Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
A note, handwritten on textured paper, lies beside it: “Use it wisely.”
My stomach churns. It’s not signed, but it doesn’t need to be.
What’s his name?
“Um, excuse me.” I’m talking to dead air like a psycho, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s watching me. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
It’s ridiculous. But this feeling, the same one I got at the gym, is prickling the back of my neck and won’t go away.
My eyes flick to the corners of the room, to the window, even to the tiny blinking light on my laptop.
He’s been watching me. I know he has.
“Do you think this is a game?” I say out loud, again to no one.
What am I doing? I rub my temples. I’m losing it.
I pace the small space of my apartment, my steps muffled by the worn rug. He’s been watching me—closely enough to know my weak spots, to anticipate that I’d be drawn to the camera like a moth to flame.
I should call the police. I should burn the thing and be done with him.
Instead, my fingers itch for the leather strap.
The thought makes me nauseous, and I push the chair back violently, sending it scraping across the floor. The sound jolts me, grounding me, and I take a shaky breath. This isn’t normal. This isn’t okay.
But damn it, if there isn’t a part of me—small, treacherous—that feels seen.
I stare at the camera, daring it to reveal the secrets it carries. What’s on the film? What has he captured?
Some modern photographers don’t use a dark room anymore, fully embracing the lure of digital art and eschewing the older methods. But me… I love it.
It takes less than five minutes to load the film into the developing tank, my hands working on autopilot, movements honed from years of practice.
Until the first image appears.
It’s me.
Walking down Melrose, oblivious that I’m being watched.
Me, sitting on a park bench, scrolling through my phone, completely exposed.
Me, entering my apartment building, keys in hand, shadowed by the late afternoon light.
I slam my fists against the table, the developing solution splashing over my hands as I head to use the bathroom. Surely he hasn’t set up a camera in there.
But when I get to the bathroom, the glaring, flickering fluorescent lighting reminds me that this is the worst part of this apartment. A cramped space with tiles that perpetually feel damp and a shower curtain that clings to my skin no matter how hard I try to avoid it. It’s a good thing I’m barely five feet tall because anyone bigger than me wouldn’t even fit in that shower.
I hung up a framed print of a sunlit forest on the wall, a hopeful touch, but even that can’t mask the reality of rust-stained fixtures and a cracked mirror.
God, I hate this place.
I flick off the light and march back to my room, coffee in hand, and check my messages.
I have a few choice things to say.
Sure enough, Shawn’s back at it again, and there are… wait. I blink. I look again.
That’s four times as many notifications as I normally get on one of my posts.
I stare, my eyes wide, as I flick open the app. My jaw unhinges.
Overnight, three different follower badges are tacked next to my name, thanks in no small part to the videos my stalker’s account tags me in.
My mouth goes dry as I quickly do the math. This is… this is going to bring in money. Good money, ten times faster than any photography gig I could bring in, all while sitting in the privacy of my home.
I could… if this keeps up, I could move out of this shithole and into a place of my own—
No.
NO!
I can’t allow myself to fall for this… I can’t.
There has to be another way.
My notifications tell me that he posted another video.
Last week, I was happily immersed in my fictional worlds, where it was…safe. And now…
My hands are shaking, and I can’t look away. I click the button.
I exhale. Now that I’ve seen him in person, the sight of him on-screen makes my heart slam so hard against my rib cage I hold onto the bed for support. The camera shows his best angles, yes, but I know what it’s like to be next to him, to see those veins along his neck when he leans against the wall, to hear his low, dark voice in my ear, to see his broad shoulders and powerful frame, knowing he could and would have his way with me and I’d never be the same.
Also? He smelled so good.
Sigh.
My god. I’m wet and bothered—and he didn’t even touch me.
I swallow hard and let myself watch the video.
This one’s new, shot in the early morning light I am oh-so-familiar with on the rooftop. I narrow my eyes and look closer—no, he isn’t on my rooftop. Instead of the industrial pipes and sea of gray, I can tell this rooftop’s different. Higher end.