come back with another cat, though I don’t think anyone can replace Felix.
Your friend.
He signed off with his auto-signature and the avatar of a bouncing smiley face.
If this didn’t work, there would soon be a time when she would let him know everything. He’d make certain of that.
Angie had told him things because he was safe. She trusted him. And she betrayed him by whoring around.
He glanced up, wondering if he’d spoken out loud. But no one looked at him. The library was quiet, everyone studying. Normally he wouldn’t go to the library to go online-he didn’t have to, he had a great setup at home-but there was a pretty girl he liked to look at. She worked part-time Tuesday and Thursday nights.
Becca. Not as pretty a name, not as pretty a girl, as Elizabeth, but she was close. So he came to the library when she worked just to look, to hold her image close to him so when he went home he could picture her. Her wide mouth, red lips, sweet smile. He wanted to kiss her, but he never approached her. Twice, she’d come to him to gather books off the table. She smiled at him, murmured hello, complimented his shirt.
When he first met Angie, she was also nice to him. She talked to him, actually seemed interested in what he had to say.
She was a liar. When he’d found her MyJournal page the fantasy that was sweet Angie vanished. He was devastated, livid. She was a whore, a slut, just like the woman who’d turned against his father.
They were all better off dead.
His laptop computer beeped that an e-mail had arrived.
Heart pounding, he turned his gaze from Becca working the desk and opened the message. It wasn’t from Elizabeth. It was an automatic e-mail alert.
MyJournal tracker has found a recent update on your track list. Click the link below to be taken directly to the updated content.
MyJournal.iloverealmen.com
Angie’s journal.
For a brief moment, a split second, he felt every eye in the library looking at him. Of course they weren’t. They didn’t know what he’d done, they didn’t know who he was. Becca didn’t even know his real name.
He almost clicked on the link. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead he packed up his laptop, avoiding eye contact with anyone. He rushed out, heard Becca ask behind him, “Is something wrong?” He just shook his head at her and left the building. Ran to his car, heart pounding. Drove home. Fast. Too fast.
He eased up on the accelerator a bit, but his head ran through every possible scenario.
That Angie wasn’t dead, that she was alive and the police would be waiting for him at home.
That she was dead and writing from Hell.
That she was alive but didn’t remember anything.
In the glare of headlights, he saw her ghostly body, her bloody mouth open, accusing him.
His heart continued to vibrate between his ears, a loud ringing, and he couldn’t hear anything but his internal organs working, working. Heart pumping blood through his veins, his head swelling, filling with certain knowledge that he would be discovered.
He escaped home. Locked, bolted the door. Ran into his bedroom, slammed the door as he tossed his laptop onto his bed. Angie’s soundless scream vibrated in his head and he sank to the floor.
Several minutes later, he rose unsteady and walked to his desktop computer. Booted the hard drive. The ritual of the computer checking files, the fast
He logged onto his e-mail and clicked on the MyJournal link.
Tribute to our friend Mirage.
Angie’s page, Angie’s online name. But not Angie. A sigh of relief whistled through his lips, and he focused on the “Tribute.” He quickly realized that the author of the journal entry was one or more of Angie’s friends.
I remember a day last month when Mirage went to work. I stopped by to visit, even though it was raining hard. It rarely rains here, but that day it poured.
He thought. That was…late January. Had to be. There were only a couple days last month that it rained.
Mirage got off early because it was so slow, and we sat in the corner talking about our first time…you know, the first time we had sex.
Eager and anxious and horrified, he read on.
I was a late bloomer. My first time was only three months ago, shortly after I started classes at the same university where Mirage and our other friends go. His name was, oops! Can’t say his name. Okay, his “name” was S. and he’s a junior. Plays water polo. Fabulous body.
The first time was icky, but S. told me the second would be better. It was…Mirage promised me my first “real” orgasm would be wonderful (you know, the kind that isn’t self-induced) and she was right. S. went down and licked me until I orgasmed and I swear I saw fireworks…
Fists clenched, he read on. Each of Angie’s friends wrote about their first time, and as the stories went on they became more lewd and detailed, just like Angie used to write.
I broke up with S. when I started seeing S… whoops! Same initials, different guys, hahaha. S2 was really experienced. You know, an older man. And he did things to me that made my head spin…
One night on the beach behind his apartment we made love in a sleeping bag. The possibility of being caught in the act was such a turn-on. I never thought having a guy suck my tits would be so sexy, but when S2 did it I felt hot from the inside out…
At the end, he had the three whores figured out.
Abby wrote about her first time, first and only boyfriend. She was in high school, it was in the back of his car, and she was still dating him though he went to college out of state.
Kayla was a dyke. Well, “bisexual” was probably the politically correct term, since she screwed both men
It was Jodi he was shocked about. Jodi who had dated the two S’s. Jodi who he’d thought was the nicest of Angie’s three friends. The one he least expected this bad behavior from.
He knew it was her because of the last line she wrote.
Mirage was the best friend I could ever have. She convinced me to cut my hair, which I had barely even trimmed in forever. I cut it to my shoulders, added some highlights, and haven’t been without a date since. She brought out the best in me, inside and outside, and I’ll miss her forever.
