“I should’ve gone to college,” I mutter as I decide that the chances of Kaci leaving the house again tonight are slim.
Before my impulsivity gets the best of me, I pull my eyes from her window and walk back to my SUV. Shaking her and making her see the light doesn’t seem like it will be well received, so I have to figure out a way for this damn woman to take her life and her safety more seriously. I have a feeling it’s going to be an uphill battle, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.Chapter 5Kaci
The best thing about fear is the rush of adrenaline, that ten-foot tall and bulletproof feeling you get right before fate decides if your fear is warranted or not. It’s what makes people jump out of planes, hike mountains with little ability to breathe, and drive at break-neck speeds around a track. It’s the threat of death and injury that makes your heart pump wildly in your chest. It’s the knowledge that just one miscalculation could end it all.
It’s why it’s also an addiction, better than any drug on the face of the earth, as far as I’m concerned. My body has experimented with almost everything you can imagine and nothing, absolutely nothing, compares to the rush I get when I’m afraid.
Due to the addictive nature, it’s also why it has to be fed. It’s why, instead of staying home and numbing out to the latest Netflix series, I’m coating my eyelids with color as dark as soot and painting my lips crimson. I’m not a makeup expert. I don’t have the newest Naked palette by Urban Decay. The three-dollar charcoal shadow I grabbed at the drug store works just fine.
In my experience, the guys at the parties I hit to get my rush don’t honestly give a shit what I look like. It’s the level of inebriation and pliability that concerns them more than anything else. Believe it or not, a huge percentage of college-aged men are just one bad decision away from Brock Turner status where no means maybe, and the inability to protest equals consent.
It’s a fucked-up mindset, bordering on entrapment putting these guys in situations like I do, but I figure if they were stand-up guys in the first place, I wouldn’t even be a temptation for them. The guys I go after are the ones that would hurt any other female, and it’s that level of ego and entitlement I’m looking for tonight.
My hand trembles as I dab a tissue to my lips to remove excess lipstick. Anticipation thrums through my body, forcing me to attempt picking up my cell phone twice before I have it safely in my hand. Impatience fills my blood as I wait for the Uber driver to arrive. I have a car, but I have no idea how the night will end, so I walk right past it and climb into the back seat of the hired car.
After giving him the address listed on the chat thread in a popular group online, I sit back, eyes closed, and imagine all the things that could happen tonight. Filtering out all the positive outcomes, I pick and choose the most horrific scenarios and let them play on repeat until the driver informs me we’ve arrived.
I don’t stand on the curb and analyze my choices or give myself a second to rethink. With clear focus, something that needs to be remedied immediately, I stride up to the house and push myself through the open door. Even the cool air from outside doesn’t alleviate the damp heat stifling the room from those dancing and standing in tight groups to talk.
The beat of my heart echoes in my ears as my claustrophobia kicks into full gear. I aim toward the kitchen for my first drink of the night. I usually pre-game, but my liquor supply back home is low. Being one hundred percent sober heightens my anxiety, and the buzz alone is enough to encourage me to stand in the middle of the room, close my eyes, and let it take me to my happy place, but I know myself better. The longer I wait, the more I increase my chance of running out of here.
“You look good enough to eat.”
I turn, smiling at the first guy to approach me tonight.
“That so?” I lick my bottom lip to entice him further, but his focus is on my tits. Men are so fucking easy.
He nods before lifting his beer bottle to his lips, almost as if his mouth needs something in it.
“How hungry are you?”
“Go upstairs with me and find out,” he challenges, his eyes looking past my chest for the first time. Shock fills his eyes as if he’s surprised I even have a head.
“Are you asking me or telling me?” His face is angled down again.