“No, we’re going to a nice little Italian place.”
“I don’t want weird food.”
“Why can’t we go to Olive Garden?”
“I think I can get a Groupon…”
The car door slams, and the family drives off.
I walk in the shadows up the street to her house.
“I’m not escalating,” I tell myself as I jimmy the lock to the French doors that lead into Winnie’s bedroom with the soft-white curtains and the watercolors in gold frames on the wallpaper with its subtle pink-and-gray pattern.
Sure, I’ve been in her house before. But that was to clean or leave her presents. And it was during the day.
This is helping me not escalate.
I had to change my methods. I was forced to. She moved her entire family in, for Christ’s sake.
Fidget, yawning, noses the bedroom door open, stumbles into the room, and wags her black-and-white tail at me.
“Hey, girl, how’s my favorite cone head?” I tease the dog, scratching her furry head under the plastic cone.
She doesn’t bark. She knows I’ve got treats for her.
I give her some vegan pepperoni. Low calorie.
“You’re a terrible guard dog,” I whisper to her, scratching her ears. “We’re lucky no one actually dangerous is after Winnie, or we’d be in big trouble, wouldn’t we?”
Scanning her room, I hope she hasn’t washed it.
The dress.
I wanted to take it last night when the smell of her was still there.
The garment is hanging up on the back of the bathroom door. It’s soft pressed to my face. She didn’t wash it. No harsh chemical smell, just her.
I’m half hard breathing in the smell of her. I’d jack off, humping the couch like a teenager, except the border collie is right there in the room, gnawing on the treat.
I swap the new dress with the old one then continue slowly roaming through her space, wanting to know every piece of her.
A scrap of lace peeks out from underneath the lid of the white laundry hamper.
“Don’t do it,” I tell myself out loud.
I’ve had her clothes washed before, meaning I take the bag in the hamper and drive them to the laundry service my hotels use that washes and folds them for her.
I don’t dig through her dirty laundry. That would be… well, escalation.
My hand balls into a fist.Back away.But I’m already reaching out—
“God, they drive me crazy!”
Fuck.Fuck!Winnie’s back. What did she forget?
I have to go. I look around wildly.
Too late. She’s running up the stairs.
