“Fuck,” I mumble, squinting out the window as another breeze blows drizzle against my face.
When did it start raining? Judging from my damp hoodie, quite a while ago.
My mouth tastes like an ashtray from all the weed I’ve smoked. My head filled with pencil shavings instead of brains. The bottle of Jäger I’d been nursing sloshes in my lap as I shift position, and I groan when I realize I’m going to be hungover as fuck tomorrow morning.
Where the fuck is my phone?
Actually, fuck that. I hope it fell into a black hole.
I blink, trying to bring the world into focus. The sorority houses across the road are all lit up, but my eyes flicker instinctively to Gamma Alpha Zeta.
I’ve been staring at it all day, one window in particular. Waiting. Watching.
Like a fucking stalker.
A pathetic, obsessed?—
The sound of a car door slamming cuts through my thoughts.
I fumble for the binoculars on the other side of the windowsill, nearly dropping them out the window. Dahmer lent them to me earlier today, not even bothering to ask what I needed them for.
All the better to stalk Haven with, my dear.
The world swims as I press them to my eyes, struggling to adjust the focus with trembling hands.
Speak of the fucking angel.
Haven materializes in my viewfinder like the very ghost I’d apparently been trying to summon with my beer bottles, wrapped in a ridiculous pastel blue poncho that makes her look like a lost child. She’s just gotten out of the Land Rover.
Where the fuck did she come from?
Where did she go?
Motherfucking Cotton Eyed Joe.
Jesus, I think I’m still drunk.
I keep the binoculars focused on Haven’s blue poncho as she moves over the road. Not heading inside, where it’s warm, and dry?—
and men are waiting to creep into her room
—but across the road.
My heart thumps at the thought that she might be heading this way.
Because she knows I was there this morning.
She’s on her way over to confront me.
But the angle’s wrong. She’s crossing straight over, seconds away from disappearing out of sight behind a frat house four doors down. Just before she vanishes, she raises an arm, taking a swig from the bottle in her hands.
Her movements are jerky, uncoordinated.
She’s drunk.
Just like me.
“Look what he did to you,” I grate out.
