Page 186 of Faking the Goal

I nearly choke on my wine.

I stare at him for a beat before a laugh bursts out of me.

"Oh my God." I wave a hand at him, still laughing. "That might be the funniest thing you've said all night."

Kentaro doesn't say anything.

"You know what? I think the wine is finally getting to you." I pick up my glass and take another sip, shaking my head. "Don't worry. I'm not taking anything you say seriously until you sober up."

I peek at him over the rim of my glass.

He's grinning.

See?

He was joking.

Obviously.

I hide my own smile behind another sip of wine, ignoring the tiny flutter in my stomach that apparently didn't get the memo.

CHAPTER 25

TAYLOR

I wake with a gasp, my entire body jerking beneath the sheets as the last pieces of the nightmare cling stubbornly to the back of my mind. My heart is pounding so hard it hurts, and even though I know I'm awake, it still takes several seconds before the darkness around me turns back into my apartment instead of whatever fresh hell my brain decided to drag me through tonight.

The nightmare has changed lately.

It used to always be Kirk. His face above mine. His hands around my throat. Me fighting to breathe while he squeezed harder and harder. But the last few times, it hasn't been his face staring down at me anymore. It's someone else. I can never see who. No matter how hard I try to focus, his features stay blurred, like my brain refuses to give him a face.

And somehow, that makes it so much worse.

Because when it was Kirk, at least I knew who I was afraid of. Now I'm staring up at a stranger while his hands close around my throat, and the terror is so much worse that even after I wake up, some part of me still feels like he's here.

I stare at the ceiling, breathing through the tightness in my chest, already knowing I won't be falling back asleep.

Fantastic.

School only started this week, and I'm already completely fucking drained because apparently my subconscious has decided rest is for people who aren't being stalked by emotionally unstable creeps.

Before, this wouldn't have been such a problem. One decent orgasm and I'd be out cold afterward, sleeping like I'd been tranquilized.

But no.

Then I had to go and enter my celibacy era like some deeply misguided woman trying to find herself.

Not that it matters anymore.

I've tried taking care of the problem myself. Believe me, I've tried. That's basically all I have left these days unless I suddenly decide personal growth is overrated and start making terrible decisions again.

Last night. The night before that. Same pathetic result.

I just lay there with my hand between my legs like some sexually frustrated Victorian widow who recently discovered electricity, and absolutely nothing happens because apparently my brain is now too stressed for even my own hand—or my favorite toys—to get the job done.

Thank you, creepy stalker. Really appreciate what you've done for my sex life.

You try having an earth-shattering orgasm when your internal monologue sounds like, Did I lock the door? Was that somebody outside? Should I buy another can of pepper spray? Maybe two. Can you bulk-order pepper spray?