Page 37 of Last Man Standing

I keep going.

His eyes warm the back of my neck.

I speed up.

“Scarlett…”

“Help yourself to the impossible puzzle. Anything is better than that brain mush thing you have going on.”

“Scarlett!”

I don’t stop. I can’t. So I rush into my bedroom and slam the door. Pressing my back to the wood, I slide until my butt hits the floor, then I tip my head back and groan when I realize my hands are empty.

I left my pencil case in the kitchen. And my phone.

Even if the zombie apocalypse landed on our front porch, I don’t think spending time with a dude nicknamed Tank while he role-plays all the shit Roy used to do to me for fun is in my best interests. Even if his intentions are educational. Even if my heart races every time his hand touches my skin.

Jesus, how could it not?

I’m not an unfeeling machine, and if I look past all the crass, crude, unkind bullshit he spouts off daily, I’m not too proud to admit he looks good.

In a different life, in a different time, Sebastion Jameson is exactly the kind of guy I would take a second look at. And it’s not like I’ve sworn off all men. I’ve dated since Roy. I’ve had sex. There was even this one guy I invited back to my apartment, twice, which is basically unheard of.

No, I’m not saying no man can touch me. I’m saying Sebastion can’t touch me. Because he scared me yesterday afternoon, and then he stomped his way into a starring role in my nightmares last night. While Roy did the things he always does, gleefully tearing my psyche apart strip by strip, Sebastion sat in the doorway.

Watching.

Grinning.

Judging me for being so weak.

And when Roy was done, Sebastion sauntered across my room and claimed his slice, too.

If he pulls my hair today, I’m terrified I won’t survive it.

Hours after I stepped into my room, several hours, I hover at my bedroom door and squirm. My overfull bladder hurts, and my fingertips sting. My blanket had a single loose thread a while back. Now, I have a whole length of cream-colored string and a newfound ability to create that cat’s cradle shape I tried to achieve when I was younger.

I also mastered the scissors shape. And a star.

And when I graduated to the two-person shapes, I learned to use my feet.

Anything to get through another day in paradise.

But now I’ve reached my limit. My bladder is ready to burst, my heart threatens to give out, and if I have to spend even a minute more in this room, I might scream. So I press my ear to the door and listen for any clue as to where Sebastion could be.

He may be an ass most of the time, but I’ll give him credit where credit’s due: when a woman asks to be left alone, he leaves her alone.

No pacing the hall. No knocking on doors. Not even a flushing toilet.

He either abandoned the house and left me to my own devices, or he’s lighter on his feet than any man of his size should be.

My pulse thunders in my ears, pounding in my veins and down to make my aching bladder that much worse. With no choice but to risk it, I crack my door open and cast my eyes along the hall to the bathroom. I lick my dry lips and slow my racing breath. Determining that the hallway is clear, I open my door wider and step out on bare feet. But because my eyes were up, I failed to check down.

I startle back at the crackle and snap of plastic beneath my feet, slamming my hand to my chest as I discover my pencil case neatly set somewhere I never put it. Where my pens spread across the counter this morning, they now sit tucked away in the black and gold case, trapped behind a bulging zipper.

I lower into a crouch and trail my fingertips over my things. Not just the case, but my notebook, too. And beside it, my phone.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t even breathe heavily enough to alert me to his nearness. But he packed my things away and brought them to me.