Page 133 of Letters From A Stalker

“I know.”

“You applied when you were convinced you weren’t qualified, did the placement testing anyway and got accepted. You’re allowed to be happy about that before inventing the next reason it doesn’t count.”

Silence settles on the other end.

Then she gives a quiet laugh. “Renee said almost the same thing.”

“Renee is smarter than I am.”

“She’s definitely nicer.”

“Congratulations again, Marisol.”

This time when she thanks me, she sounds like she might actually believe she earned it. I hang up smiling.

The office has begun emptying by then, afternoon light lying flat across the floor while the voices from reception become less frequent. I finish the last note from my previous appointment and move the mouse to check tomorrow’s schedule before leaving.

The calendar refreshes. Next Thursday appears lower on the screen.

Julia Hayes — 3:00 PM.

My hand stills on the mouse. Six days from now, she will walk through Mara’s reception area and into this office as though nothing about the space between us has changed, because as far as she knows, it hasn’t. She will sit in the same chair she always does, probably tuck one leg beneath herself once she gets comfortable and look at me through whatever mood she carries in from the rest of her week. If I watch her half a second too long, she will probably notice because lately Julia notices almost everything. I will be wearing the glasses Ghost never does, while my sleeves cover the tattoos her fingertips followed in the dim light downstairs and the rest of the suit hides the body she learned far more intimately in the dark. There will be a desk between us. Daylight. Her therapist on one side and a woman who has no idea she spent the night with him on the other.

I lean back and rub one hand slowly over my face, trying not to imagine what it will feel like the first time she smiles at me while I know exactly what her mouth tastes like. That thought is enough trouble on its own. Then another follows. What if she mentions Ghost? The possibility makes my hand fall away from my face. Of course she might. She has been receiving letters from a man who watches her house, and now that man has been inside it. If there has ever been a week when the subject logically belongs in therapy, this is it. She could walk into this room nervous or flushed, settle into her chair and tell me she finally let the man from the letters through her front door. I would have to listen. I would have to ask whether she felt safe, whether she regretted anything and whether he respected the limits she gave him, all while knowing every answer before she opened her mouth. Worse, I would hear what last night felt like from her side. What she liked. What frightened her, if anything. What she has already decided not to tell me. I might have to sit here while Julia describes Ghost to Kai.

A laugh slips out of me, quiet and disbelieving, because apparently I have finally found a consequence of this situation I somehow failed to fully appreciate beforehand.

“This is going to be a fucking disaster.”

The empty office offers no disagreement. The intelligent response would be to stop before next Thursday arrives. No more letters for a while. No nightly rides ending at her street. No giving Julia more reasons to become attached to a man whose face she cannot see while simultaneously asking her to trust the man sitting across from her in this office. I understand all of that perfectly. Unfortunately, understanding something and wanting to do it have become two entirely different problems where Julia is concerned.

My gaze remains on her name in the calendar while the office grows quieter around me, and instead of thinking about how to end this, my mind drifts toward the note waiting on her kitchen counter.I wonder whether she has found it yet, whether she smiled at the softer parts or rolled her eyes at the instruction to eat something real. I wonder if she took the bath I told her to take and whether she woke sore enough to think of me before her feet even touched the floor.

Then, because apparently last night taught me absolutely nothing about restraint, another thought arrives before I can shut it down.

I’m already wondering when I can go back.

25

Julia

Iwake slowly, with the strange certainty that something is different before I remember what it is. For several seconds, I stay exactly where I am beneath the blankets, eyes closed against the pale Friday morning trying to find its way around the curtains, while my body begins answering the question before my brain does. There is a pleasant ache low in my stomach, another one along the inside of my thighs, and when I stretch one leg beneath the sheet, muscles I apparently forgot I owned make themselves known with enough enthusiasm that last night comes rushing back in one very vivid piece. A masked man between my legs, his hand around my throat and the roughened voice against my skin telling me to come. My own voice saying his name.

Ghost.

My eyes open. The other side of the bed is empty. I don’t know why that disappoints me when I never expected him to still be here in the first place. Ghost appearing at breakfast with bed hair and asking how I take my coffee would probably destroy whatever dark mystique he has worked so hard to cultivate, and considering I still have no idea what his face looks like, domestic morning conversation was always unlikely. Still, my hand moves over the sheet beside me. Cold enough that he has been gone for a while.

I remember falling asleep with his arm around my waist and his body fitted warmly along the back of mine, though I don’t remember hearing him get dressed or leave. Apparently three orgasms and several weeks’ worth of poor decision-making are excellent sleep aids. The faintest trace of his cologne remains on the pillow. That does something stupid to my stomach. I bury my face there for one second before immediately realizing what I’m doing and lifting it again.

“Jesus, Julia.”

I’m smelling pillows now. Excellent development.

Getting out of bed is considerably less graceful than usual, mostly because the first few steps confirm Ghost was not exaggerating about the consequences of letting him do whatever he wanted to me. I make it into the bathroom, take one look at myself in the mirror and laugh under my breath at the woman staring back. My hair is a disaster, there is a faint mark near the side of my neck that makeup is going to have to negotiate with, and my cheeks are still pink enough that I look suspiciously pleased with myself. Which, annoyingly, I am. I should probably be having a much more dramatic reaction to what happened.

Instead, I need coffee. The house feels strangely quiet when I come downstairs wearing my robe, although nothing about it looks disturbed. My T-shirt is folded over the back of the couch, which I definitely did not do, the black envelope is still on the coffee table and there is no indication that a man who has been watching my house for weeks spent half the night inside it except for the fact that I can still smell him if I stand still long enough.

Then I walk into the kitchen and see the folded piece of paper on the counter. My heart does a ridiculous little jump. I know his handwriting before I pick it up.