Page 45 of For Fillies and Monsters

“Jealous?” His lips brush against my ear, the word blowing softly against my heated flesh. I want to slap him, claw at his beautiful face, spit on him. But I remain glued in place, my hands fisting into the thin fabric of my dress, my body trembling with the sudden bolt of anger coursing through me.

Gus steps back, his body heat retreating, and he turns toward the dim lights of the barn without a backward glance. His body ripples like the caged beast I know lurks beneath his skin, and I have the sudden urge to follow him—demand from him the name of the bitch he saw tonight.

But I don’t. Because I am jealous. But I’m also a coward.

EIGHTEEN

STETSON

April 13th, 2024

Rolling over,I pause—hair clinging to the side of my face, the familiar smell of salt and ball sweat filling my nostrils. I gag, sitting up, but don’t brush it away, too grossed out to touch it. The only thing worse than waking up with cum in your hair is not knowing where the cum came from. And the only thing worse than that? Knowing the cum came from either your stalker or your unbelievably irritating ranch hand; not sure which option is preferable.

My heart races, the loud roaring filling my ears. He was here, in my room while I slept, and fucking jerked off into my hair. He was so close, standing over me, breathing on me, and I didn’t even hear him—I didn’t wake up or even notice.

Some fucking instincts.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the small vase sitting next to my lamp, a single poppy flower blooming in it. My stalker, then. Is it crazy that I’m slightly disappointed it wasn’t Gus? Sure, that would make things more complicated, but fuck, it would be so hot to be wanted by a man like him. A small note rests against the vase, and I gingerly grab for it, folding it open.

This should be my greatest nightmare, so why am I turned on? No matter how much I know I should be repulsed by the idea of a stalker, I just can’t make myself.

I can, however, be repulsed by the fact that it turns me on; that is a feeling I am all too familiar with.

Even now, my instincts are all haywire. Do I shower and brush this latest development under the rug? Do I call the police? Do I want people digging into my life? DoIwant to dig into my life?

No, fuck that.

I’ve always dealt with everything on my own, and this is no different—not really. I swing still trembling legs over the edge of the bed and slink toward my small adjoined bathroom. Turning on the shower to a full, heated blast, I climb inside and wash away the evidence. I scrub at the side of my face, trying to wash away my unwanted feelings with it.

But unlike cum, years of untherapized, crazy desires do not wash away so easily. So, I decide to do the next best thing: get raging drunk with my best friend.

Water dripping down my back, I dial Dale, the phone ringing for what feels like hours. It is early on a Saturday morning, and I cringe, wondering if she’s with a guy. I’d hate to cock block her—something tells me Dale would be beyond pissed. Finally, she answers, her voice groggy.

“Hello?”

“Dale, can you come over today? I… I need to get drunk—like a full-day bender. I found cum in my hair this morning.” There’s shuffling in the background, and I wince. “Shit, are you with a guy? Or-or girl?” I stumble. Dale still refuses to tell me about her sex life, even when I beg. I don’t want to judge what I don’t know and would love her regardless of her preferences. I want her to know I will accept her, always. But now does not feel like the right time to confess that.

She barks a laugh on the other end and then stops, her teeth audibly clacking together. “Wait, slow down. Did you say you woke up withcumin your hair? From fucking who? Wait, why are we upset about it?”

“Dale, it was him.” More shuffling. “Are you with someone?” I hate bugging her, but I refuse to pull her away to deal with my shit.

“Okay, okay. I have the coffee pot going. Repeat the story,” Dale states, still ignoring my question. I try not to let it bug me. I really do.

I sigh, dispelling some of my frustration—one thing at a time.

“Not much to tell. I woke up with cum in my hair, a poppy on my nightstand, and a note. A very ominous note. Whoever my stalker is, they are getting bolder.” My voice trembles, and I hate it. Dale will take it as fear, when really, it’s shame choking me up.

“I’ll fucking say. Fuck! Do we still think it’s kind of hot, or are we in full-on panic now? I need to know before I say something stupid. I mean, he left you those flowers and note over a month ago, leaves you alone forever, and then jerks off in your hair? That’s definitely an escalation!” My stomach plummets to my toes. I forgot to tell Dale about the messages; about the verymany, very hot messages that led to such an escalation. She doesn’t miss the silence.

“There’s more.”

Well, fuck.

“Well, there have been some text messages.” I hear her sigh heavily through the phone, and I once again hate myself for being so fucked up.

“I’m going to chug this pot of coffee, make an overnight bag, and head over. Get those texts pulled up; I want to read them. Then we can figure out what to do.” I want to kiss her—always so ready to be here for me, even when I don’t deserve it. The years apart have done nothing to our friendship, and for that, I’ll forever be grateful.

“And Stetson, you need to move that guard dog of yours into the guest bedroom. He might not like it, and I know you won’t, but it might help keep you safe. I know I will feel better if you aren’t the only one in that spooky house by yourself.” Dale hangs up the phone without waiting for a response.

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