Lights Out: A Dark Stalker Rom-Com

I’d stabbed him. Jesus take me now, I had stabbed a man while giving him head. There was no coming back from this. My days ended here. Any second now, I would spontaneously combust from the humiliation.

The Faceless Man seemed to be handling it pretty well, all things considered. If our roles were reversed, I doubted I’d be so forgiving about getting stabbed. Or was it just his commitment to silence that hid his true anger? Was he being stoic about it now, but after this, I’d never see him again?

And why did that thought make me feel like the floor had dropped out from beneath me?

“One last time,” I warned, the words only slightly muffled by my surgical mask.

The hand lying before me didn’t so much as flinch as he readied himself for the final stitch. I’d tried to get him to turn around and go back to the hospital and have a doctor do this with a localized painkiller, but he shook his head, and the stiff set of his shoulders told me he would have been stubborn about it if I’d pressed harder. I wasn’t about to. My co-workers were in the middle of dealing with a tragedy; they didn’t need me taking up a bed with my…whatever he was.

So here we were, sitting at my tiny dining table turned makeshift ER, my emergency kit spread out around us. He was lucky I had everything required for cleaning and stitching his wound, but I was still uncomfortable about this. I was an RN. Suturing was considered a minor surgical operation, and our state, like many others, didn’t allow RNs to perform the procedure. You needed to be an advanced practicing nurse to do it. If anyone found out I’d broken the law, I could get in a lot of trouble, maybe even lose my job and get fined.

I told him all that as we pulled into my driveway, on the off-chance his wound got infected and he had to see a doctor, asking him to please not tell anyone it was me. He’d mimed zipping his gaping mouth shut like he planned to take the secret to his grave. Oddly enough, my instinct was to believe him.

Just one more stitch, Aly. You can do it, I told myself. It had been a long time since I’d done this, and I was out of practice. My exhaustion wasn’t helping. Nor was the fact that I couldn’t stop following the line of tattoos up his hand to his thick, veiny forearms.

I licked my lips and nearly moaned. I could still taste him on them.

This man had watched me at work, decided he needed to play white knight, and then broke into my car to give me a ride home. And what had I done? Oh, you know, waited all of five minutes before face-diving onto his dick.

“Are you ready?” I asked, glancing up at him.

He nodded, seemingly far less affected by this situation than I was, and stroked his free hand down Fred’s back.

I spared my traitorous cat a glance. Fred had jumped into the Faceless Man’s lap the second he sat down at the table, and now he lay there curled up and purring like my stalker was his new favorite human in the world.

My life had gotten really weird lately.

I dropped my gaze and refocused on the hand before me. The Faceless Man needed five stitches. Five. I must have sliced more than stabbed, lost in my own little lust-filled world as I worshipped what was arguably the most aesthetically pleasing dick I had ever seen. Because, of course, it was. His entire body was a masterpiece; why not his cock, too? Big, thick, straining, with silky smooth skin unmarred by veins or discoloration. I’d taken one look at it, and saliva started pooling in my mouth.

Yup, I had it bad for his body. But just that. This could only ever be fantasy fulfillment. I shouldn’t have been so turned on by the maniacal way he’d frightened off those gross men in the truck. And I definitely shouldn’t be smiling to myself as I poked a needle through his skin one final time, thinking of his flirtatious DMs and texts.

What was it about smartass men that was so attractive? Was it because they never seemed to take life or themselves too seriously? Or was it because I saw so much pain and death that I needed someone who could make me laugh with a well-placed one-liner after a terrible shift like the one I’d just finished?

Though it killed me to admit it, the Faceless Man’s brand of smartassery seemed like the harmless kind that spoke more of witty banter and self-deprecation than cracking jokes at the expense of others. I wanted more of it in my life, still couldn’t believe he’d gotten me to laugh with that “sounds kinky” line when I was so pissed off at him.

He sucked in a breath as I tugged the final stitch closed, the only noise he’d made this whole time, despite the pain he must be in.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just have to tie this side off.”

