Page 13 of Ends of Being

Once I got into my apartment last night, it took me a reasonable amount of time to grasp what Dare had told me in his car. I only vaguely recollect what had gone down with the jackoff, thus I figure he just decided he wasn’t interested in me, and me not giving enough fucks to follow up on any of it, I left it alone. From what little I remember of him, I have a difficult time pegging him for a roofie-pusher; however, I don’t believe Dare would make it up—he saw what he saw.

Of course, now that I know the douchebag drugged me, likely with the intent to do bad things to me, I kind of want to follow up for the sole purpose of beating the ever-loving piss out of him. And then ruin him financially and socially because that is more my style.

Now, as I’m lounging in bed, I smile at the thought of inflicting some vigilante justice on his douchey ass. I can only begin to speculate on how badly Dare must have beaten his ass to get him to never speak to me again. I mean, I assume, I likely blocked his ass and attempted to avoid him at every turn, but some men at least attempt to save face on a possible rejection.

And then there’s Dare and his Jekyll-and-Hyde act.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have believed my dapper little Clark could be hiding such wickedness beneath his seasonal ties and floral-print shirts. Yes, I said floral prints, and not in the sense of a tropical vacation. This is more designer floral which should mean classy, but really, they just make him look like a painfully colorful accountant rather than the drab accountant he’s supposed to be.

And now, I just want to see what those floral shirts look like on the floor. My floor, his floor, any old floor.

I narrow my eyes at my own thoughts, taken aback by how quickly my thoughts of Dare have shifted from affectionate mockery to complete bitch in heat. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not blind; the man is attractive. You’d have to be dead not to notice his underlying sex appeal, and the idea of busting up his boring exterior only deepens this appeal.

The mere idea of pushing Clarkie-poo over the edge into beast mode has me rubbing my thighs together. I bet if I pushed him hard enough, he would come completely off his leash and take me to heel in a grand fashion. I shiver at the thought, my mind immediately going back to the last few seconds before I exited his car.Business. Really.

I huff to myself, rolling out of bed and making my way to the bathroom to wash my face and scrub the mothballs from my mouth. I didn’t have an ounce of liquor last night, but the few hours of poor sleep have left me feeling less than refreshed.

Which means one thing—time for a run.

Dare

I had every intention of waiting.

After I dropped Antoinette off at her apartment, I went home, fully intending to have a nice relaxing sauna, a frigid shower, and a healthy shot of kombucha. I lasted about five minutes in the sauna, skipped the cold shower, and poured the shot of kombucha but never actually drank it. I attempted to find a new show to watch, then figured I’d watch something I’d already seen and enjoyed. No luck.

Instead, I sat there for hours mulling over her many possible reactions to the story I told her. Either it would deflect her anger from me, or it would fuel her anger towards me in a different way. And she may demand more answers as to what happened after I followed them out that back exit. I must be prepared for any and all possibilities because all it takes is one slip-up for her to jump on me.

And so, I told myself to give it some time, to give her some time, to give the entire sordid affair time to cool off and settle down before attempting to escalate the situation between us. Give her some time to process and digest the complete mind fuck I dropped on her not even sixteen hours ago. It’s the right thing to do and the best option for the healthy development of a romantic relationship.

Fuck all that. Now, I’m standing in the shadows on her street, waiting for her to run by.

And yes, I know she’ll run by this very spot likely within the next half hour because she is a creature of habit, and she pretty much never veers from her mood-driven schedule. At one point, I actually thought she took her own safety and well-being seriously, but after the jackoff incident, I realized she was a goddamn mess and required significant oversight in keeping her safe. I mean, she is a stalker’s dream in that sense—same schedule day in and day out. Rinse and repeat.

Not that I’m calling myself a stalker or anything. I’m more of a distant admirer. A connoisseur of her comings and goings, who is intent on getting her going until she is coming. I only become intrusive in ways she is unaware of, though I suppose the closer I get to her, the more likely it is she’ll catch me at my own games.

I hear her footfalls before I see her, her heels striking the pavement exactly how I have told her repeatedly not to run. I shake my head, sighing in exasperation. It’s like she defies me at every turn.

I step back into the shadows, biding my time as she approaches, completely unaware of the danger she’s running into. I’m sure she even has her headphones cranked up, drowning out the world around her. Perhaps these new experiences will make her more cautious in the future.

She’s about to run right by me when I reach out and grab her by her arm, giving her a quick yank to throw her off balance, then placing a light canvas bag over her head. I have to use the element of surprise to my advantage and incapacitate her quickly and efficiently; otherwise, she’ll either get in a lucky punch or kick, or she’ll scream bloody murder and draw unnecessary attention to us.

I pull her against my front, wrapping my arms around her so she can’t flail about as I lift her and walk toward my car, which is parked close by in the alley. She struggles half-heartedly, likely recognizing my scent or the feel of my body or some other romanticized reason she’s not fighting me like the banshee she is. Or she’s just tired and can’t be bothered because she’s also like that.

I press her face first down into the open trunk of my car, my knee in her back keeping her down when she briefly attempts to wiggle away. I truss her up in my best restraints, her arms and legs secure, and then swap the bag for a blindfold and ball gag. I won’t be making any so-called amateur mistakes this time around.

I push her further into the trunk, arranging her just so before gently closing the lid. I walk around to the driver’s side and get behind the wheel, feeling rather accomplished with how well that went. I learned my lesson last time, and there is no way she will get away this time.

Toni

Well, he certainly tried harder this time.

I’m genuinely surprised he decided to do this again so soon. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, considering I likely know next to nothing about the man I have been teasing mercilessly for what feels like ages. For all I know, snatching unsuspecting women off the street is a weekly occurrence for him.

I snort as best I can behind the gag in my mouth. I could’ve done without that added bonus when he thought how best to restrain me. He must still be sore about the kick to the balls because he definitely wasn’t taking any chances this go around. I can’t move my hands at all, and I’m barely maintaining circulation in my hands and feet.

I kind of want to kick him in the balls again.

Whatever happened to just asking a girl out?

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