I scroll through my site, find the private chatroom with Paul’s username in it, and click. Start the clock, then put my laptop down, moving back to the laundry. “Got it. I’m in. How’s your day going?”
We settle into conversation, the words flowing easily. I know him, in all honesty, better than Jeremy. I can predict his responses, can tell you the name of every member of his family, his best friend growing up, the last five repairs he did to the barely-a-classic Bronco he’s driven since high school. And he thinks that he knows everything about me. I stopped making up things on our third chat, when I realized his memory could be listed as a registered weapon it is so sharp. I use as many real names and details as I can, dutifully recording everything that I tell him on a notepad I keep for our chats. During our calls I live in a world I once knew—that of a college freshman, sharing details of my old roommate, Jenny, a girl who is probably now pregnant and married, but—in my warped sense of time—lives in the connected apartment and never buys laundry detergent, hangs wet towels all over the porch, and goes through relationship drama with every male she can find. He knows about Summer and Trent, though—in my fairy-tale world—they are still alive, anxiously waiting for me to get home for break. Trent recently developed an obsession with video games, Summer is trying out for Pee Wee cheerleading. I love our chats. I love the admiration and warmth that fills his voice, the way he pictures me. In Paul’s mind, I am perfect. And, in the world I create on our calls, my life is perfect. No thoughts of murder, no blood in my past. My family is alive and normal; they love me. My world is open and free; I am a normal college student with normal problems. Finals. Best friend drama. The difficult decision of whether I should spend spring break in Cabo or Panama City Beach.
I fold and sort thongs, panties, boyshorts. Line push-ups, underwires, and camisoles in my drawer. Hang up teddies, silk robes, and schoolgirl button-ups. Organize my leather crops, dildos, and ball gags. Strip off sheets that smell of lube and replace them with a fresh pink set. Lie back on said sheets and stare at the ceiling. Wish I saw stars instead of beams. Listen to Paul’s smooth voice and glance at the time. One hour twenty-one minutes so far. I close my eyes and laugh when he jokes.
There is a knock on the door, and I sit up with a frown.
Jeremy? I don’t know who else it could be. But this is odd, especially since he should be chewing on a ribeye at his sister’s house right now. I move to the door and look through the peephole, right at the time that another knock sounds.
Simon, his black hair sticking out in all directions. My frown deepens, and I hold the phone away from my mouth, covering the receiver with my hand. “What?” I call out to him.
The druggie’s head snaps up, his eyes at the peephole. It’s a weird experience when someone looks directly at you through the warped viewing glass. When you look back, knowing that they can’t see you, despite the proximity and directness of their stare. “Hey. I just wanted to see if you were home.”
“I’m always home.”
He laughs awkwardly, looking up and down the hall before looking at the peephole again. “Right. Can I come in? I thought maybe we could hang out. Get to know each other. I wanted to apologize for the other night… I brought beer.” He holds up what looks to be a six-pack.
He brought beer. Like six bucks’ worth of alcohol will change our entire relationship, cause me to open my door and welcome a stranger inside, to “get to know each other.” I’ll get to know him all right. Every inch of what lies underneath his skin. I bet his muscles are dry, the drugs in his system eating at any extra blood or fat. It’d probably be a breeze to skin him. I almost salivate at the thought and am brought back to earth by Paul’s voice in my ear. “You okay?”
Paul. Oh, right. The guy paying me seven bucks a minute to break his heart. I step away from the door, move the phone in front of my mouth. “Just a sec. My neighbor’s asking for something.” Asking for me to cut him open. Feast on his skin with every utensil in my safe.
I almost move to it. Roll my fingers over the safe’s dial to unlock the heavy door. Just in case. Just so I won’t have to struggle with it while Simon is here. Just so I can move the weapons to strategically convenient places around the room. Almost. Instead I take a deep breath, move away from the safe, back to the door. “Go away, Simon.”
“But—I…” He continues holding up the beer, a pathetic waste of a gesture. Ice-cold soda and he may have been granted entry. A root beer float, the ice cream still bobbing on top of dark carbonation? I’d have broken down the door in my haste to let him in.
Instead, I rest my forehead on the door, my eyes stuck to his image. “Leave me alone,” I bite out, my hand gripping the phone so hard I worry about breaking its cheap frame in half.
“What’s wrong?” Paul’s voice sounds worried. I ignore it, staring through the peephole.
“Fine, sorry.” Simon backs away, holding up his other hand in a calm-the-fuck-down manner. “I just wanted to apologize. Maybe it’s a bad time.”
“It’s always a bad time!” I yell the words, hoping my hand will muffle the words from Paul, and that the scream will get things through Simon’s skull before I lick the warm beer off his dead body.
I take a deep breath, holding the air and then blowing it out. Count to five because I’m not patient enough for ten. Turn and step away from the door. Wish it were nine at night, and I was locked in. Curse Simon for ruining a moment that felt normal. I take a few more breaths and return the phone to my ear.
“Sorry about that. My neighbor’s a pain in the ass.” My voice is so light I impress myself. So calm that it takes Paul a moment to respond.
“Uh… okay. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say smoothly. I lie back on my sheets and will my hands to stop shaking.