Page 6 of Like a Hurricane

My bra was there, a cute little lilac number with lace over the cups and a little bow in the bridge that sits between the breasts but my underwear, a matching thong, is missing.

I check under the bench and in the corners. I move all the clothes, separating them out to make sure I hadn’t done that thing we all do at the gyno, and tuck them out of sight like underwear was something to be ashamed of but no, they aren’t here.

And unless underwear can grow legs and walk out on its own, someone had stolen my panties.

Motherfucker.

I pull the bra on and then my dress, feeling a little vulnerable since I was bare underneath and poke my head around the screen, “Suzy, do I happen to have a spare pair of panties in my bag?”

Her brows tug and knot in confusion, “Excuse me?”

“Check my bag,” I tell her.

Stammering, she rifles through my purse but comes up empty with a shrug.

Damn it.

“Someone stole my thong.”

She gasps, “I’ll call security immediately!”

I roll my eyes, “Don’t bother. Not the first time, won’t be the last. Think we could swing a stop at a store to grab a pair?”

“We’ve got seventeen minutes before we have to be there and the drive takes at least twenty without traffic,” Suzy grimaces.

“Fuck, okay.”

Commando it is. I gather the rest of my belongings and follow behind Suzy, making our way back out into the bitter January wind before I climb into the waiting car.

I was counting down the hours for the day to be over.

I kick my shoes off at the door, landing on the flats of my feet with a sigh and head straight through to my bedroom, turning left to disappear into the walk-in closet, already pulling on the zipper of my dress.

It falls to the floor in a swish of material, and I unhook my bra, standing there naked for just a minute before I head through to the bathroom, shower off the day and then get into that comfortable pair of shorts and tee I’ve been looking forward to since this morning.

As promised, I was done with the day by three, home by four and on the couch, ordering take out by five. My long dark hair is pulled up into a messy bun atop my head, my skin gloriously free of any product.

I was starting to wonder if it was time to reduce my hours. I did love my job but the more I did it, the less I liked it.

Now the designing of underwear and the overseeing of manufacturing, that was different. I never watched the minutes during that, if anything I wished the clock would slow so I had longer to dedicate my time to it but the modelling, it was becoming a chore.

I had wanted to be a model ever since I was little, watching these gorgeous women splashed across magazines and on TV, seeing them with their make-up done, their hair perfectly styled and clothing looking like it was made for them. I reached that dream and now it was rapidly going downhill.

Not my career, that was as steady and firm as a rock, but my feelings on it.

I flick endlessly through the programs listed on the TV, not picking one until there is a rap of knuckles on my door, my stomach rumbling obnoxiously loud.

A kid greets me on the other side, handing me a brown bag that smelled delicious and scurries away.

But my feet freeze on the threshold, a chill rushing down my spine.

Have you ever had the sense you’re being watched? Like you can’t see it to confirm it, but you justknow?

I glance left and right on the street, the streetlights illuminating the packed white snow on the sidewalks, but all is quiet. The snow falls gently, adding to the already thick layer on the ground and a breeze teases the bare branches of the trees that line my road. But there isn’t a single person out here, no tracks in the snow other than the ones left by the delivery guy and me.

I live on a very quiet street in Portland, my little bungalow tucked back from the road and there aren’t many who know where I live. I’ve had to deal with one too many stalkers to be careless, and I paid a shit ton of money to keep my property secure.

Yet, I still feel like there is a set of eyes on me.

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