I took deep, even breaths as I finished closing him up, trying not to let the panic drown me. Of course, I’d stabbed right through a tattoo. The scar would be super visible because of it. And he’d have a scar, all right. These stitches were rough work, thanks to my lack of experience.

“You can probably get a plastic surgeon to fix it for you,” I said as I straightened. My back protested from being bent over for too long after all the time I’d been awake and on my feet. I needed aspirin and about fifteen hours of sleep.

The Faceless Man shook his head and pulled his hand from Fred to start typing one-handed. It took him a while to get it all out, and I used that time to clean his wound and the mess we’d made. I must have hit a vein when I stabbed him because he’d bled a fair bit. At least I now had his DNA.

I slipped a wad of gauze into a plastic baggie and slid it off the table while he was distracted. It would be going in my freezer with a note attached that said if anything happened to me, the blood belonged to my killer. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but a girl had to be careful.

He turned his phone my way, and I read, No plastic surgeon. I’ll wear your mark like the badge of pride it is. To drive his point home, he made a fist, placed it over his heart, and bowed to me like someone from a Tolkien movie.

“You are ridiculous,” I said, turning away so he wouldn’t see my amusement.

I took my mask off, gathered the trash, and went to throw it away. “Do you want something to eat?” I asked, opening the freezer. The door hid me from view while I chucked the plastic bag into the far corner. “I have frozen pizza, or,” I opened the refrigerator. Moths flew out of it. Okay, so moths didn’t actually fly out, but they might as well have. My fridge was barren except for wine, a small bottle of half-and-half for my coffee, and a to-go container from my favorite local deli.

I shut the door and turned back to him. “Or frozen pizza.”

He shook his head, carefully set a protesting Fred onto the floor, and stood. From his videos, I knew he was tall, but seeing him in the flesh, taking up far too much space in my dining room, was something else. He was several inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and the tree trunk thighs of a football player. His black Henley clung to him in a way that almost made me jealous. Lucky cotton.

I wanted to say something, crack a joke, or find some way to fill this pregnant silence, but words escaped me. He was here. In my house. Within touching distance.

My body was keyed up, hyper-aware of his every move as he grabbed his phone off the table. I didn’t know if it was like this for all women, but giving head turned me on. The act was so intimate, so vulnerable for both parties, and I just plain enjoyed getting someone else off. Feeling a dick go rigid between my lips and start to pulse as a man lost himself to pleasure? I loved it, which meant that I was horny as hell right now.

At this point, all it would take was a single brush of his fingers against my clit, and I would come, but I doubted he was thinking about sex after I’d stabbed him.

I felt a brush against my shin and looked down to see Fred butting his head against my leg. “Oh, now you remember me? The human who rescued you and has done nothing but spoil you rotten since the day you turned up like a half-drowned rat? I see how it is.”

Fred sat back on his haunches and meowed up at me, unapologetic.

The sound of footsteps had me lifting my head. The Faceless Man padded toward me, holding his phone out.

You should shower and get some sleep, the text read. Thanks for stitching me up. It was the least you could do after brutally mutilating me, but I appreciate it anyway.

I clapped a hand over my eyes and groaned. I was never going to see him again. “I know I’ve said it about a hundred times, but I am so sorry.”

I heard the sound of typing, and then his long fingers wrapped around my wrist, tugging my hand away as he showed me his phone again.

Aly, that was so good that I will happily let you maim me whenever you’re feeling frisky.

My cheeks heated. I didn’t blush easily, but this man seemed to be my kryptonite. “Uh, you’re welcome then?”

His broad shoulders shook like he was laughing. At me, I was sure, but I couldn’t blame him. The reality of a kinky hookup was proving a little different than the fantasy I’d harbored for so long. First off, I’d been the one with the knife. Secondly, it included snacks.

