Page 12 of My Girl
I race back up the stairs and shove my phone into my purse. The masked man takes four giant steps, his boots smashing into the floor. I reach the hallway, but he shoves me back, pinning me to the wall.
The bloody knife presses into my neck, my skin electric at the pinch of the blade. The wallpaper is slick and sticky on my cheek. My fingers are numb. The pressure of his body keeps me in place.
Consequences.Like getting killed when you could have kept your distance andlived.
“Tell me,” the masked man says, his deep, gravelly voice seeping into my ears. “Did you think I didn’t know you were there?”
Tears fill my eyes. It’s not sorrow or anger or terror, or even pain, but an overwhelming sensation that I can’t control. I don’t know how to comprehend this. It doesn’t feel real.
It can’t be.
He leans his elbow against my shoulder blades, keeping me in place. Then he wraps his arm around my waist. His body is so warm it’s like being steeped inside of a hot spring.
“I bet you thought you’d get away with it.” He breathes against my neck. “You didn’t think I’d see you. Waving your phone like it’s some kind of shield. A phone can’t protect you from murder, little girl.”
“No,” I whisper. “No?—”
He chuckles, then flings me around violently. Holding my neck with one hand, the other hand plants the knife against my stomach, ready to disembowel me like the man in the basement.
My heart swells against my rib cage.Do something!my brain demands.
I shout: “I called the police!”
Everything falls silent. The cicadas and desert insects hold their breaths. The wind is stale. I can’t hear a thing.
He chuckles again, and my world shatters.
“You didn’t,” he murmurs. “You were too busy watching me. Face it: you get off on violence, you sick little freak.”
A boiling sensation buzzes inside of me, widening my blood vessels, my cheeks hot with an emotion I can’t quite place. I can’t see his expression, but when I look up at those black mesh screens covering his eyes, I can tell he’s staring down at me.
“I don’t,” I whisper. “I don’t. I swear I?—”
He lowers the knife, pressing it into my inner thigh until I’m forced to widen my stance to avoid the pain. Then his other gloved hand slips into my skirt and stockings.
His leather fingertips slide along my slit, my pussy parting easily for him. My face broils. A gasp escapes my throat.
He lifts his finger, his glove glistening in the dim light. He rubs the arousal on my face, streaking me with my own wetness. My body throbs.
“You’re sopping wet,” he says. “Greedy little freak.”
A chill runs through me.
Why is my body doing this?
I clench my jaw. I’mnotturned on by this. This is nature’s reaction to stress. A primal coping mechanism. Don’t think. Just do. Give the predator sex. This is normal. This is?—
This is?—
I don’t know what the fuckthis is,but arousal like this is insane. He’s a murderer. And I’m just?—
He lets go of my neck. The lack of pressure deflates me, my body smaller than before.
Am I disappointed that he’s not touching me anymore?
The masked man towers over me. A pillar. A grand beast. A god waiting to see what his subject does. What I do next.
I can’t move.
