Worse? We’d been chasing it with Bash’s favorite drinks; the ones he insisted I buy because some YouTuber swears it’s the elixir of the Gods.
“You know,” Demi muses, taking another sip ofrazz me up,swishing it around her mouth before gulping it down, “for something created by a douche-canoe, these are surprisingly good.”
I let out a slow breath. This night has gotten far more out of hand than I ever intended. But we’re home. We’re safe. Bash is safe with Andrew.
So why do I still feel like I’m doing something wrong?
I shake the thought away and turn back to my laptop, where Demi has been gleefully navigating what she claims is some kind of “dark web” help site.
“This isn’t the dark web,” I point out, narrowing my eyes at the very basic, very legal looking interface.
Demi waves me off. “It feels like the dark web. That’s what matters.”
I rub at my eyes, my alcohol-fueled patience wearing thin. “And what exactly are we doing?”
“Getting help,” she says dramatically. “You have a stalker, she’s crossed the line, and we need a plan.”
I’m about to argue when an open chat window on the screen catches my eye.
“Demi,” I screech, lunging for the keyboard, “was the voice-to-text on?!”
She blinks down at me, confused. “What?”
I scroll back through the chat history, my stomach dropping with every word.
[Guest]:how woud you handle a stalker?
[Guest]:I don’t think I should ask it like that Sable.
[Guest]:You have to be more discreeet.
[Guest]:We need a bitch gone. Yes?
I whip around to face her. “My name is in this, Demi!”
Demi flops back onto the couch, entirely unconcerned. “There are a lot of Sables in the world.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling through my nose. “That is not the point—”
A message pops up.
My heart stops.
I yelp.
Demi’s eyes go wide. “Oh my God, I might have peed.”
[Representative]:Who exactly do you need gone?
Demi and I look at one another.What do we do? Do we just tell him her name?
I slap my hand over my mouth. Demi clutches my arm again as if she is a horror movie heroine about to be dragged into the abyss. We stare at the message, eyes wide, hearts racing.
Demi inhales. “Okay, but is he hot?” She wags her sparkly painted nail at the keyboard. “Ask that.”
I whip my head toward her. “That is not the question we need to be asking right now!”
“Sure it is.” She sits up straighter, fanning herself. “Because if we’re hiring a hitman, I’d prefer one who looks capable of railing me through a wallandhiding the body without breaking a sweat. Get something out of it before we go to fucking jail for life.”