Whenever I daydreamed, it was always of some brooding alpha male pushing me around, aggressive and borderline ruthless as he used my body. I still wanted that for myself at some point, wanted it with this man in particular, but I doubted I’d get it after what I’d done to him, regardless of how nice he was being about it.

The hand around my wrist tightened, all the warning I had before he tugged me close. My chest bumped against him, nipples tightening in my bra. My breasts felt fuller somehow, aching like they longed to feel his big hands cupping them, and my underwear was absolutely soaked. Every few seconds, my inner muscles clenched as if to remind me that they didn’t have a dick to squeeze, and they were not happy about that fact. I’d watched too many thirst traps of this man, and now my past behavior was coming back to bite me in the ass.

Do not rub yourself against him like a cat in heat, I told myself. You’ve already done enough to freak him out for one night.

He released my wrist and lifted his hand to grip my chin, tilting my head back until I stared into the black voids of the mask’s eye sockets. I looked from one to the other, wishing I could see beyond them to his actual eyes. What did they look like? What color were they? Were they staring down at me with the same lust that filled mine?

His thumb brushed over my lips, and even though I couldn’t see his eyes, I swore I felt them drop to my mouth. Was he thinking about earlier, too? The feel of me sucking him down before everything went sideways?

Unable to help myself, I reached between us and brushed a hand over his jeans. Oh, fuck, he was hard. I flattened my palm on his erection and stroked upward, hungry for him all over again.

“Let me make it up to you,” I said before fastening my lips around his thumb and swirling my tongue over it suggestively.

He shifted his hips forward in the most subtle of thrusts and let out a low grunt. A thrill of victory shot through me, only to be dashed a heartbeat later when he pulled his thumb free, stepped back, and shook his head, just once. He pointed at me, then toward my bedroom. Then he clapped his hands together, tilted them sideways, and rested his head against them, miming sleep.

I nearly kicked at the floor like a petulant child. But I don’t wanna go to bed! I want to stay up late and get railed!

He must have seen the mutiny in my expression because he crossed his arms over his broad chest and widened his stance in a way that brooked no argument. Okay, that was kind of hot. But also, maybe he had a point. The fact that I felt like throwing a full-blown temper tantrum, tears and all, probably meant that I had whizzed right by overtired and was now deep into delulu territory.

“Fine,” I said, and he relaxed a little. “How are you getting home?”

He uncrossed his arms and typed out a response. I parked down the street.

“Of course you did,” I said, glancing skyward in exasperation. “And I can feel you smiling about that right now, you weirdo, so stop it.”

His shoulders were shaking with silent laughter when I glanced back down. He made deranged look more adorable than concerning, which was why he was so dangerous. Because if he was deranged and mean or a bully, my instincts would have put me off him, made me want to run screaming in the opposite direction. His humor and needling only drew me closer and lowered my guard.

I really hoped he wasn’t planning to murder me because I’d feel real dumb when it happened.

He started typing again, one-handed, and I scrunched my nose while I waited, feeling sorry again. There had been many times I’d felt like stabbing men in my life. It was just my luck that the one time I actually did was accidental.

He showed me his phone. I’m going to leave now. Even though I don’t want to.

“Then stay,” I blurted. Oh, God. Clingy much, Aly? If the stabbing didn’t scare him off, surely my lack of chill would.

He shook his head, pointed at me, and mimed sleeping again. Then he closed the distance between us and leaned down to bump his masked forehead against mine. The plastic was cool and lifeless, almost jarring after all the time I’d spent anthropomorphizing it. I caught the slightest whiff of what might have been the soap he used, piney and crisp and clean-smelling, before he pulled away.

Even though he said he was leaving, he stood there, staring at me for a long moment before letting out a low, frustrated sound and striding away. I took it as a good sign that he’d lingered. He must have genuinely been into me if he had a hard time saying goodbye even after I’d stabbed him.

It made me feel better about my borderline obsession with him. People always said you shouldn’t meet your idols, but after months of following his account, the reality of him left me even more intrigued than his online persona. In my fantasies, he was one-dimensional, an archetype I’d created for my pleasure alone. The man walking toward my front door, being chased by my equally unchill cat, was even better because of the enigma he presented.

