“We can go to your place. I’m sure I have a change of clothes,” I suggest.

“I’m kind of tired. I won’t be much fun.” Charlene yawns, as if to prove her point.

I don’t get why everyone is acting so weird tonight. Usually that’s my job.

Charlene’s phone buzzes, and then buzzes a few more times. She waits until we’re at a stoplight before she checks it. I do the same with mine, but Alex hasn’t messaged at all. It’s really not like him. He’s always in contact. Maybe he can’t find a charger for his phone.

I don’t say much on the drive. When Charlene pulls in Alex’s driveway, the porchlight illuminates the door and the holiday wreath I have yet to take down. The driveway’s been cleared of snow, as well as the steps. If it keeps snowing like this, the maintenance guys will have to circle back and do it again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come in for a bit? We can watch TV or something? Have a drink?” I’m already slightly buzzed; one more will help put me to sleep, and possibly take my mind off my disappointment.

I may pretend not to like all the gifts and the excessive sexiversary celebrations, but I’ve gotten used to them, just like I’m getting used to money going into my account all the time.

“I shouldn’t drink with the roads the way they are.” Charlene gestures to the white fluff skimming the windshield.

“You could stay over.”

“I don’t have a change of clothes, and all your stuff is too small. Except in the chest.” She puts her car in park. “Want some help with your beaver?”

“What?” At first I think she means my actual beaver, but then I realize she’s not propositioning me. “Oh. Right. No, I can get it.”

“Okay.” She gives me a bright smile, followed by a big yawn. “See you in the morning!”

I get that no one else is celebrating their sexiversary, but I feel like I’m the only one who’s really bummed the boys aren’t going to be home tonight.

Getting the beaver out of the trunk is harder than I expect. He’s crammed in there pretty good, and Charlene’s trunk is small and tight—almost exactly how Alex would describe my real beaver.

I tug until he comes free, close Char’s trunk, and wave at her through the rear window. She honks and takes off as I shift the beaver around so I can see the stairs.

Coming home to an empty house is like spraining a wrist while watching porn: frustrating and unsatisfying. Stupid fucking snowstorm.

Getting up the stairs to the front door also isn’t as easy as it should be. I trip on the last step and fall, but thankfully the beaver acts as a cushion, preventing me from hurting myself. I slap the snow off his beaver face and drag him to the door. Punching in the code, I shoulder my way inside. The front entry is dark, which is unusual. The lights are timed at night, unless the system’s malfunctioned. Maybe it has. Alex will have to call the guy who fixes his ridiculous security system. I heave the beaver into the foyer and hit something. I have no idea what, as I can’t see much.

Smacking the wall beside me, I shut the door, blocking out the frigid wind. I finally find the light switch and flick it on. Which is the exact moment I scream like a man with his nuts caught in a vice.

The foyer is filled with cardboard cutouts of Alex. His life-size condom advertisement is front and center, followed by his sports drink promo, the one for hockey sticks, the body wash advertisement, and even the one for the gel that soothes muscle aches. All of my Alex cutouts are welcoming me home, which would be cool, except it means someone has been inside the house, rearranging my shit. That’s freaking terrifying.

“I have a gun!” I yell. This is a total lie. I’ve never even held a damn gun. Alex, who’s from Canada where they don’t even believe in guns, has held a gun, but I have not. I’m petrified that I’ll accidently shoot someone, or myself, so I can’t bring myself to go near one. Alex thinks it’s sweet.

Right now I wish I’d had the balls to hit the shooting range at least once when Sidney, my stepdad, offered to take me this fall because this feels like the beginning of a really bad horror movie. I move the giant beaver in front of me, as if it’s going to protect me from the goddamn serial killer with an Alex cutout fetish.

A figure steps out from behind one of the cutouts, and I scream again. This time it’s blood-curdling. I shove the beaver away from me, knocking over the first cardboard-cutout Alex. A domino effect follows, the two-dimensional versions of my man dropping to the floor with a whoosh and a series of low thuds. I turn around and start reefing on the door, trying to get out, but I’ve locked it, so it’s not opening. And I’m freaking.

Tags: Helena Hunting Pucked Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net