Stella
This is seriously bullshit.
It’s full on night time, and I’ve still had no word at all from Michael.
He doesn’t call, he doesn’t write…
Something like that.
I groan and settle further back into the cushy seat of his home theater. On the screen in front of me, a grinning blonde turns to find that the love of her life has followed her to the airport, desperate to make her stay.
“BOO!” I yell, half-tempted to throw something.
Apparently, it’s true what they say: real life isn’t like the movies.
In real life, you can be kidnapped, mailed to a doctor with the world’s biggest dick, and still end up sitting alone watching chick flicks.
What’s even the point of being here if I’m alone?
I know that I don’t know a whole lot about this mail-order bride thing, but I really thought it’d be more fun than this.
If the man who bought you can’t even be bothered to show up, what’s it all for?
After the past few days, I definitely had a different evening planned. For example, I planned on having Michael’s cock in my mouth right about now.
Instead, I’m watching two crappy actors make out.
It’s not even sexy.
Speaking of things that aren’t sexy, I’m also really over this whole creepy vibe. I really tried to talk some sense into myself, to get the hell over it, but I’m still feeling unsettled.
No, the door hasn’t magically opened again or anything like that. I just have this feeling. It’s like, every few minutes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Maybe it’s my body overreacting to nightmares and loneliness…or maybe my body knows something that I don’t.
I feel watched.
Hunted.
No matter how many times I tell myself I’m just being crazy, it won’t go away.
In fact, it’s getting worse.
I keep glancing over my shoulder, half-convinced I’ll find a monster there. Some big hungry beastie waiting to gobble me up—and not in a good way.
When I look, though, it’s just more nothing.
I’m definitely alone. All alone.
Which brings me back to the actual problem.
Where the hell is he?
In my head, I alternate between worry and anger.
One second, I’m picturing him dead in a ditch, and the next I’m trying to decide what bitchy thing I’ll say to him when he finally shows up.
Things like, “Where the hell have you been?”
Or, a classic like, “Do you know what time it is, Mister?”
Maybe I’ll skip anger and go straight to, “Take your fucking pants off!”
So many choices…
I’m still wading through these thoughts when I feel eyes on me again. The chill that follows is even worse than before. A sensation like someone rubbing ice up the length of my spine.
I risk another glance over my shoulder…still nothing.
I think I might actually be losing it.
On the TV, the credits are rolling, some upbeat song blasting through the speakers. I certainly don’t feel upbeat. In fact, the music only makes me feel more on edge.
It’s like in scary movies when they play children’s songs or old-timey hits. The kind of music that makes you picture some nasty murder montage.
I change the channel.
My stomach is growling.
It occurs to me that I haven’t eaten much today. Likely because I was expecting Michael to show up at some point and make us dinner.
I mean really, what’s the point of being ordered by a sexy billionaire if he doesn’t even cook for you?
At this point, I’d even eat the vegetables.
I sit for a minute longer, stuck between my hunger and stubbornness.
After the day I’ve had, he should have to cook.
“GRRR!” goes my stomach, trying to sway me to its side.
I’ll admit, it’s a pretty convincing argument.
I cave.
With a final huff of irritation, I pick up the remote, hitting the power button and returning the screen to darkness.
It’s right about then that I become convinced I’ve lost my mind.
In the reflection on the TV, it almost looks like someone is standing behind me. Which is obviously insane, because I’m alone here. Totally completely alone.
My heart doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo though, as it rockets away inside my chest.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
My heart’s beating so hard, I’m sure that if I look down, I’ll see that’s it’s popped right out of my body, shirt stretched to accommodate it, like in Loony Tunes.
Speaking of Loony Tunes, that reminds me. I’m nuts.
I don’t know how long I sit there, frozen, eyes locked on the TV.
I’m certain I must be hallucinating. That there’s no one behind me and that he’s certainly not holding something that looks like a knife.
I’ve gotten myself half-convinced when he moves.
A scream tears its way out of me, shrill and fearful.
The remote falls from my hand to clatter loudly against the wooden floors as I stand, spinning wildly around.
“Hello, baby,” he says with a thick Russian accent, shark-like grin splitting his face. “Miss me?”
I can’t breathe.
I can’t move.
Standing in front of me is someone I was sure I’d never see again.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” he says, his accent even thicker than I remembered. “And here I thought you’d be so glad.”
“Wha—what are you doing here?” I ask. My voice sounds strange to my own ears.
“Why, I’ve come to rescue you!” he says, his eyes shining maliciously as he says it.
I don’t spend long looking at his eyes, though. My gaze is almost immediately drawn to his right hand. Or, more specifically, the butcher knife that it’s wielding.
He seems to notice.
“Oh, this? This is just in case of problems...” He tilts his head, grinning even more broadly. “But we aren’t going to have problems, are we?”
I can only manage to shake my head no.
I liked him better when he was pretending to be a sexy doctor.
Sexy doctors are my type, haven’t you heard?
Russians with knives…not my kink.
Not that it matters.
“Good,” he growls, “now come here.”