Page 40 of For Fillies and Monsters

FIFTEEN

STETSON

April 12th, 2024

Friends?He wants to be fucking friends?

I stomp around my room, clothes strewn everywhere. My mind is reeling, and I can’t focus long enough to find two pieces of clothing that will look remotely good together. Which is honestly fine. I don’t like Nathan, and I definitely don’t care what he thinks of me.

But fuck, I need the barrier.

Things with Gus aretoo hot, too serious, and now he wants to be friends. I’d have better luck being friends with a porcupine. Except he lookedhurtwhen I implied that we weren’t friends. And that nearly sent me to my knees.

Which makes absolutely no fucking sense.

He’s been nothing but a growly, annoying—yet extremely hard-working—pain in my ass since I met him. He’s made it clear he doesn’t like me and wants nothing to do with me beyond the job I have to offer.

But now I’m wondering if I’ve read every sign wrong. What if he isn’t growly and mean? What if he’s just socially awkward and bad at expressing any emotion beyond a scowl? What if he likes me? What if he wants to be more than friends?

No, Stetson, stop.Daydreams are toxic, just like the man living only a few feet from your house.

But fuck me, I’ve always liked toxic.

I stomp my foot and release a hushed screech. I need to focus if I am going to be ready in time for Nathan to pick me up. I need him as a buffer between Gus and me, but I don’t need him to see me naked. Not yet, anyway.

Scratch that, not ever.

The screen door downstairs crashes, and I jump. I look around my room, grabbing the first thing I see—one of two sundresses I own, this one blue with small white daisies speckling the fabric. I shimmy it over my head, silently berating myself for picking the tighter of the two options, but too lazy to change yet again. The thin fabric melts over my curves, and I force myself to not glance in the mirror.

Grabbing my brown cowboy boots and a pair of silver hoops off the dresser, I make my way downstairs. I don’t see anyone right away, and my first thought is my stalker. Which is crazy, seeing as it is the middle of the day, and I haven’t heard from him in weeks. But as fucked up as it is, I’d rather him than the other option—Gus is far more real and far more scary.

“Hello?” My voice comes out as a whisper, and I tiptoe into the kitchen, ready to grab a knife if I need to defend myself. No reply. I sag against the counter, pulling my boots on. Maybe I’m hearing things, or the wind is blowing hard enough that the door opened a little. But then I hear shuffling in the entryway and freeze.

“Hello?” This time, I place a hand over the handle of a knife. I try not to shake, I really do. But I can’t help it—the fear instantly coursing through my veins is thick. And with it comes another, even more potent emotion, putting my poor body in instant overdrive.

“You planning to stab me with—What is that? A butterknife?” I look down at the handle I’m white-knuckling and it clatters to the counter.

Fuck me.

I look up at Gus, desperate to calm my racing heart. If I’ve ever faced a losing battle, this one is it. He’s freshly showered, water still dripping from his midnight curls, racing small trails down the front of his white cotton shirt. The fabric clings to his muscles, the water bleaching any barrier between his skin and my eyes. I get small glimpses of bronzed muscle and a single dark nipple beneath the wet cotton, and I can’t remember seeing anything more erotic in my life.

I force my eyes to his face, my pulse hammering, and then curse myself. His chest, albeit sexy as fuck, holds nothing to the lopsided grin twisting his lips. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a genuine smile on him; the curve causing small dimples to pop out on both cheeks and crinkles to form around his eyes, andGod help me.

I will be using that as inspiration and torture for the foreseeable future. And by that, I mean,forever. I need to get him to stop, but my lack of intelligible words seems to only make the smile intensify.

“What the fuck? What are you grinning for? It’s creepy.”

“Seeing me smile is creepy, Little Filly?”

I shrug as I shakily try to force one of the silver hoops through my ear. “Little filly? What the hell is that? Also, yes, a little. You are always so growly, and pissy, and wear that scowl like it’s the only facial expression you own. Seeing you smile makes me feel like you’re up to something.” I can’t help the small smile that dances across my face. “Something bad.”

“Maybe I am,” he states dryly, but his smile doesn’t waver.

I put up my hand, trying to control my next words more than his. He must have no idea what he does to me, which is a small fucking mercy.

I can’t be held responsible for my actions when he’s pushing me—can I?

I shift, dropping my hand to my other earring, and secure it into place. I comb my fingers through my hair, more to hide their shaking than anything else, and sigh.

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