Page 40 of Fright Night
After last night, he doesn’t seem like someone who’d stay away.Especiallyafter our conversation.
Maybe I was wrong. He got what he wanted. He played his games. He’s now done with me.
I convince myself it’s alright. It’s a good thing.
However, I’m unsure how much I believe it.
I remain around my house all day, preparing for tonight, watching spooky season movies and eating a stupid amount of treats, thinking of how Mom would disown me if she witnessed all the junk food I’ve happily been putting in my body.
How would she react learning I also had my stepbrother in my body last night?
The brochures Knox left remain on the coffee table, like a glaring, unavoidable light. Everything from this week, everything he’s said—and how well the event went—it reminded me of wanting to do that full-time, for myself. To not work inside City Hall, under their strict rules, aware that my stepfather downthe hallway is waiting to drag me to one social event or another to meet people who’d be important to my future as town mayor. A future I have zero interest in.
Then comes three p.m. on the final day of the month when I pour my habitual glass of wine, grab my laptop, and make the dreaded payment.
Julian was often hard-up for money, especially when he started fucking over his weed supplier by hiding profits. It wasn’t why I broke up with him, but the people he started bringing me around made me uncomfortable. They’d stare likeIwas for sale, and it was the only time I remained close to him; because of everyone, he was the safer option. The devil I knew.
One night, after his supplier made some comments about Julian paying his debt by means of lending me out, I wasdoneand walked out on him. Ended the relationship in the driveway of a drug supplier’s house in a sketchy neighbourhood and called a friend to come pick me up.
Then the next day, he showed up demanding a few thousand dollars cash. When I was about to slam the door in his face and suggest committing himself to a psychiatric ward, he pushed his phone, a picture on the screen, in my face.
It was one I didn’t recall him taking, but there it was for me to see. Me on my knees, his cock in my mouth, looking up at him.
The world decided to make me its punching bag that day.
“Want your new daddy to know what a slut you are? A thousand dollars each month or this gets released to the public. As mayor, this will surely destroy his standing.”
After sending the payment, I shut the webpage to my online banking account while chugging the glass of wine. Two years. Twenty-four thousand dollars spent on his blackmail.
My gaze shifts from the empty wine glass to the brochures. I’m protecting a man’s public image for nothing. Yes, he gave me a good start in life, but I never asked for it. He’s Mom’s husband,thus her responsibility. Does this make me selfish if I toss it back in his face?
He’s not a good man.He hurt Knox time after time, and being new to the family meant there was nothing I could do. I’ve been protecting a man who wouldn’t even protect his own son. Who sent him away instead of supporting him. Who took my lie at face value even after admitting the truth, and used it to get rid of him.
He’s not a good man.Twenty-four thousand dollars wasted on…what?
I stare at my laptop screen. So there’s a less than desirable picture of me that’ll get flashed around online when November’s payment isn’t deposited. Sure, shit lives online forever, but at some point everyone will move on. People nowadays are flighty with stuff like this; when something new and big happens, it’ll shift their attention off me.
I head to the kitchen to pour another glass before returning to my laptop, quickly finding myself deep in how-to websites of early business stages, bank loans, and buildings for rent, and then the website for the local college, reading all about the upcoming winter semester beginning in January for their Business Administration diploma.
When it’s time to hand out candy to kids, a resignation letter is typed up and sitting in the drafts folder of my email, ready to be sent.
As I walk away, my email pings with another notification, which I don’t bother checking.
Since Knox destroyed my costume, I keep my trick-or-treating outfit simple: fuzzy pyjama pants with a candy corn pattern thatfeels appropriate and a plain black V-neck shirt. Better than the ripped dress that’s been made too R-rated for kids.
As the sun lowers, more and more costumed kids begin their trips exploring the neighbourhood in a chorus of whoops. A few parents recognize me from last night and note being pleased with the variety of activities. One woman asks if I work privately, if she could hire me to plan her sister’s divorce party.
“Soon I will,” I tell her, hiding my excited glee until she’s out of sight.
It’s sometime after the first hour when my neck tingles with awareness, seconds before he appears down the road, sliding through groups of children effectively, at one point taking the street itself to get to me and bypass the busy sidewalk.
As he nears, I straighten, feeling the heat of his gaze pass over me. When he lands on my pants, his smirk widens. He waits until the toddler in a pumpkin costume waddles back to his father before approaching. He claims the step beneath mine, which puts us at the same height.
“Happy Halloween, Trickster.”
The first thing that comes to mind gets blurted. “Came back for your hoodie?” How am I supposed to look at this man knowing what we did last night? What I’ve been reliving ever since this morning after waking up alone, despite passing out on his chest after our conversation.
“Nah. Keep it. Looks better on you.” He reclines backwards to prop his elbows up on the step beside me and stretches his legs out before eyeing my fuzzy pants. “Must say, I prefer the fairy costume to whatever’s going on here.”
