But it was satisfying all the same.
It spirals down the drain, disappearing into the abyss. Out of sight. Out of mind. Like the life it bled from.
Poetic.
Danny has an epiphany in the next stall. “Hey, so, does Pippa know you’re… well, DystopiaNet-you?”
“No, not yet.”
“Viv said she mentioned needing new deadbolts? Did you break in?”
“Maybe,” I curtly reply. Danny feigns his shock with a theatrical gasp.
But a damage-control idea is already taking form.
With one last sweep and a check off of our gear, we lock up, cast each other a nod, and go our separate ways.
NINE
PIP
I pull up in front of my place after driving back from a night at Viv’s.
He’s been in my house!
The thought looped in my mind over and over again, dredging up the fear I felt at work.
My heart races as I replay the events and the sickening sensation of his soulless eyes on me. The messages I once found endearing and a turn-on now fill me with repulsion.
Unable to force myself to go inside, I go for a jog instead to clear my head.
On my return, there's a familiar truck pulled up behind my car with a certain familiar, attractive god leaning against it. I cock my eyebrow and scan him warily as I get closer.
“Hey, you.” Grayson stands upright, stepping toward me. His movements are slow, deliberate, careful—like he’s gauging my reaction.
“Hey?” I say, my voice laced with suspicion.
“Word on the grapevine is you need new locks? I happen to be a pretty good handyman,” he states. I connect the dots, linking what I fleetingly said to Viv must’ve found its way to him. His eyeslinger on my jaw. His gaze sharpens, flicking lower, tracking the barely-there bruise on my throat. “Did he hurt you?”
“Superficially,” I shrug. “I’m fine. A mini break from work till after Halloween will do me some good. Who wants to work over Halloween, right?”
He nods before leaning in to pull his toolkit out of the tray. “Put me to work then?”
I show him inside, and he takes to the task immediately on my front door. I acquiesce myself to the kitchen for a post-run glass of water, flicking the TV on in passing.
News anchors are reporting Tanner’s disappearance, authorities suspecting he’s fled. Figures!
“Son of a bitch,” I mumble.
Grayson pops his head in. “Did you say something?”
I glance at him, then back at the TV. "Yeah. Just pissed that I’m changing my locks while that douche canoe is probably already halfway to Canada."
Grayson tilts his head. “If you got your hands on him, what would you do?”
“Bury him,” I shoot flatly.
He laughs—a sharp, amused sound. Like I’ve just passed some kind of test. “You’re wired a bit differently, huh?”
