I was going to kill him. Not literally, obviously, but I would commit some sort of career homicide. Clean. Precise. Bloodless. Maybe I’d report him. There had to be journalism police or something. He couldn’t slap lies on the cover of a magazine about people and get away with it.
You’re going to feel like an ass when you have to issue a retraction. Good luck keeping your job, hon.
Dammit. The latest laundry detergent was way more expensive than I figured. Was I really that out of touch?
Rick: He didn’t tell you, huh? Bummer. If you want the details, give me a buzz.
The knife twisted deeper, but I wouldn’t take that bait. I knew a trap when I saw it.
* * *
More days passed with no word from Ethan.
Rather than throwing myself into schoolwork like I should have, I drowned my sorrows, literally, in the bathtub that had called my name from the moment I saw it, a deep stone basin I could disappear in forever. I filled it with the hottest water I could stand, steam overtaking the bathroom while I soaked away my troubles.
All I could find were Ethan’s products, so I lathered up with his scent while the scorched water soothed my tired muscles, body in knots from the emotional turmoil. Inside, I was equally gnarled, unsure of what to think. I thought I knew Ethan, a person I considered one of my best friends, but everything I thought I knew was up in the air.
Was he really in tech? How did he earn enough money to live in such a place?
With every pass of the washcloth on my skin, I felt like I was wiping away trust in him, more doubt creeping across the clean flesh. What if he really was Ever? He definitely could afford a penthouse if he had $123 million rolling in.
By the time I was done, I was set on getting to the bottom of it, venturing out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, opening every door I could find for traces of paint supplies. Room by room, I found nothing until I reached a locked door at the end of a hall, a pin pad sealing the door. I threw a shoulder against the door in an ill-advised superhero-wannabe move, but it held firm and I folded against the wood, likely scoring a hell of a bruise in the process.
“FUCK!” No one could hear me, but it felt better to get the frustration out. The lack of control about my predicament almost as jarring as the mysteries floating about.
With my mind and body bruised, I headed to the kitchen in defeat, making a bee line for the walk-in wine closet I’d discovered the first day. I didn’t know much about Ethan’s fancy-schmancy liquor, so I grabbed the nearest bottle that didn’t look like it cost more than a car, heading back to the white marble kitchen to start my own pursuit of happiness.
A loud pop signaled that my troubles would soon be silenced, the bottle of champagne opening easier than I thought. Rather than grabbing a glass, I headed back into the living room with the bottle in hand, letting the towel around me drop to the floor. Screw it.
I sipped straight from the bottle while I tried to figure out the stupid TV remote, the rectangle containing more buttons than any television could ever need. No matter how many times I hit the power button, it refused to turn on, and before I knew it, I’d downed half the bottle and still hadn’t mastered it, all while sitting butt naked on Ethan’s couch.
I flopped back, the cushions nearly swallowing me whole, just my legs and boobs showing as I sank in. It looked ridiculous, so naturally I took a photo and sent it to Ethan. I was never one for nudes, but I was never one for liars either and I’d been all about a six-foot-five one for two years.
The text back was almost instantaneous. Go figure. The turd couldn’t reply to any of my other texts, but a flash of titties got his attention.
Ethan: Are you naked on my fucking couch?
I giggled to myself, leaning forward to throw back another gulp of champagne before sinking into the cushions again, the bottle nestled between my thighs, the glass so cool it took my breath away. I sent another photo, this time of my legs bared from my thighs to my toes, the champagne bottle front and center.
So what? You’re not here to stop me.
Even if he was, I highly doubted he’d tell me to get dressed. Based on our last two encounters, he’d probably have me bent over the arm of the couch looking out at the city while he screwed my brains out. Not that I’d mind.
Ethan: Are you fucking kidding me right now?
I set the bottle on the coffee table before flopping across the couch on my belly, taking a quick selfie that included the length of my body, ass on display. Take that, sucker.
Ethan: You’re lucky I’m not there.
I rolled to my back, crossing my legs to hide the goods. I snapped another picture and sent it over.
Bummer. When will you be back?
I waited for a response. And waited some more, finishing off the bottle of champagne before I felt my phone buzz again.
Ethan: Soon. And when I am, you’ll regret rubbing that sexy little ass all over my goddamn sofa.
Ethan
“Rick Gray has been doing some digging,” Terry grumbled, his one-fingered typing tapping away in the background. I could picture him hunched over his dinosaur of a computer, a cigarette in one hand as he pecked at its ancient keyboard, globs of ash embedded in its grooves. “On you and Keely Doyle. Has a whole bible of notes. Pictures and all.”
Goosebumps studded my arms, every hair on my body standing on end. How had I not seen or heard? Was I really that careless? What was he? A fucking ghost? “Isn’t
