Page 92 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

Rudolph at 10:14 PM: Home. Love you baby. Goodnight.

Janice at 10:22: Darlene is neutralized. Call us if you need anything sweetheart.

Rhett at 10:30: Got back safe. Lock up, sweetheart.

Sweetheart. I stare at that word until the screen dims. He calls Janice that too, calm down.

12:03 AM — I've barely been asleep an hour and I'm wound so tight I doubt sleep will return anytime soon. I drop the phone facedown on the nightstand and swing my legs off the bed, padding to the bathroom. I peel off my soaked panties and kick them into the corner.

I twist on the faucet with a squeak, cup my palms, gather some cold water, then lower my face into it with a sigh. Rinse, repeat.

When the dream lust retreats to a dull throb, I brace my hands on the sink and look at myself in the dark mirror. Lightning flashes and I look flushed, wide-eyed, blonde strands falling out of the messy bun.

"What is your problem?" I mutter, tugging my scrunchie out of my hair and letting it fall.

I know what my problem is. My problem is six-four with salt-and-pepper hair and hands that could carve my heart right out of my chest.

I snap off the light and pad back into the bedroom.

Cold air raises goosebumps on my bare legs. Not the stale chill of a drafty cabin. This is fresh, moving air.

I dart my eyes around the dark room. The French door to the balcony is open a couple of inches.

It wasn't open when I went to bed. I press the backs of my knuckles to my lips.

The storm spray is wetting the hardwood in a little puddle by the opening.

A hint of shadow from the porch light, but not enough to make out shapes.

Pushing some steel into my spine, I step toward the door to close it and an unoiled hinge squeals slow, like a bad horror movie. Then a scrape from something heavy follows from behind me.

I go stiff. Every nerve comes alive going on high alert.

"Don't close it." A low voice rolls out from near my closet, where the dark is thickest. "I like hearing the rain while I watch you."

My heart hammers in my throat. I can't swallow around it.

Another creak, scrape. "Was a nice little show. You lying there on your belly. Rolling up that pillow and stuffing it where you need attention. You made some pretty sounds..." The voice is muffled and the silence when he stops talking is somehow more frightening than when he's talking. "Made me want to climb on top of you and do some ass humping of my own. Gave me some ideas."

My hands start to shake. I press them flat against my hipbones. The distance to the bedroom door is five steps to my left. He's to my right, between the closet and the open French door.

"I know what you're thinkin' there, little bunny." He exhales on an audible swallow. The scrape of his boot comes again, one, two. "Go ahead and run. That's a party I'd show up for any day." There's another pause, another scrape, tension presses the air around me as pressure builds behind my eardrums. "I waited for your family to leave. They think you're nice and safe and tucked in for a day or so at least. Enough time for me to have all the fun I want."

My teeth are chattering as saliva gathers under my tongue.

I'm fast. I know this land.

Whoever this is doesn't have that advantage.

I tense my thighs, inhale, and launch myself toward the bedroom door, rip it open, and I'm through it before the sound of his first boot step hits the hallway floor behind me.

My legs move up and down in a fury but his steps come heavy and unhurried behind me.

I take the stairs two at a time in bare feet, my hand slapping the wall as my balance teeters in the dark. I hear him chuckle, then a boot hits the first step following me down.

Fuck. I'm moving as fast as I can but he's still too close.

I hit the ground floor and cut through the living room, panting, banging my shin on the coffee table, pain blooming up my leg. The front door is deadbolted and chained.