Page 57 of Taken Off Camera
Cock tease.
Go live or else.
My breath comes faster, struggling to hold on to the oxygen. The room tilts as I stumble back, knocking into the coffee table and sending mugs crashing to the floor. Coffee splashes across the carpet, staining the cuffs of my sweatpants.
I can’t fill my lungs. Can’t think past the roaring in my ears. The walls of my apartment press inward, and the curtains over the windows now feel pointless.
Travis is watching, and Sebastian is gone, no longer monitoring my safety.
I’m alone.
My legs give out, and I slide to the floor, back to the wall, knees pulled to my chest. The photo lies face-up a few feet away, my defaced image a grotesque mockery of the control I thought I had over my life and my body.
Crawling to the couch, I fumble to find my phone in the pile of blankets and unlock the screen.
My thumb hovers over Sebastian’s contact for a heartbeat before I swipe away, scrolling down to the only other person I can trust.
Saint.
He picks up on the second ring. “This better be good. I’m in the middle of?—”
“Can you come over?” The words tumble out, my throat tight. “Please.”
The background noise on his end cuts off. “What happened?”
“Another package.” I swallow hard, throat clicking with dryness. “A photo.”
A pause, followed by the sound of keys jingling. “Are your doors locked?”
“Yes.”
“Windows?”
“Yes, Saint, everything’s locked.”
“Stay away from them, anyway.” The slam of a door punctuates his words. “I’ll be there in twenty. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”
“Okay.” The word comes out small, childlike.
“Micah.” He softens a fraction. “You hear me? Stay put. I’m coming.”
The call ends, and silence crashes back over the apartment.
Twenty minutes. I can keep it together for twenty minutes.
I take in the disaster zone of my living room, and a spark of pride ignites through my fear. I might be falling apart, but I don’t need Saint to see how bad it’s gotten.
I grab an armful of coffee mugs, where they clatter together. Dark liquid splashes across my T-shirt.Sebastian’sT-shirt, which I found stuffed between the mattress and headboard five days ago. The faint scent of his pheromones still clings to the fabric, though my own sweat and misery cover most of it.
The dishwasher stands half-open, already filled with crusty plates. I stack the mugs in the sink instead, before I attack the takeout containers, stuffing them into a garbage bag until it bulges.
In the living room, I clean up the coffee spill and kick a pile of clothes under the couch. My fingers brush the photo, still lying face-up on the floor, and I recoil as if burned. Grabbing it by the corner, I shove it into a drawer in my desk, slamming it shut with more force than necessary.
A key in the lock, when it comes, still startles me enough to drop the socks I just picked up. The door pushes open a crack before the chain stops it.
Saint calls through the gap. “Micah, it’s me.”
I rush over, fumbling to take the chain off and yank the door open. Saint stands in the hallway, leather jacket zipped despite the building’s overheated corridors, scanning me from head to toe.
