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Sighing, he scrubs his hand over his face. “No, the Barnetts are the best fucking kind of people. The moment the women meet you, they’re going to want to adopt you.” I’m not sure why that’s a bad thing, but he sounds thoroughly pissed off about it.
I open my mouth to speak, but he talks over me yet again.
“My break is over; I have to get back to work. Text me a picture of your lunch, one before you start and one when you’re done, and make sure you eat more than you did for breakfast. And Etta.” He waits, staring at me intently. “Behave.”
Before I even work up the courage to speak, he cuts off the call, and my screen goes black.
What the hell just happened? Since he called my name last night, his behavior has been so hot and cold he’s giving me whiplash. When he showed up at the bus station, his body language and behavior made it abundantly clear that he did not want me here. But then he kissed me and pressed his very hard, very large cock into my belly and called me a good girl. Now he’s demanding I eat and telling me I need someone to take care of me, but he sounded furious that I was going to be working for someone he knows.
I’m so confused.
Does he hate me? Could this all just be an elaborate mindfuck to mess with me the way he did when we were kids? But what would be the point? I texted him and told him I was going to stay in a hotel, and he still came to the bus station knowing I wasn’t expecting to see him. He brought me here and insisted I stay. He cooked for me and seems to actually care about my well-being. Surely we’re too old to be playing stupid, childish games?
Knowing that the only person who can answer all of my questions is him, I exhale and try to shake off the confusion that I can’t do anything to resolve right now. Picking up my plate and silverware, I carry them into the kitchen, then clean up, washing everything I used for my breakfast in the basin. Once I’ve put everything back where I found it, I stand in the middle of the living room unsure of what I should do now. I don’t actually start my new job for another two weeks, so I don’t have any work to do. There’s a huge TV hung on the wall and a gaming console on a shelf beneath it, but it feels presumptuous to assume he’d be okay with me using it. Touching his things was strictly forbidden when we were kids, and the fear of his retribution is enough to have me refilling my coffee and heading back upstairs.
I feel better the moment I close the bedroom door behind me. This isn’t my room, but it is the room he told me to use, so it feels okay to be in here, unlike the rest of the house that feels like his domain. Pulling out my laptop, I open my emails and check through the unread ones, finding one from the realtor Octy and I contacted in Rockhead Point. Attached are listings for several rental apartments, but it’s clear from the pictures that all but one aren’t really suitable.
We don’t have a crazy list of needs our new home has to contain, we just need two bedrooms somewhere safe and within walking distance of work. Our main issue with finding a place is that our budget is pretty low, and rent in this tiny town is high. Clicking into the video call app, I find Octy’s name and hit dial. She answers almost immediately, and her face appears on the screen a moment later.
“Hey bestie,” she says, smiling widely.
Octy looks like what I’d expect a goth version of a Bratz doll to look like. She adores dramatic, black makeup but dresses like an emo baby doll. Her hair is naturally black, and she has full, thick bangs, and today, like most days, she has her hair in pigtails tied with elaborate vintage lace ribbons.
She’s sexy and curvy and so undeniably Octy that my bad mood dissipates the moment I see her face.
“Hey, how’s packing going?” I ask.
Her red-tinted lips turn down into a frown. “My landlord is being an asshole. He’s trying to say that my furniture is his. He’s threatening to take me to court over my pinball machine because I had to take the window out to get it in, and now he’s saying that it’s a fixture of the apartment, and I have to leave it behind.”
“That’s not fair,” I cry. “You can’t leave it behind, you love that thing.”
“Over my sexy dead body am I leaving it behind. It’s my pride and joy, so I might have to go to court. That also means I’m probably going to be here for another week, or maybe two. I’m so sorry, Etta. I know you wanted to wait until I got there to look for apartments. Is the hotel awful? Can you stay there longer, or do you want to just go and look at places for us on your own?”
“I’m actually not at the hotel,” I admit sheepishly.
“What?” she shrieks dramatically. “Are you still in Vegas? Where the fuck are you?”
“No. I’m in Rockhead Point. I’m at Oscar’s place.”
“Why the hell are you there? You hate him. And didn’t you tell me you’d text him to say you didn’t need to stay with him? Did your asshole stepdad, bully you into staying with that psychotic stepbrother of yours? Is he being a dick? Did you bring the pepper spray I got you? Go give him a face full of pain, then get the hell out of there. I’ll call Betty, and she’ll set you up in her spare room. She said you could stay with her anyway.”
Octy is talking so quickly I struggle to keep up with all the questions she’s asking me.
“Yes, I texted him last week, but he was at the bus station when I arrived and he just kind of brought me to his place. I told him I’d booked a hotel, and he just said no.”
“No?” she asks. “He can’t just say no.”
“I know, but he did. So now I’m in his house, which is far enough out of town that I can’t walk back. It was dark, so I’m not even a hundred percent sure where I am, but I’m pretty sure this place is up the mountain.”
“Did he kidnap you?” she asks, her voice little more than a whisper. “Blink three times if this is a hostage situation.”
“He didn’t kidnap me…well, I mean, I guess he sort of did, but I’m not a prisoner. If his house wasn’t so far from town, there’d be nothing stopping me from leaving.”
Tipping her head to the side, she looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Wait…he sort of kidnapped you?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Kidnap is the wrong word. Railroaded is probably a better description. You know I’m not very good at confrontation.”
“Etta, I’m going to need more than that. Explain exactly what happened,” Octy says, her expression shrewd as she narrows her eyes at me.
