“No,” I mutter under my breath, running down the hall. It’s like I’m not even controlling my body, like every cell inside me has been magnetized, pulling me toward him, toward some sort of doom.
Because how can this be good?
How can I keep seeing this man, this stranger, and feeling the way I am?
I’m running to him, not running away.
I look around, trying to see over people’s heads. I’m about five foot four, so not terribly tall, even with the thick soles on my boots.
Then I see a flash of him, black suit, the only suit in this place, heading to the back door through the kitchen.
I’m practically pushing people out of the way, spilling drinks, leaving a trail of “Hey!” and “Watch it” as I move through the crowd until I’m at the back door, throwing open the door and stepping out into the night.
There’s nothing here except for garbage and recycling cans and a couple hard-core making out beside them, dark mist-laden trees surrounding us. I’m about to ask the couple if they saw the man leave, but I have a feeling they haven’t seen anything but each other.
And then I do something really weird.
I watch them for a bit, well past the I should look away and give them privacy stage. His hands are up her shirt, pulling down her bra, nipple hard and exposed. Her neck is arched back, hair flowing down, her fingers grasping his hard-on through his jeans. Moans fill the air as they grind into each other.
I stare and I watch and they don’t even notice.
Stop being a perv.
I blink and quickly head back inside the house, my body flushed from head to toe, my cheeks burning. Jesus, what’s gotten into me?
Nothing, except you really do need to get fucked.
I head straight to the bathroom, relieved to find it open. I lock the door and stare at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are burning red, my eyes totally dilated so that there’s only a thin hazel ring around the black. I look nuts.
I pour cold water onto my hands and then press my fingers into my cheeks and forehead, hoping to cool down. It’s not just that my skin is hot, everything inside me feels like I’m burning, and the ache between my legs is increasing. Watching that couple turned me on like nothing else.
The thought crosses my mind that since I’m in here alone, I could just get off and be done with the feeling, it would take no time at all. Picture the man in the suit who disappeared into the night, a man I think is just a manifestation of pent-up desire. Imagine him touching me, licking me, fucking me right in here. I mean that would push me into the horniest, perviest version of myself, but…
“Lenore.”
I whirl around at the sound of my name, expecting to find someone behind me, someone that wasn’t in the mirror. But there’s nothing but the bathtub with a blood red shower curtain pulled tight around it, the music from outside thumping.
“Lenore.”
I blink, stiffening. Now it sounds like it’s coming from behind the shower curtain. But is it really here or is it in my head?
I’m going crazy.
Even crazier is that I’m walking toward the shower curtain, hand outstretched, ready to pull it back, even though I’m not ready to face what might be on the other side.
I don’t even think I’m breathing.
My blood is running hot in my veins.
I curl my fingers around the curtain, rings gleaming, and then…
The lights go out.
I’m plunged into darkness.
I scream and then I’m fumbling through the black, feeling for the door, my hand catching on the rough edge of the towel rack. I cry out in pain, still moving forward until I find the doorknob, trying desperately to unlock it in time because it feels like I’m running out of time and now I hear the shower curtain moving, the scrape of the rings along the metal, the sound filling the room, filling my soul with the deepest darkest dread.
Finally the lock turns, the door flies open, and I stumble out into the party, into people, into lights and music.
“Oh, dude, I’m so sorry,” some guy says to me, coming off the wall, having leaned against the light switch, which is stupidly on the outside of the bathroom.
I stare at him but I’m not taking him in at all, my heart is doing a drumline against my ribs, my hand at my chest.
He frowns at me and hits the lights, illuminating the bathroom. “Nothing to be scared of,” he says, having a sip of his PBR.
I give him an odd look and then poke my head back into the bathroom.
The shower curtain is still closed.
Part of me wants to rip it open to put my mind at rest, but then some drunk chick bangs into me. “I gotta piss!” she yells, shutting the door in my face. I step back, trying to get my head on straight.