Page 60 of X Marks the Stalker
“What is it?” My voice cracks like I’m thirteen again. “You can say it. I can take it.”
She doesn’t respond, just continues staring with intense concentration.
My mind races through terrifying possibilities. Spider? Tick? Some exotic flesh-eating parasite that’s been dormant for centuries?
“Is it bad?” I ask, voice edging toward desperation. “Like, really bad?”
Still no answer. Just that unwavering, focused stare.
I follow her gaze, contorting further, but can onlyglimpse my own pale ass cheek. Whatever horror she’s witnessing remains out of my line of sight.
“Oakley? Say something. Anything.”
The continued silence wrecks what little composure I have left. Here I am, pants down in the apartment of the woman I’ve been surveilling, my ass apparently showcasing something so horrifying she’s been rendered speechless.
This is not covered in the Hemlock Society handbook.
“I’m going to die,” I whimper, feeling another pinch. “This is how it ends for me. Death by ass attack.”
Another pinch, sharper than the others. I jump and slap my ass. “Holy shit, what is it? A black widow? Brown recluse? Is it laying eggs? Please tell me it’s not laying eggs.”
“Stop. Being. Dramatic.” Oakley’s voice breaks through my spiral of panic. The clinical focus on her face cracks, replaced by something that looks like amusement.
“You think this is funny?” I twist further, nearly toppling over. “I could experience anaphylactic shock any second.”
“It’s ants.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Just some red ants.”
“Ants?” I repeat, voice still embarrassingly high.
“Yes, fire ants. Little insects? Six legs? Work together to lift things ten times their weight?” She makes a pinching motion with her fingers. “These bite.”
Relief floods through me so fast that I nearly pass out. “Oh, thank God. I thought it was— Ow!” Another sharp pinch interrupts me. “They’re still biting!”
“Well, yeah. That’s what ants do when they’re trapped against warm skin.” She gestures toward my exposed lower half. “Though I have to say, that’s a really fine ass you’ve got there.”
I freeze mid-hop, pants tangled around my ankles, dignity a distant memory. “I... What?”
“Your ass.” She points matter-of-factly. “It’s nice. Firm. Symmetrical. Good muscle definition.”
“Uh...thanks? I do squats.”
“It shows.” Her eyes linger a moment longer, then her fingers press against my skin, plucking something tiny from my flesh. I feel the sharp pinch as she pulls another one off.
Here I am, pants around my ankles, ass exposed, hopping around Oakley’s apartment like a deranged flamingo—because of fucking ants?
I yank my underwear back up, my dignity in tatters.
The laughter fades from her face as she sits back on the couch, wincing with the movement. My focus sharpens, embarrassment forgotten as I cross the room toward her.
I kneel before her, eyes assessing each visible injury. Split lip. Bruise darkening along her left cheekbone. Right eye swelling. Raw scrapes across both palms.
“May I?” I gesture toward her hands.
She nods, extending her arms. I take her right hand in mine, cradling it like something fragile. The scrapes look painful—skin torn where she must have caught herself falling. Small bits of gravel are still embedded in the wounds.
I rise and move to her bathroom, returning with a first aid kit. I set it on the coffee table, opening it with practiced movements.
“This might sting,” I murmur, dampening a cotton pad with antiseptic.
