Page 12 of Who The Hell Are You?

I took a couple of photos with the neon glowing, so I fiddle with the contrast and darkness before making it my profile picture. It's gloomy, with the lilac stitching from my mask shining like a death beacon. Perfect. So I don't chicken out, I immediately get to work chopping up the video, making sure it's dark but alluring. That's what I thought anyway about the small collection of videos he'd already posted. My suggestions page has suddenly turned into a thirst trap nirvana, but I only looked at what he posted. Do I even want to pause to analyse that? Hell no. Adding music by Bad Omens, I stumble over writing my caption and add a couple of tags. I’ve seen that he uses them, and then I post the thing. Ignoring the adrenaline I feel buzzing along my skin, I search his username and hit up the private message icon. I've still got my phone on do-not-disturb, so there are a bunch of messages from him already sitting there. I ignore them.

@Inkedreaper: Enjoy.

I practically feel high right now putting myself out there on the internet like this, hiding my identity weirdly making me hard. Fuck–should I be hard right now? Why did I message him that? It's too late to delete it because almost immediately there's a reply.

@Yourghostboy: Oh I will dirty boy

@Inkedreaper: Fuck you.

@Yourghostboy: 👀

@Inkedreaper: No!

YOU KNOW THATS NOT WHAT I MEANT!

@Yourghostboy: Why so serious? It's all good boo 👻

@Inkedreaper: I’m not your boo 😡 Don't call me that.

@Yourghostboy: I see how it is, more of a baby man are you? How about pumpkin?

Sweetheart? Darling?

@Inkedreaper: I'll block you.

@Yourghostboy: Kinky.

The audacity of this guy manages to pull me into a blinding rage, but whilst I mumble over what to reply, both of my house mates barreling into the living room still in their rugby gear. I didn't even hear the front door open.

“Rowley got that promotion, so you missed out on free pints Cassie!” Emery sings, launching himself onto me. Completely lost in my private messages, I yelp and hurl the only thing I have on me. My phone.

“You fucker!” He hisses, rubbing his shoulder and to my horror picks up my device from the floor.

“I didn't hear you come in! I thought I was being attacked!” I try to grab for my phone, but Em stretches out his arm whilst kneeling on my chest.

“Oh yes, gimme some of your sweet ass Cassie.” he teases but my complete focus is on my phone, with its screen still lit and showing the chat with the masked stranger.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Ugh–not like that! Get off me.” I managed to swing my leg under him and kick, sending him crashing onto the floor, wheezing on a choked laugh.

“Pair of you–knock it off.” Harris commands firmly, always the dad of our small group and spends most of his time looking after us like we’re toddlers he's been saddled with. He is looking over some paperwork no doubt for the farm back home, completely oblivious to how close I am to dying of embarrassment or strangling my best friend to death to stop said embarrassment. There's nothing I can do to stop him from looking at my phone as he stands, about to hand it over, when Em frowns and swipes something down. “Hey, this comment on an Instagram post you're looking at says, I’d swallow every inch, and another is just a video of a condom being torn? Girls be out here gagging–”

I throw myself at him and snatch the phone back, firmly locking the screen off and try to hide how beet red I know my face has turned.

“Masktok, it’s the season right?” I don't even know what's coming out of my mouth, but to my relief Emery nods and points his finger at me.

“That's true, my for you page is all horror movies and scream masks.”

I cringe a little–he can't know, right? Of course he doesn't. This is me confirming I have definitely gone insane. I should delete the account and block Yourghostboy on my personal account too.

“Yep, everyone's ready for Halloween already.” I squeak, lucky that Harris isn't paying us a wink of attention because he'd for sure be able to tell something is wrong with me. Side stepping past my friend, he drops onto the sofa and I make a beeline for the stairs, my grip almost snapping my phone in half where it's clutched to my chest. “Gonna have a nap!”

“Sure, I'm making bolognese so make sure you're down for dinner time, yeah?”

“Yep! Ok, sure–see you.”

I've barely made it into my room when I get another notification, my panic souring into annoyance because I need this guy to stop.