I tried to distract him, but it didn’t work. He demanded,Answer my question. What did you mean, he’s not like me?
Then, again,Answer me.
I never replied to him, and it’s now been over 24 hours. Is he punishing my silence with his?
I felt like I was being followed from The Axis to the subway in SoHo, but I’m sure that was wishful thinking. For one thing, he can’t possibly be outside the hotel all the time. I rarely leave and never at night, so he would’ve had no reason to anticipate it.
Besides, he’s upset with me. I can feel it in his dragged-out silence. It’s fucked up. I’m the one who should be upset with him for what he did to me in Andre’s bathroom.
Of course, I could’ve used my safe word.
I didn’t because …
The truth is, it was strangely, disturbingly exciting to come like that, with Andre so close. I was terrified that he might discover me. I was so embarrassed after. But I get hard every time I think about it. I’m hard right now.
I want to get home and get in bed so I can imagine a new scenario in Andre’s bathroom. After what happened in the lobby today, I can now picture him with that vicious, predatory look in his eyes. In my head, I’m going to make him fuck me with that expression, in that bathroom, in front of the mirror so I can watch him.
I’m so distracted by the idea that I miss my stop. I get off at the next one, but I now have ten blocks to walk. I’m four blocks in when the hair lifts on the back of my neck. I look behind me, but I don’t see anyone.
After two more blocks, my heart is pounding. Someone is definitely following me. I keep hearing footsteps when there’s a lull in the traffic noise, then I look back and no one’s there. If it were simply another pedestrian, I would see them. They wouldn’t be moving through the shadows, out of sight.
It can’t possibly be my stalker. How could he know where I am? I was on the subway. I got off at the wrong stop. It doesn’t make sense.
I huddle into my jacket. I’m just being paranoid. The sidewalks aren’t packed, but they’re not empty either. It’s Friday night. Plenty of people are out. I can see a group of women across the street, and a guy just walked into a building.
But I can’t shake my paranoia. When I reach a cross street that runs all the way to the harbor, I duck around the corner. I just want to watch a few people go by. I want to be sure.
I wait for several minutes and see nothing suspicious. Everything is fine. Of course it is. Idiot.
I step out—and run straight into a big solid figure in black. A skull mask looks down at me.
I gasp. I stumble back. Adrenaline floods my system.
The thing about fear is that it doesn’t matter that it’s irrational. It’s powerful and it’s pure and it overwrites everything else.
So it doesn’t matter that it’s him.
Or maybe itdoesmatter. I know exactly how strong he is and how fast he is—and I know that he’s angry with me.
I felt it in his silence and I feel it now. And though he may have seen me many times since he fucked me in the woods, I haven’t seen him—and it’s that, our last encounter, that my body remembers.
So when he says, with the demonic rasp of the voice modulator, “Run,” I do.
I scramble.
I spin.
I fucking run.
He must give me a head start because I know he’s faster than I am. He’s proven that already. I know he can catch me. I know that he will. But I still run as fast as I can.
I make it to the harbor road and run several blocks along it. I start to think maybe I’ve lost him or maybe he just wanted to scare me. I think maybethisis my punishment, to be abandoned in the middle of my fear.
Could he be that cruel?
But even in thinking that, I can’t overwrite my flight response. I keep running. I dart into an alley, trying to cut back to my route so I can make it to the hotel—but that’s just what he was waiting for.
I don’t make it halfway along the alley before he grabs my jacket. I flail and almost fall, but he latches onto me and skids us to a stop. I thrash and shout, but he clamps a hand over my mouth. He wheels and pins me to a brick wall. He’s like a second wall at my back. He’s like a cage.
