Page 49 of Hunt Me

My parents brought their passive-aggressive, overly polite Southern manners with them when they moved to the Pacific Northwest and made sure my siblings and I were raised with the idea that being socially impolite was a greater crime than murder. It was hard to shake that off when I made my first attempt to ditch people pleasing, and even though it’s been years since deprogramming myself, it’s still not easy.

I’m fighting the urge to go apologize to her as I take the stairs to the basement two at a time, but I manage to give myself a thorough internal pep talk. She was rude, I was right, and it’s not like she understood what I signed anyway.

I’m a little breathless when I finally reach the door and swipe the visitor badge, but the heavy bolt releases under my hand, and I push my way inside. The air is very dry and colder than I’d like down here, my damp shirt clinging to my body, but the smells are comforting. And the fact that no one is in here helps.

I eye my favorite machine and feel a pulse of relief in my chest as I sit down in the poorly cushioned chair and let my body finally relax.

In total isolation like this, memories of last night creep up on me. Sitting in my car like a jackass watching Archie’s house. His face in the window—his soft not-quite-smile and the way his eyes lit up when he saw me.

And the way he touched me after—the way he kissed me.

The way he fucked me with the hilt of a goddamn knife, which should have sent me to the doors of the police station, and yet all I want is more. All I want is for him to pin me down and fuck me in ways I could have never imagined before him.

My chest is burning with the need to go to him, but I push that aside.

I don’t have his number, so I can’t contact him, which means I have to go back to his house, or I have to wait for him to hunt me. And I kind of hope it ends up being the latter because there’s nothing I want more than the thrill of knowing he’s chasing me and that he will catch me.

Knowing he’s watching and waiting for the perfect moment to take me is wildly erotic.

I swallow hard and do my best to discreetly press my hand against my bulging dick. It’s straining the pink panties I have on, and while I know Archie would probably love nothing more than to make me ruin my pants, he’s not here to enjoy it.

And I want to save it all for him.

I turn to my machine, crack my knuckles, then get to work on my doomscrolling until my meeting time gets closer.

I’ve been sitting for a couple hours, and for the first time since arriving, I feel like I’m not alone. My back’s to the door, so I have no idea if anyone’s come in or out, but I haven’t seen anyone moving around, so the feeling crawling over my skin doesn’t make a lot of sense. Usually when I turn my CIs off, I become hyperaware of everything around me, even if I’m lost in one of my favorite hobbies.

But something about the room is bothering me, so I slip my CIs from their case and turn them on, pressing the magnets to my head while I close my eyes and wait for sound.

It only takes a couple of seconds for noise to rush into my brain. There’s the dull thud of the AC, which keeps the air cool and dry so nothing in the archives is destroyed. There’s the humof the machines and computers. The strange creaking of old buildings.

All of that is normal.

But something prickles at the back of my neck. Is that…breathing? Is it mine? I press my hand to my chest and feel air moving in and out of my lungs. I can’t tell if the pattern’s the same.

I think I’m just being paranoid. The night I was attacked—the night Archie saved me—seems like a one and done. Maybe it was my stalker from before. I have no idea if it was actually him, but if it was, he hasn’t bothered to show himself again.

I stretch and attempt to discreetly peer around me, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Everything is as it was when I first sat down. So why am I being so weird? Why can’t I shake this discomfort?

Standing up, I walk over to the cabinet where all the microfiche envelopes are kept and pretend like I’m searching for something else. Out of my periphery, I scan the space again since I have a better view now.

It looks the same as a moment ago—empty, quiet, and still.

I breathe a little easier and start to close the drawer when suddenly, I hear a dull thud from somewhere in the room. I’m not the best at being able to tell what direction random noises are coming from, so I peer around the bookcases and into the darker corners of the room, but there’s nothing there.

Yet the feeling of being watched is getting worse. And it doesn’t feel the way it does when it’s Archie. There’s no breathless anticipation, no tingles under my skin, no waiting for him to touch me. It’s foolish to think I’d simply know it’s him, and yet I trust my gut.

Grabbing my phone out of my bag, I check the time on the screen and see that I have forty-five minutes until my meeting. It’s only a few minutes’ walk, but it’s close enough I can use it asan excuse to get the hell out of here. Shoving everything into my bag, I turn off the machine and race for the door.

At the very least, I’ll be safe in my office. I can call for help there, or a ride, or company. I know that if I text Rene, or Mellie, or Robbie, they’ll come running, and that keeps me calmer than I probably should be.

Dropping the visitor badge on the desk, I don’t bother trying to speak to the woman as I head outside, where I come to a skidding halt. The rain is coming down in sheets, which is going to make the walk slow and unpleasant, and my heart rams against my ribs.

The library parking lot is empty. It’s closing soon, and the dark path toward my office seems even more ominous than before.

Fuck, I wish I had Archie’s number. I wish I had some way to contact him. I hadn’t realized that in all of this, he’s become something like a safe space for me, and god, I need that now. Of all the times he’s chosen not to follow me, why did tonight have to be one of them?

My breath trembles in my chest as I start to walk, but a few steps into the parking lot, I hear it. My footsteps are being echoed. I know I’m not hallucinating or imagining things.