Who was he? Why wouldn’t he speak to me? And how long did he plan on toying with me like this before he got bored and moved on like all the other men in my life had?

He paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned back to me. We looked at each other for another drawn-out moment. There was so much I wanted to say to him that I didn’t know where to begin. Did he feel the same pull between us? This borderline-unhealthy fixation? He’d been watching me at work, so the assumption was yes, but I wanted to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that the same need that had overtaken me was bearing down on him, too.

He nodded one last time, leaned down to scratch Fred behind the ears, and left. I stared after him for far too long before a headbutt to my shin and a demanding yowl broke me out of my thoughts.

I scooped Fred up and buried my face in him. “I should have named you Benedict, you little turncoat.”

He purred and started making biscuits in my hair.

Twelve hours later, I woke to a noise. It sounded like a door closing, but I’d probably just been dreaming.

I rolled over and was about to go back to sleep when the past 48 hours crashed into me. The mass shooting. The Faceless Man breaking into my car. Me, getting into the passenger seat in a move that would have had horror movie aficionados screaming at their televisions. And yet, here I was, still alive. I was either one lucky bitch, or my instinct that I wasn’t in danger was correct.

I was pretty sure it was the latter. After all, I knew danger. Intimately. I faced it daily. In the past week alone, I’d had to block a slap from one patient, dodge a grope from another, and bite my tongue while being cussed out by countless more. My instincts were so honed that I couldn’t remember the last time someone caught me off guard. I always saw it coming, knew which patients I needed to be careful around. People only laid hands on me these days when I was distracted or had my back turned.

Most of my co-workers had the same sixth sense, with Brinley being the one exception because she was so new, but she was already learning, and if she stuck it out, she’d be as battle-hardened as the rest of us within a month or two.

All that to say, I was 98% sure that the Faceless Man didn’t intend to harm me. The other 2% should probably be concerning, and it was, but unfortunately, it also lent an exciting edge to our interactions. It was that tiny little sliver that drove my desire higher, similar to how the risk of getting caught made fucking in public so much fun.

Last night, he’d asked me if I wanted him to take the mask off and ruin the fantasy, and I’d had to clench my jaw and turn away to keep from yelling, “NO!” Because what if he did, and the excitement disappeared? I needed the mask on to feel alive. Needed the knife in his hand to make me remember how precious my life was and that I was lucky to be living it.

The only thing that might up the ante was finding out who he was on the sly and keeping it to myself. The thought of turning the tables and breaking into his house to place my own set of cameras so I could taunt him back was almost as thrilling as getting fucked by an anonymous stranger.

And yes, I realized precisely how fucked up that was.

I sighed and rolled onto my back, wondering how I’d gotten to that point. Was I simply overworked, or was it genetic, and darkness had lingered inside me for years, waiting for the chance to come out and play?

No, I told myself. Most of my family had been law-abiding citizens. There was only one exception, and I decided not to count him.

It must have been trauma-induced, which meant I really needed to put in for a two-week vacation. For more reasons than one. I’d just woken up from a long day of deep sleep, but I was still exhausted, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I needed to be back at work in a few hours, I could have easily dozed off for the rest of the night.

I’ll put in for leave as soon as things settle down at the hospital, I told myself.

So…never? came an answering thought, unbidden.

I shook my head. Why did I always do this? Put off taking care of my mental health and prioritize the welfare of everyone else above my own? I knew what my therapist would say: that I was still internalizing Mom’s death and blaming myself for it. After all the years of work I’d put in trying to recover from her loss, guilt still rode me. I couldn’t save Mom, but with every life I saved at work, I felt like at least I could save someone else’s loved one.

I sat up in bed and put my head in my hands. “The hospital will not collapse if you decide to take a few weeks of PTO,” I told myself. “Between Tanya and Seth and all the other nurses, they’ll be fine.”

