Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Taking a determined breath, I move over to yet another atypical thing in his space: a tattoo machine. Or rather a tattoo station on the other side of the room by the mirror, complete with a steel table containing a tattoo gun, needles, and cartridges. Ink. I trace my fingers over them, too, over the cool table, the equipment, wondering if I ever saw any ink on him. But then again, I only really saw him this morning so it’s not as if I’m an expert on all things him.
In light of that, I need to do what I came here to do: snoop. Rather than standing around and wasting time. Because despite what this whole situation looks like—no locked doors, pretty borrowed dresses, and attending a bonfire party—I’m still very much a prisoner here and can’t roam unsupervised.
So I spend the next several minutes going through the books on his desk, mostly history, world and American. I open and close his desk drawers only to find gas station receipts, some loose change, stationery, really nothing that would tell me anything. Same with his chest of drawers. Nothing but neatly folded clothes. Although I do find a drawer full of bandannas, and my heart stutters for a few seconds as I stare down at them. They’re all lightweight and soft, mostly dark in color. Before I can stop myself, I start flicking through them, rooting around for one specific bandanna. The one he used to mask his face. Except when he was gagging me with it. My already stuttering heart skips a beat when I find it.
I shake it out and stare at the black-and-white skeleton.
For so long, this was my image of him. This was what I saw in my dreams, a man with green eyes wearing a skeleton mask. Watching me from the shadows. Keeping me safe, making me feel so alive that some days I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t know what to do except seek him out. Somehow make him appear, my Phantom. So I’d do stupid things: go to bars and flirt with strange guys, dance with them, laugh with them. Go to dangerous places, dark alleys, just so he’d make sure I got home safe. Walk around in my apartment, my bedroom, like it was my own stage, like I was putting on a show for him. Giving him something to watch.
You’re so stupid, Peyton. You’re so fucking…
That’s when I feel it. Feel what I’ve been feeling for the past few months, felt the whole time at the bonfire. His eyes. Watching. Scrunching up his bandanna in my hand, I spin around and press myself against his dresser. He’s much closer than I expected him to be. He stands by the wooden pole with the lantern and watches me from under his black leather Stetson. It sits low on his head, casting his eyes in a shadow, but I can see them glinting through the darkness. Staring at me. His sharp features are blank, resting, giving nothing away—but this can’t be good.
Even so, my heart races, and it’s not all from the fear of being caught.
I try to sound as nonchalant as I can as I ask, “How long have you been here?”
As always, he replies to me in his own time and completely ignores my question. “You gonna put that back?”
My fingers fist around his bandanna as I counter, “You sneak up on people a lot, don’t you?”
“Only the clueless ones.”
“Maybe you’re just that creepy.”
“Or maybe you need to look around once in a while.”
I watch him for a few moments before stating what I now think is obvious: “You’ve been here the whole time, haven’t you?”
He stays silent and watching.
“Did you follow me from the party?”
Again, he doesn’t have to say anything for me to figure out the answer.
Fuck. I was so careful. I only snuck out when I knew—saw—he was busy with a couple of people. But I should’ve known. I mean, he’s the man who stalked me way before I knew he existed. Clearly, he knows what he’s doing. I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you here to drag me back to my room and lock me up this time?”
At this, he lifts his head slightly so I can see his face and replies, “Weighin’ my options.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Well if you’re takin’ suggestions, might I say that locking me up isn’t an effective way to stop me from doing things you don’t want me to do.”
“No?”
“Nope.” I shake my head, popping the “p” at the end. “A lot of people have tried, but no one can hold me for long.”
“Is that right?”
“Yup.” I pop the “p” at the end here too. “And I know you’re the rope expert here. I mean”—I wave my hand to the wall with ropes—“very impressive display. But they haven’t invented a rope that can slow me down yet.” I give him a sweet smile, just to fuck with him. I also go ahead and tie his bandanna around my neck like a jaunty scarf. Again, to fuck with him.