His bathroom. I sprint.
There’s cologne on the sink. I spritz it into the air and spin through it like a deranged perfume commercial. I inhale so hard I nearly give myself a huffing problem.
Then I pull my lipstick from my bra. Yes, it lives there, it’s a support pouch for both tits and chaotic decisions.
I draw a heart on his mirror. I kiss it.
Full lips. Perfect print. DNA level confession.
I step back, admire my work, whisper, “this is what love looks like, Jett, you emotionally chaotic sex wolf.” And then I whisper to my own reflection, “You’re so mentally unwell. I’m proud of you.”
On my way out I linger. Touch things. Sit on the couch just to leave a tiny glitter butt print. Check the fridge again and adjust the cherry pie front and center. A threatening promise.
Back at the window, I slip through with the grace of someone who has definitely done this before. I don’t look back.
He’ll find the bag.
The dress.
See the heart.
He’ll feel me in every corner of the house.
I didn’t break in. I broke through.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jett
I’m not calm.
I’m a fucking explosive cocktail of fury, hunger, and something dangerously close to heartbreak, and I’m riding it all the way to hell on two wheels. I don’t remember the drive home. I could’ve run over a priest and I wouldn’t notice. The wind’s howling in my ears but all I hear is her screaming my name.
Benji? Who the fuck is Benji? Who the fuck is okay with her chasing me?
You like when she stalks someone else, Benji? That get you off? I’ll fucking staple her to my chest.
And Rhys. I want to break his calm little neck. He sat there with his smooth therapist voice and acted like it was all normal. “Maybe you should go for it.” Like he doesn’t jack off after every session, picturing her spread on his couch like she needs a psych eval mid-orgasm.
I’m seething as I yank into the driveway.
Mrs. Henderson peers out her window and I flip her off without breaking stride. She can add that to her notes about the feral psycho across the street.
I throw open the front door and stop.
The house smells wrong.
Sweet. Sugary. Floral. Like sex and perfume and sin. Like her.
Delilah P. Darling. The p is for Predator or Perfect Pussy.
I step inside and every hair on my body lifts.
The door closes behind me with a click that sounds like checkmate.
Something’s been moved. The air’s disturbed. It’s not obvious, but my skin knows. My instincts know.
She’s been here.
