocrite. After all, when my stalker killed Craig, I told no one. And Craig didn’t do anything this abhorrent. “What happened to the girl?” Did the poor soul get caught between two monsters?
Georgia shrugs. “The killer left her fast asleep right in front of a police station. There were like five cameras around, but they all mysteriously malfunctioned at the same time. The person obviously knows what they're doing. And as long as they’re hunting monsters like this Carl Oberman, I wish them all the best.”
I wish them all the best, too, but it would be unprofessional to admit it. I’m supposed to be a role model for my clients, and that includes condemning all kinds of criminal behavior. “What if they stop hunting monsters and start killing innocent people instead?” I argue. “Psychopaths and sociopaths like this are dangerous, Georgia, not someone to be admired.”
“Tell that to the girl’s father. He thanked the killer in a live broadcast. The police were not happy about that,” she snickers.
“I can imagine.”
I can’t resist moving over to the crib to take one last look at the peacefully sleeping baby. “It’s good that a monster died,” I whisper to Arya. “But don’t tell your mom I said that, alright?” Arya just smacks her lips a couple of times, probably dreaming of boobs and milk, unbothered by monsters in human skin that roam the world.
As I get in the car, my phone chimes with an incoming message. It’s from the doctor’s office and I eagerly open it. I frown as I read the doctor’s note, not understanding the medical jargon at first.
“… no signs of infection …” That’s a good thing, I suppose? “… recommend urinating after every intercourse …” Intercourse? Cold tendrils of unease whisper up my spine. He means sex. But why would he say that?
I open the lab report, taken aback by the onslaught of unfamiliar terms and abbreviations. I can’t make sense of the numbers, but the report claims they’re all well within accepted parameters. But there’s a note at the very bottom of the report that makes me freeze, my eyes bulging out as I stare at the words.
“Traces of sperm detected in the sample.”
Holy fucking hell. All those dreams…were they real? Or the sex part of them, at least? Has my stalker been having sex with me every night? How the fuck did I sleep through that?!
My phone slips from my hand as I sit there, stupefied. I should probably be a traumatized, sobbing mess, but right now, I’m just angry. Both at the stalker and at myself. After all, I was waiting for him to escalate his behavior, and he did. It just wasn’t in a way I expected.
I shake my head in disbelief. Apparently, I’ve been raped. I don’t really feel raped, though. Or surprised. I think a part of me has known the truth from the start, realized that the “vaginal discharge” was just the stalker’s cum dripping out of me.
He was confident enough to go bareback. I could have a rape kit done and the police could find him using the DNA samples he so graciously left inside me. But I already know I won’t be doing that. Not to protect him, but to protect myself. I don’t want anyone to poke and prod in my personal life. To label me a victim. I’m not a fucking victim.
Tonight, I’m going to have a proper talk with my stalker. There will be no sleeping. I’ll wait him out.
How did I even stay asleep while he fucked me? It’s ridiculous. It’s not happening again, though. Tonight, I’ll stay awake.