Maybe if I kept repeating those words to myself, I would believe them. It wasn’t that I didn’t have faith in my co-workers. Tanya and Seth, the senior day shift nurse, were the most competent nurses in the hospital. I would trust them implicitly with my life. It was the thought of not being there when I was needed that gave me pause. The chance that my absence might spell someone’s demise. What if some critical symptom or sign went unseen because I wasn’t there?

“Okay, stop,” I said. Now I sounded full of myself. Like I was some super nurse, and without my presence, all the hospital’s patients would die. That wasn’t true, and it also wasn’t what drove my thoughts. What I felt was closer to FOMO – the fear of missing out – than self-aggrandization.

Before I could talk myself out of it again, I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and emailed my supervisor, asking for the time off.

I let out a deep breath afterward and tried to come to terms with the thought of two weeks of freedom. It felt like so much time. Too much time, honestly. How would I fill all those hours? Going to the gym, certainly. Catching up on all the TV shows I had saved to my playlist sounded good, too. Maybe I could finally learn how to knit.

A soft meow interrupted my spiraling as Fred padded into the room. He leaped onto the foot of my bed and strode right up to me, arching his back when I reached out to pet him. I still couldn’t believe how much he liked the Faceless Man. The fact that he’d sat in his lap last night was wild. Then again, he’d always been my little empath, snuggling close whenever I was sad or had a bad shift at the hospital. Maybe he’d sensed the Faceless Man’s pain and wanted to comfort him.

Yeah, let’s go with that instead of Fred choosing a masked stranger over his mother.

“You ready for breakfast?” I asked.

Fred chirruped in response and jumped from the bed, leading the way to the kitchen. I followed him, tugging on my heavy robe and slippers before leaving my room.

My house was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, rays glinting off the holiday decorations I really should have taken down by now. Or was that just societal pressure telling me what to do? There was no official mandate saying when holiday décor season ended, and the neighbors across the street still had their tree in their front window. I’d been low-key waiting for them to remove it before I packed my stuff away, and every time I got home and saw the merry glow coming from their house, I smiled, knowing that festive cheer had lived to see another day.

A thought occurred to me as I set about brewing a pot of coffee and preparing Fred’s breakfast. What if my neighbors were doing the same thing I was? Were we stuck in an unintentional standoff, each waiting for the other to make the first move? Would January turn into February, and we’d become the ridicule of the rest of the neighborhood? Paula and George were from the deep south, and if country music had taught me anything, it was that some Southerners took pride in leaving their lights up all year round.

I grimaced. Christmas in summer. Yeah, no. The decorations needed to come down.

I’d do it on my next day off.

I fixed Fred his plate of wet food and set it on the floor for him to devour. While the coffee brewed, I got out my favorite mug, which was soup-cup-sized and had the words “I’ve seen more dicks than a porn director” written on it. It was a birthday gift from Tanya last year, and the entire breakroom full of nurses had cackled when I opened it. Because we saw a lot of genitals.

I shuddered.

So many genitals.

The smell of coffee filled the kitchen as I headed toward the refrigerator. I opened the door and went to grab my creamer but froze. There were two takeout containers in there. Hadn’t there been one last night?

I snagged the creamer and shut the door. Then I opened it again. Yup, the second container was still there.

I pinched myself, and it hurt. Okay, so this wasn’t a lucid dream. Sometime while I’d slept, someone had broken into my house and put their leftovers in my fridge.

Gee, I wonder who could have done such a dastardly thing?

Worried I was going to find a body part waiting for me inside, I removed the new container and peeked beneath the lid. No severed hand, thank fuck. Instead, I looked in on a stack of pancakes covered in fresh strawberries and homemade whipped cream. The same breakfast I ordered every Sunday from the bakery down the street.

I lifted the container and checked underneath, and there, right in the center, was the logo for the bakery.

