Page 8 of Dangerous Games

I put a fake smile on my face, hoping he doesn’t see through it. There’s absolutely no way I can tell him what happened last night. It sounds like something straight out of a bad horror movie. I don’t think he would believe me if I tried. I know I wouldn’t. “I’ll try not to do it tonight.”

“So…about closing…” Nate trails off as he continues working.

I grab a stack to stock and round the counter. “That’s fine. Are you taking Tory anywhere fun for her birthday?”

“I booked a table at Bella Vita,” he says smugly.

Tory is his new girlfriend. I use that term very lightly. They haven’t been together long, but it doesn’t surprise me that Nate is pulling out all the stops for her. He’s a bit of a serial dater. He’ll be all into someone to the point I feel smothered for her for about a month before he gets bored and moves on to the next best thing. It’s disgusting, but what am I going to do about it?

I let out a low whistle. “Wow. You’re really pulling out the big guns.”

“I think she might be the one. When you need coverage for a date or something, I got you.”

He thinks every single girl is the one.

I snicker. “You’ll be the first to know if that ever happens.”

Dating hasn’t been my strong suit. I’m not sure if it’s a me problem or if the wrong guys just happen to keep finding me. Whatever it is, I’d like it to stop. Is it so hard to want a guy who’s into a girl who likes to game, works a job that pays just above minimum wage and doesn’t leave the house unless she absolutely has to? It would be nice if they were also okay with me streaming. My page isn’t where I want it to be yet, but I’m well on my way. The end goal is to make that my full-time job. The last two guys I casually dated didn’t see it that way. One of them thought it was a cute little hobby, which was demeaning as fuck, and the other one didn’t like how much time I spent online because he thought it should be spent with him. It felt like there was no winning.

The rest of the day passes by with nothing eventful happening, which after last night I’m okay with. I’m a little nervous to walk home by myself. What if he’s waiting for me? He knows where I live now.

These are the thoughts racing through my head on repeat as I walk home. I keep my attention on my path straight ahead because I know if I look around it’s going to make my paranoia even worse. I don’t need my mind playing tricks on me while I’m trying to focus on not dying.

By the time I reach the alley, I’m holding my breath as I peer around the corner looking for any signs of life. Nothing pops out as I practically run to the metal stairs and race up them before he can dart out from wherever he’s hiding and grab me. I unlock my door in record time, step inside and lock it even faster.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

I made it.

I shed my clothes and hop in the shower, washing away the twelve-hour workday before changing into a pair of lounge clothes as I try to figure out what I’m going to eat. I haven’t gone grocery shopping in over a month, and I know I ate my last piece of bread yesterday.

My stomach growls as I open my fridge and freeze.

I expected to find it mainly empty as I was fully prepared to drink enough water until I felt full. What I wasn’t expecting was to find my fridge full of cold cuts, cheeses, fruits, and vegetables.

“What the fuck?” I whisper slowly as I look around my studio.

Was someone in my place? Where did all this food come from?

Pounding sounds on my front door, making me jump and scream for the second time today. My heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest as I stand in front of my fridge with the door open, unable to move.

No one I know would be knocking on my door right now.

The pounding starts again, this time sounding more urgent and loud, making my eyes dart around my apartment as I try to find somewhere to hide. There’s only one way in and out, and whoever is on the other side of the door is blocking my path.

Shit.

I’m stuck.

“Open up! I know you’re in there!” a man yells through the door as he pounds his fist against it again.

I cross the small space of my apartment and take my chances looking through the peephole.

“Shit.” I gasp, my hand covering my mouth as I take a step back.

It’s the man from last night.

I could call the cops, but I’m sure the hand is long gone by now and I doubt they would believe me. It sounds crazy to me. So crazy that I almost think I dreamed it. If anything, it would probably get me committed.