Swallows.
"The Masked Man."
Everything inside me shrivels.
Dies.
Turns to ash.
The Masked Man.
Caleb.
Of course it's Caleb.
Of course he's still watching. Still manipulating. Still pulling strings like I'm his fucking puppet.
I can't breathe.
Marty is still talking. "He gave me a script. Like, literally word-for-word what to say. The BookTok thing, the throat-fucking thing, all of it. He said you'd respond to it. That you'd get turned on if I said it right. And I—god, I'm such an asshole. I actually practiced in the mirror."
My vision is blurring at the edges.
"He told me to come on strong. Said he knew exactly what would make you wet. Those were his literal words. My god, what the fuck is wrong with me? But I was like, how hard could it be? Ya know?"
Stop talking.
Please stop talking.
"But then, I was sitting here watching you react—watching your face when I said those things—" Marty's voice breaks again. "You actually believed it. You thought I meant it. And that's so fucked up. That's so?—"
He stands abruptly.
I don't look up.
Marty pulls out his wallet. Bills hit the table. I count them in my peripheral vision. Five hundred-dollar bills.
"That's his money," Marty says. "The Masked Man's. You can keep the change or whatever. I don't—I can't?—"
He's backing away. "I'm sorry. I know that doesn't mean anything but I'm really, really sorry."
And then he's gone.
Walking away.
Leaving me sitting here alone.
The restaurant noise floods back in. Conversations. Silverware clinking. Someone laughing at a nearby table.
I'm still frozen.
Still not breathing right.
Five hundred dollars is sitting in front of me.
The Masked Man's money.
Caleb's money.
