Page 4 of Deal with the Devil

Really, it just makes me happy. Even though I spend way too many of my quickly depleting dollars on audiobooks. Hence the whoosh of yet another email.

I hate sending invoice reminders. It’s so cringe, but I’ve given my time and done the work. It’s only fair I get paid, right?

I mean, if I don’t get paid, I don’t have an address to give my internet provider, and if I can’t do that, then I can’t work. The ball just keeps rolling downhill from there.

Hooking the handle of my dollar store cup, I lift it to my lips and find it empty. Huffing a sigh, I pad into the kitchen to make myself another cheap London Fog. By cheap, I mean I haven’t yet bought myself one of those cutsie little home blenders that froth the milk. I do it the old-fashioned way with a jar that I shake the ever-loving crap out of for a solid minute. It’s worth it.

With a pinch of vanilla and probably too much sugar, I set to shaking the milk for my tea. When the kettle on the stove starts to whistle, I add the water and pad back to my mini workstation—better known as the far side of the kitchen table.

Antonio had hated coming to my little apartment. Everything annoyed him here, from where I worked at the table to the fact, I’d painted my kitchen a warm, rich, landlord-approved orange. He’d loathed the drawer I chose to keep my utensils in, to my pillowcases that weren’t cooling silk—whatever the hell cooling silk is. So, I always went to him. He’d tried tooth and nail to get me to move in with him, but I hadn’t been able to take that step. Something alwayskept me back from that, even when I agreed to wear his ring on my finger. I’d made the excuse that I wanted to wait until we were married.

Looking back, there were so many signs that we weren’t meant to be. The fact that he didn’t seem to like me for me being a neon red flag of warning I’d been too hopeful to read.

Honestly, I’m ashamed of myself for letting things with Antonio get so far. I’d almost married him—a man who hadn’t loved or respected me at all. Proved by the fact that, when he wanted to cheat on me, he’d gone for my best friend. The woman who was supposed to be my most trusted confidant.

Losing her hurt so much more than losing him. I blamed them both equally for their betrayal, but hers hurt more.

No matter how many times I went over things, I couldn’t figure out why he’d cheated. The sex, I’d thought, had been good—at least for him. We’d done the deed often enough, so it couldn’t have been lack of sex. And he always came. Every time. Me—not so much. But I figured that was a me problem, because I’d been with three men before Antonio, and none of them had ever gotten me there, either.

No biggie, I’ve got toys and I use such toys. Often.

Shutting down work for the night, I carry my tea to my bedroom and snuggle between the sheets, pausingmy audiobook for the spicier book I’m reading on my kindle.

At first, I think the weight on my chest is sleep paralysis. Awful as it is, I get it from time to time. It always leaves me gasping, unable to move, not even a twitch. Terrified.

This is different. The weight is heavier and yet less encompassing. My lungs burn and my chest aches even as my fingers twitch against the sheets.

I feel like I’m drowning in sleep, unable to grasp hold of consciousness. My limbs jerk once, a little leap that jars my heart. Then the pressure eases and I’m gasping in breath, realizing just now that I hadn’t been breathing.

There hadn’t been any air to breathe.

My eyes fly open to black. Pitch black. All wrong.

My apartment is never this dark. I always have some sort of light on, like the overhead stove light for example. Or even the plug-in light that makes the small hallway outside my bedroom glow blue. I don’t like the dark, never have.

But it’s dark now, I realize as fear begins to build inside me. Smothering me. Stealing all the air I gulped into my lungs just moments ago.

Even my curtains have been pulled shut, cutting out the light of the moon.

Maybe the power is out.

As soon as I have the thought, I know that’s not the case. I know it because I sense, terrifyingly, that I’m not alone. That sense is proven chillingly correct when I try to sit up and I’m met with that weight again, pushing me back into the bed.

I start to thrash like a wild thing as fear for my life snaps into place in my mind, sparking thoughtless actions. I’m a rabbit caught in a snare. Right now, I’ll break limbs to break free.

“Where’s your gangster now?” The words cut through the terror to stab like a blade into my mind. Recognition wars with confusion because the words make me think of Antonio—he’d said them last weekend at the club when I’d used Big Guy as a shield against him—but this voice right now, it doesn’t belong to Antonio.

“Who?” I start, gasp. “Are you?”

“You don’t need to know who I am to receive the message.”

My skin pebbles in response to the cryptic reply. Muscles coil under my skin, preparing to fight. He must sense this, must feel the way they move under my flesh—because he throws a leg over my body to straddle my belly, and his hands find mythroat once more.

Understanding flares red hot even as my blood temperature plummets to Arctic degrees. Terror claws from my throat in a scream that is cut off by squeezing fists. The thundering of my heart threatens to stop right there, paralyzed by fear. My legs kick out, trapped under the sheets.

I’m going to die.The thought is one I’ve never had, not even once before, in all the years I’ve lived. In the seconds that have ticked by, the moments of foolishness that reap accidents—I’ve never once truly believed that I faced the end. Looked down the dark tunnel of death. Scented the dark musk of the reaper as he crept slowly closer…

“Please,” I manage.

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