I stare at the vehicle as it rolls away, wrestling with this new sense of paranoia. I'm stressed. I've got nursing school, work, a busy boyfriend, and taking care of Johnny. This is simply stress manifesting itself in other ways. I think about telling my mother or my boyfriend, Carter, but what can I say? I made contact with a mesmerizing pair of eyes at the library? That some guy drove by and gawked at me washing my car in a bikini and cut-off shorts? Sounds like the life of any remotely attractive female.
But there was something more to the paranoia. Something I wouldn't even fully acknowledge myself, yet alone tell Carter or my mother. This feeling of worry intermingled with something deeper—an intense feeling of being coveted. Not the disgusted feeling I get from a guy catcalling or trying to sweet talk me, but a quiet longing. I have been with Carter so long, I have forgotten what it is like to play the game. To enjoy those stares from men that lasted a little longer than they should have. I have made myself impervious to them, turned off my sexuality for anyone but my long-faithful boyfriend.
Except this time. This time, I couldn't turn off the curiosity. Wondering if the man I had seen or thought I saw at the library had come around to my side of the bookcase, would the rest of him been just as stunning as those eyes? Without a word, would he have pushed me against the books so hard they would have rained off the shelves around me? Would he have pinned me, and fucked me fiercely until I came, pulling me out of the routine and obligations I had found myself bound to? I fantasized a couple of times about those eyes when I slept with Carter, just to help get me over the edge. I liked dirty thoughts, forbidden thoughts. The more forbidden, the more aroused I became, but I could never tell Carter that. I didn't want him to feel inadequate. Besides, fantasies are private. They live in your head, not to be made real.
There's a tug on my shorts. Johnny can't call my name, so I'm used to his touch. “Mmmhmm,” I answer, my mind still off in the far-away thoughts. I decide Johnny is more important than a couple of meaningless encounters, and give him my full attention. “You hungry?” I ask.
He nods.
“Grilled cheese?”
He shakes his head.
“Cereal?”
He nods.
“Okay. I'll finish this up later. Let's get you inside.” I lead Johnny to the door, but before entering, I cast one last look behind me to the now empty street. Just like at the library, I am left again with a hollow suspicion.
I'm itching for the feeling again. It's been a week since the last house and already I need more. It's gotten worse this past month, ever since I first spotted Vesper. But I'm not ready for her yet. There's still more planning to be done. The last home I hit, on the same day I snatched Vesper’s necklace, quelled the urge, but it's back faster and fiercer than ever. I've never wanted anyone so badly.
For now, I'll have to settle for the Hoeksmas. I've been watching them for a few weeks. She's an ER nurse, he's a teacher. They have a pretty ranch in Rancho Sol. I know tonight she's not on call and they'll likely fuck. They're usually like ships passing in the night because of her schedule. So when she's off, they make sure to get it in. I'll wait until they're asleep and naked. She'll be tired from her three weeks of non-stop work, and he will be in a deep sleep from fucking.
I walk from my getaway—a car parked several streets away. It's past midnight and this residential area is quiet. Only a few lights still shine through the windows of the ranches and split-level homes with manicured front lawns. I blend in just fine with my dark wig and matching mustache. My passage is a series of canals that connect several neighborhoods. They are barren and dark and make getting from point A to B quicker. I use the canals to get from my car to a couple of streets down from the Hoeskma's house. For the next two blocks, I am a late night jogger in a black sweat suit.
I tuck my chin down as I proceed so if anyone does pass, they won't get a clear view of my face. These small adjustments are important. As long as no one ever gets a clear view of me, and I get away from the scene, they'll never be able to identify me. I am always changing, so any picture painted of who I am will be blurry.