So my coach would be my roommate for my last year, not a big deal. Truth be told, the longer I thought about it as I walked out of the building to head to my two-thirty class, the more I liked the idea. It would be just one more reason to focus on what was important and steer clear of everything else.
Chapter Four
Zoe
Since I was stupid enough to leave my towel back in my room, I had to step out of the bathroom with nothing but my dead phone clutched in my hand, and that’s when I heard the telltale creak of the apartment door opening. The unexpectedness of it caught me off guard, and I froze mid-step. It could have been Mark, I supposed, so I entertained that idea for about a second or two, but then again, it also couldn’t be. If I hadn’t magically skipped a few days while I was in the shower singing my ass off, it was still Monday, which meant it wasn’t Thursday, the usual night he’d come around or call. Plus, he had no idea I was still living there and not in another apartment with Kayla. That being said, as far as I knew, only Mark and I had keys to this apartment. So, it shouldn’t—couldn’t have been anyone else either. It wasn’t like he would go around and give out the keys to the apartment he rented for me. I was his dirty secret, after all.
As I stood there holding my breath, completely naked and utterly still for at least five seconds—waiting for God knows what—my heartbeat steadily got heavier. My mouth was as dry as sandpaper, and when I finished my internal countdown from ten, I started panicking at full tilt. If it had been Mark, he would have called out by then. I thought of calling out a greeting myself, but all the horror movies I used to force myself to sit through with my dad came to mind, and I decided I didn’t want to get killed by a clown that day.
It was not my time, not my day, and for sure not my first choice of a killer.
I especially didn’t want to get killed by a clown while I was stark naked with water dripping down from my wet hair and body. I heard footsteps and only then realized that whoever had broken in hadn’t moved for those first few seconds. When he finally started to walk, his footsteps were the slow kind…you know those steps, right? Again, in the horror movies I’d watched, I’d learned an important lesson: if someone is moving in slow and deliberate steps, you turn around and run. Run, my friend, run as if you have hellhounds nipping at your heels, because you know what? Those slow-walking creepy bastards always kill the shrieking girls.
It was too bad for me because I didn’t have anywhere to run. The two-bedroom apartment was L shaped, and I was standing just around the corner from my soon-to-be killer.
Did I mention I never watch horror movies anymore? Or any kind of movies that keep me up at night?
As I started to silently back away, I looked down at my phone and cursed myself for listening to Spotify and draining the battery. Then I realized how badly my hands were shaking and started panicking even more. Grabbing the wall for some much-needed support, I managed to back into the bathroom quietly, grab a big hand towel, and wrap it around me, which only managed to cover me to a certain degree. Half my ass and other parts were just…there, but that little towel felt like an extra level of protection.
I heard some more footsteps coming from the open living room area then a loud crash followed by a hissed curse. Having trouble swallowing, and generally functioning, I cupped both my hands over my mouth to hold back a gasp and just crouched behind the door. If I could make myself as small as possible, I would be invisible and safe, and in a few minutes, it would all be over, because why would a thief come into the bathroom where there was nothing to steal? Unless he came to check why the lights were on…then I was screwed anyway.
Another crash sounded loudly, and this time I squeaked. My breathing was irregular and louder than I would’ve liked. Since my knees were about to give out on me, I put my palm on the wall and gently pulled myself up, only to feel my legs go to jelly.
Spotting a rolling pin leaning against the wall underneath the sink—don’t even ask what it was doing in the bathroom—I grabbed hold of it and closed my eyes, just in case I needed it.
I was probably going to die in a bathroom in Los Angeles—actually, there was no probably about it because it would either be from a heart attack or at the hands of a stranger, whichever happened first. Unfortunately, neither one sounded all that appealing to me.