Carefully, I placed the pancakes back inside the fridge and shut the door a final time, wondering how to feel about this latest invasion. On the one hand, the Faceless Man noticed I had no food in my house and fixed it for me. On the other hand, I’d slept straight through him doing it.

That realization was terrifying. I knew I was a heavy sleeper, but holy shit. Anyone could have broken in over the past several years with much worse intentions, and I wouldn’t have known I was in danger until it was too late.

I was suddenly way more grateful for my new security system than I had been.

Speaking of which.

I turned and went to grab my phone from my room, opening the security app as I strode back into the kitchen. There were several notifications, but they were all from cars driving past or neighbors walking by on the sidewalk. I frowned when I realized the time stamps showed a gap of several hours, stopping around noon and starting up again just twenty minutes ago – around the time I woke to the sound of a door shutting.

Goddamn it, he’d hacked my cameras.

I stomped toward the front of the house, planning to see if they were back on by waving my hand in front of the one outside, but when I opened the door, I froze for the second time in less than five minutes, blinking into the blinding white of my snow-covered neighborhood. The storm had dumped at least a foot on us, and my immediate reaction was to groan because that meant I’d have to shovel myself out before I left for work, which would take up the time I usually went to the gym.

The thing was, someone had already shoveled me out. My front steps and walk were clear, my car had been brushed off, and my driveway was spotless.

My next-door neighbors, a black couple in their late 60s, were out in all their snow gear, almost done with their own storm cleanup. The husband, Clarence, saw me and waved. His wife, Wendy, noticed and waved, too, leaning her shovel against the side of their garage before ambling my way.

I stepped out onto my front porch and shut the door behind me. The wind nipped at my skin, and I tugged my robe tighter as I walked down the stairs to meet Wendy. She and Clarence had introduced themselves when I was moving in, welcoming me to the neighborhood with a homemade lasagna casserole. They had several grandchildren my age, and they’d taken one look at me that day, a young homeowner, exhausted and in way over my head with all the work this place needed, and decided to all but adopt me, helping with renovations, making sure I had at least one home-cooked meal a week, and checking on Fred when I had marathon shifts at the hospital like the one that ended earlier this morning.

Wendy tucked a loose curl into the hood of her jacket as she reached me, a sparkle in her dark eyes. She was tall, like me, and still in great shape, thanks to all the walks she and Clarence took together, paired with their bi-weekly golf games during the warmer months. Theirs was the nicest house on the block, a gorgeous two-story craftsman they’d owned for forty years. They’d mulled over downsizing recently, but neither could bring themselves to sell the house they’d raised their four girls in, and I selfishly hoped they never would.

“Lucky girl,” Wendy said. “That handsome man of yours shoveled you out.”

My pulse skyrocketed. “What did he –” I cut myself off. How strange would it seem if I asked Wendy what he looked like? “Did he say anything?”

She grinned. “Not much. Just that you two had a little tiff, and he was trying to get back into your good graces.” She regarded my pristine sidewalk and driveway before turning back to me with a look of gentle chastisement. “You didn’t tell us you were seeing anyone.”

“It’s still new,” I said by way of apology. No, they weren’t my actual relatives, but Wendy had the grandma guilt down to a fine science, and I’d lost count of how many times I’d spilled my guts to her and Clarence whenever they invited me over for dinner.

“I don’t mean to be pushy,” she said, “but if you ask me, I say hold onto that one. Handsome as the Devil and willing to do manual labor to keep you happy?” She waved in the direction of her husband. “These men don’t come around that often, and if you don’t scoop him up, someone else will. I stole Clarence right out from beneath the nose of a woman who didn’t appreciate him like she should have.”

I gaped at her. Prim and proper Wendy had taken another woman’s man? “Uh, ma’am? You were going to tell me this story when?”

Her smile widened, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s not nearly as exciting as it sounds.”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” I said.

She chuckled and shook her head at me.

We chatted for a few more minutes before the cold sent me back inside, and I left Wendy with the promise that we’d have dinner soon. It was their turn to host, and she said Clarence had all the ingredients to make Chana Saag – my absolute favorite thing they’d ever served me.

