Page 19 of Book Boyfriend
“I do. Think about it. Whoever sent them had no clue you weren’t working today. No one knew you were coming but you. If it was someone we knew, someone we worked with, like, say, the movie team, they’d know you only worked Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Whoever sent it didn’t make sure you’d be here first. That’s kind of dumb when you think about it.”
I nod.
“Stop worrying about it and just enjoy.”
“In the book, Kasey thinks it’s a fan and it’s not. It’s Penn. What if this is . . . him?”
Luna stands up straighter. “The Fish guy?”
I nod once more.
Luna laughs. “No way. What would be the chances? You said you gave him your real name not your author name, right?”
“Yes.”
“And he had no clue what you did for a living?”
“No.”
She waves me off. “It’s a fan.”
I furrow my brows and hug myself.
“What comes next?” Luna grabs my book off her shelf and I start biting at my nails as I try to remember. “The dress!”
She starts to clap. “Doesn’t he show his face then too? Girl . . . this stuff is gold!”
Walking over to her window, I slide down into the seat. Fear hits me hard. “What if it’s a stalker? Did you think of that?”
Luna’s face turns white. She immediately picks up her phone. “Brenna, get Fabian on the line.”
The phone rings and she faces me as she speaks. “Fabian, I’m going to need the best private security you can find and I need it today.”
It’s odd always having someone with me, but I also feel so much better when Marcus is around.
Within an hour of Luna’s call to Fabian, the production team had sent the owner of the security firm they use to her office for a consult. Part of me was worried I was overreacting, but when Luna explained what had happened to him and he seemed concerned, I felt validated.
I was immediately paired with Marcus. He’s a tall, house of a man. He looks like he eats fear for breakfast, but when he smiles it’s a lot less intimidating. I don’t think he smiles much, though. He came over to my place and helped set up a security system and even gave me a panic button for my key chain that sends both the police and him running. I might sleep with it on my nightstand. I might be crazy, too.
It’s been a week since my personal concert and nothing else has happened. Marcus meets me every time I have to leave the house. It’s weird giving him my schedule and having to stick to it.
He went grocery shopping with me the other day and I only bought one bag of Sour Patch Kids because I felt like he might judge me for buying three. I’m a writer, though, and we writers need our snacks. Snacks and words go hand in hand. Too bad I ate them while I watched TV rather than writing. Now I’m out of luck.
Last night, I had a craving for Taco Bell and I wanted to run out to get it, but I ended up eating stale cereal instead because I freaked myself out of leaving the apartment.
I pictured myself thinking I’d be safe this one time without Marcus and then encountering a crazy stalker with a large machete. Isn’t that how people die in movies? They take a risk and then they get kidnapped and chopped into pieces. Or for authors, tied to a bed and forced to write like in “Misery.” As a viewer, you’re sitting there screaming at your TV, telling them not to do it, but they go anyway.
I didn’t want to be a stupid victim, so I stayed home. Unfortunately my irrational thinking continued the rest of the night and I barely slept. Once my damn brain gets going, I can’t turn it off.
People may think it’s fun being creative. They may think having an overactive imagination is a blessing. And while I’ll admit, it’s a great trait when you’re writing at your laptop, it’s not so great when you’re sitting alone in your apartment and you overthink every little noise you hear.
I’d managed to convince myself that I heard a tap on my fourth story window. Then I pictured a man dressed in black scaling down from the roof to get a glimpse of me as I lay in bed. I invented his backstory and pictured the20/20episode where they reveal how they caught him. I think I got two hours, tops.
So, as I stagger into my office this morning with Marcus, I know I look as bad as I feel. At this rate, my sequel is going to turn into a thriller. I need to think romance not murder.
Brenna hands me a cup of coffee as soon as I sit down. I mouth the words “Thank you” to her because, truth be told, I’m too tired to speak.
After staring out my window for way too long, I finally start to feel semi human enough to write. I manage a thousand words before Brenna knocks on my door.
