Page 36 of Phobia
Despite how creepy it might be to the majority of people, watching Jamie sleep was one of my favorite pastimes. It started when we were kids, when he’d have horrible nightmares, and it was something that carried on into our burgeoning adulthoods. The way his nose wrinkled, his fingers twitched, curling tighter around Mr. Goose—it was all so fascinating to me. By staying awake and watching over him I could stop the nightmares before they took hold. When his brow furrowed too long or he flinched too hard, I could take his hand and squeeze it tight and he’d settle again instead of waking us both up with terrified screaming.
But out of all of his expressions, I loved his sleepy smiles the most, when he was still somewhere between dreams and wakefulness. When he’d open his brilliant blue eyes and see me next to him and just… smile. It made my chest squeeze every single time.
These days, we didn’t share a bed too often anymore. Unless I happened to pass out drunk around him, sleeping together was usually reserved for one night a year—Halloween. It was the only time Jamie let me in past the barriers he’d firmly installed in recent years, claiming it was “better” for our friendship. Except last night when I managed to give him a handjob.
The details were still kind of fuzzy, but I definitely remembered the way he moaned and bucked against my hand. The way he looked at me, the way his body felt, responding to everything I was doing. God, I wanted more of it. It might have been wrong and immoral and dirty, but I didn’t care. I wanted it to be like when we were teenagers, before my grandmother caught us and made me swear to stop sinning against God and be the good Catholic she wanted me to be.
She was all I had, so I swore. To convince her—and myself—I was keeping my promise, I dated any girl who so much as glanced my way and dropped them the second I felt the pressure at home let up. I tried to make it work a couple of times, but when I kissed them, my mind always wandered to Jamie. He’d been my first kiss anyway. “Practice,” or so we said. Just like we “practiced” handjobs and blowjobs, becausethosewere important skills to have when dating girls.
I didn’t know if Jamie could see through my bullshit or not, but he went along with it until one day he didn’t. It all came to a screeching halt our sophomore year of college except for the rare occasions, like last night, when I could wheedle my way into his pants. I told myself I was doing it for him, to make him happy, but that was a lie. I was doing it for me. Even though it was “wrong,” I fucking ached to touch him, to see that look in his eyes as he was engulfed in pleasure.
By morning, the guilt set in. Guilt for lying to my now-dead grandmother and for making Jamie break whatever boundaries he’d put into place regarding our friendship. It didn’t stop me from watching him sleep, though, just for a moment, before slipping out of his apartment.
My hand still hurt like a motherfucker. Not from the goose bites, although those didn’t feel pleasant either. No, the cut he’d bandaged came from a knife, though there was no way in hell I could ever tell him that. Just like I could never tell him why I slipped out before he was awake and why I was making the drive back to our hometown of Sunderland, to my grandmother’s house, with a fresh roll of duct tape and heavy chains in the cargo area of my SUV.
On the outside, Grandma’s house was the same as when she was alive—fall flowers bloomed in the window boxes and lace curtains hung in the darkened windows.
But inside, there was a secret. My secret. My horrible, hideous secret. One I hoped Jamie would never learn because it would ruin everything we’d both tried so fucking hard to forget.
Climbing out of the car, I grabbed my supplies and headed into the house, not bothering with any lights until I got to the top of the basement stairs. I flipped them on and unlocked the padlock on the basement door, jogging down the stairs.
Tied to one of the metal support posts in the basement with some old rope I’d scrounged up, the monster of my childhood sat with his forehead resting against the pole. A hulking beast with dark, greasy hair and a nasty scar on his cheek that cut through his unkempt beard. Yeah, he was big, but so was I. I wasn’t the prepubescent weakling he’d spent years tossing around like a rag doll, a fact he’d learned the hard way when I beat the shit out of him and dragged him down here.
Picking his head up, he squinted against the harsh light. One of his eyes was practically swollen shut, dried blood crusted on the side of his face.
I hefted the handful of chains into view, giving him a dark smile. “I think it’s time for an upgrade. Can’t have any more escape attempts.”
He snarled something behind the duct tape, but it was muffled.
Ignoring him, I secured the chains around his wrists and wrapped them as tightly as they could go, using a padlock to hook it all together. Since he’d already managed to free himself once, I left the original rope in place. Double bindings couldn’t hurt. Unless he was fucking Houdini, he wasn’t getting out again.
He mumbled something else, his open eye narrowed on me.
Rolling my eyes, I stepped forward and picked at the corner of the tape until I could rip it off halfway. “What?”
He sucked in greedy gasps of air for a moment, his sweat-stained shirt heaving with each breath. “What’s your plan, kid? You can’t keep me chained up forever.”
“Not forever. Just long enough to get the cops everything they need to lock you up for good. Hopefully they extradite your ass to a state with the death penalty so I can watch you fucking die.”
He barked out a laugh. “You think they’re going to be ok with you holding me hostage? Vigilante justice don’t fly, kid. Do you have any idea how many felonies you’re committing right now? You’re going to be in a cell right there with me.”
I unsheathed the knife from the small of my back—the same one he’d pulled on me two days ago—and pressed it against his throat, bringing an immediate end to his laughter. “Or I guess I could always kill you and save the justice system a couple million.”
He didn’t even flinch. “You don’t have it in you.”
“It’s not like it’s hard. I watched you do it how many times? I lost count once we got into double digits.”
“Then do it,” he sneered. “If you think you have the balls.”
We stared at each other, dark eyes mirroring one another and simmering with mutual hatred. Itwouldn’tbe hard. Press the knife in and keep pushing… The blade was so sharp, it wouldn’t take much pressure. It’d probably be like slicing through a pork tenderloin. And Jamie would be safe. Forever.
He lunged at me, snapping his teeth like a rabid dog.
I jerked backward.
His laughter turned to a hiss of pain. He pressed his cheek to his shoulder, like he could stop the blood flowing from his neck from where I’d inadvertently cut him.
Stumbling back a couple of steps, I staggered toward the basement stairs. Blood glistened on the knife. It wasn’t much. It’s not like I hit the artery. His shirt was doing a fine job soaking it up. It’s not like it was gushing like a faucet, not like when he did it all those times before…