I whipped my phone out of my robe pocket the second I got inside.

Have you ever heard of the word boundaries? I texted the Faceless Man.

Doesn’t sound familiar, he wrote back. Can you use it in a sentence?

Goddamn it, this wasn’t funny. Not at all. My cheeks hurt because they were cold, not because of how wide I was grinning.

Did you do any other nefarious things besides shovel and stock my fridge that I should know about? I asked. Watched me while I slept? Placed more hidden cameras?

He sent a thinking emoji. Nothing comes to mind. But you do snore real cute.

My eyes flashed wide. I do NOT snore.

Like a chipmunk with a cold. Wheeze, wheeze, siiiiigh.

Keep making fun of me, and I might stab you again. And do not say “kinky”!

Kink- uh, I mean…

You’re lucky I didn’t find some sneaky way to get my neighbors to describe you and make it easier for me to track you down.

And risk having them look at you sideways after I told them I was your beau? I knew you wouldn’t do it. Or make it easier on yourself. Don’t lie. You’re having as much fun as I am, Aly.

I shook my head. He was incorrigible. And I was having fun, but I wasn’t ready to admit that to him yet. His ego seemed big enough without me inflating it.

Thank you, by the way, I said. For breakfast and shoveling. You shouldn’t have. I mean that literally, but I’m grateful anyway.

I expected a sarcastic response, but he wrote back, I like taking care of you.

Shit. No, hormones. We’re not going to be set all aflutter when the strange man stalking us does something nice.

How are your stitches? I asked, unsure of how to respond to his loaded comment. I’d been actively avoiding the memory of stabbing and then stitching him up, but I could only suppress the healthcare worker inside me for so long. I’d done everything I could to prevent infection, but the reality was my house wasn’t a sterile environment, and the risk of something going wrong was real.

Red and itchy, he replied. And are black lines leading up my arm from the wound normal?

Oh, fuck.

No! You need to go to the ER. Now. I am not- I typed out before his next text came through, and I paused to read it.

Just kidding. It’s fine. You totally freaked out, didn’t you?

I braced my hands on the kitchen counter and leaned forward, wheezing in a breath as I fought to get my heart rate under control.

I was absolutely going to find him and figure out some way to get even. Maybe I’d break into his house and move all his furniture slightly out of place. Not enough to be super obvious, but just enough that his brain got stuck on it, knowing something was off, and he went crazy trying to figure it out. Or maybe I’d film a thirst trap in his bedroom and see how he liked it.

Ugh. Scratch that. He’d probably like it a little too much, and I was aiming for punishment, not reward.

My phone pinged again.

Aly? You still there? Or are you off somewhere plotting my demise?

How did he know me so well already?

Oh, right. The stalking.

You will never see me coming, I told him, hitting send before I noticed the double-entendre in the words.

Welp. There go my plans for you tonight, he wrote back.

I nearly choked.

How the hell was I supposed to get through the rest of the night with the thought of him getting me off taking up so much space in my brain?

Another text came through, but it was from Tyler.

Hey, Aly. I know you probably work tonight, but do you have time to swing by here first and talk to Josh? He said he’s free.

The smile that spread over my face felt maniacal. Let the first step toward finding the Faceless Man commence.

If I leave soon, yes, I responded. Does half an hour from now work for him?

It took a few minutes for Tyler to answer. He said yes. I won’t be here. Is that okay? Josh is cool.

I’m sure I’ll be fine, I told him.

K. Good luck. Here’s his number so you can text him when you get here.

He sent it through, and I saved it to my phone before thanking him.

I switched back to my text thread with the Faceless Man.

Do you feel like sharing those plans? I asked.

In answer, he sent back a zipped lip emoji followed by a knife and then a grinning devil face.

Cool, cool.

It was either his turn for knife play or he was planning to stitch my lips shut so I wouldn’t be able to tell the Devil who stabbed me to death when I got to hell.