Ch 2 Exposed Bts

Beyond the Shadows - Chapter 2: Exposed

Despite a night of tossing and turning, I wake up oddly relaxed. Stretching out my arms and plodding along the hall, I stop at the large, ornate mirror in the hallway. Large brown eyes are reflected back, my dark-blonde hair doing its best impression of someone who's had 1000 volts of electricity pumped through her system...and my body, well, its okay, I suppose. I'm a little more plump than I'd like, a little tired looking -- though I suppose a stalker will do that to you. Not bothering to fix my gravity-defying hair, a yawn escapes my lips as I shuffle my tired legs towards the kitchen. I pause in the entryway, muscles tensing in a fight or flight response when I spot the utensils laid out neatly on the black marble countertop.

I wouldn't call myself a neat freak, not even slightly, but I'm confident I'd left this kitchen tidy before I went to bed. Remaining quiet, I study every corner of the open-plan room, then make my way over to the counter. Four, everyday items sit side by side, perfectly aligned next to a folded piece of paper.

Placing both hands on the cool marble, I take a deep, steadying breath. The first item farthest to the left, is a whisk. I didn't even know I owned a bloody whisk. The second item is a thick-handled, plastic spatula. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry as my gaze falls on the third item -- a roll of clingfilm. My heart thrums in my chest as it finally clicks. My shadow has organised these implements in order of size...or perhaps order of use? The fourth item nearly has my knees buckling. A rolling pin.

My hands shake as I pick up the note and slowly unfold it.

'You sleep so soundly, little lamb...but I'm getting hungry.'

I drop the paper, letting it slowly flutter to the cool, stone floor. He wasn't just in my kitchen, he was in my bedroom. My phone rings, making me jump, and I curse as the sound of 'Happy' by 'Pharrell Williams' inappropriately trills in the quiet room.

"Hello?" I snap, my mood soured and fear palpable as I lean against the counter.

"Whoa...what's with the 'tude, Riley?" a male voice grumbles from the other end of the line.

I sigh, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly at the sound of his voice. "Sorry, Benson," I say, eyes still fixed to the unmentionables in front of me. Benson Noble is my best, and probably only friend in the area. He and I met at the local pub, the same one he happens to own. We hit it off, fucked once, then never fucked again. "I didn't sleep well," I lie. In truth, despite the tossing and turning I slept soundly, though it's likely the last time I'll ever sleep again now my stalker has stepped up his game.

"Awww! That sucks, babe," he says, sarcasm dripping from his tone. "So, I need your help with something..."

My tongue runs over my teeth as I wait for him to explain. Benson's day job is obviously running the only bar in town...his night job, however, is a little different. "If you're calling to ask me to be one of those fucking sign girls again, you can save your breath." There is no way he's getting my fat ass in a skimpy bikini, holding up signs at his local fight nights.

He swears. "Come on, babe. I'll pay!" The salacious edge to his tone suggests his payment is more likely cock and not cash.

I laugh. "As tempting as that is, it's a hard no from me."

He sighs, and I notice the muffled sound of someone moaning on the other side of the line.

"Benson?" I ask.

"Yes?"

"Do you have your dick in some chick right now?"

Silence.

I sigh. "Listen, I'll come to the fight, but my clothes are remaining on, okay?"

His tone perks up almost instantly. "I can live with that! The more girls we have, the better. You know the boys hate a sausage fest, and they always fight harder if pretty ladies are around," he says, followed by the sound of a slap and a woman squealing in delight.

I shake my head and hang up the phone, returning my attention to the current issue at hand. I considered telling Benson about my lingering shadow when I first noticed his presence a week ago...but something about this stranger warned me not to. I don't want to put Benson in danger, but now this man has entered my house, I should at least call the police. I regard the items on the counter once more and cringe at the thought of police officers forming an understanding of what this man wants to do to me.

"Damn him," I mutter. I'm already behind on my writing schedule, and now I'll have to deal with this. I pick up my phone, and call the police.

Somewhat surprisingly, it only took the local officers about twenty-minutes to reach my house. I saw their vehicles crawl up the long driveway, trying and failing to avoid the meteor-sized pot holes in the gravel. After taking my statement, conducting an initial investigation and offering some patronising advice, it was midday before they finally left with the promise to investigate my case further. I don't hold out much hope. My shadow wouldn't be stupid enough to forget his gloves when rifling through my dirty laundry and fucking around with my kitchen utensils.

I lock my front door and head for the bathroom, feeling dirty after handing over the stalker's note to the officers. One had of them had read it aloud while holding the paper delicately between his gloved fingers. After a moment, the officer had looked up at me, but there wasn't sympathy in the man's eyes...something about the way his nostrils flared, the slight tilt of lips, told me he related to the shadow.

I shiver as the cold water hits my hand and wait for the shower to warm a little before stepping in. I should skip the fight tonight, but Benson will be on my case for the rest of the week if I don't go. Our town may be small, but Benson's Beat-Up nights are pretty popular, and people come from all over the island and the mainland just to get their spot in the ring. I had helped with that. When I moved here a little over a month ago, I attended the usual midweek brawl. It was fun, with drinks served and bouncers hired, it meant the atmosphere could grow and people could unwind. Wanting to help, I set up a social media account for the fights and suddenly his business boomed. Within two weeks 'Benson's Brawls' had over ten thousand followers, and I became the man's new best friend.

A small knock on my bathroom window makes me jump and I pull the curtain back to peer outside. Unlike your typical, modern day houses, this one doesn't have the usual frosted or wavy glass for privacy. Mine is just the old-school, single pane, cold as fuck, revealing kind. Another knock makes me step out, and I wrap the towel around my chest to peer outside.

He's here. It's broad daylight, and my shadow is standing in my backyard, a pebble in his hand, casually tossing it in the air. Wearing a black, winter coat with the hood pulled forward, his wide frame is only further enhanced. Loose dark jeans reveal thick, muscular thighs, his black boots half buried in snow. Was he here when the police arrived? I continue to stare, unsure what to do. My phone is downstairs in the kitchen so I can't photograph him, but more importantly, I can't call the police.

My breath catches in my throat as the man tips his head back ever so slightly. It's not enough to reveal the face beneath the hood, but I know he can see me. Something about that irks me, but what's more concerning is the rising damp between my legs.

Inspiration -- or possible stupidity -- strikes, and I drop the towel. The moment my tits are revealed, he catches the pebble in his hand and fists his fingers over it. I smile. Bet the creeper wasn't expecting that.

My shadow tilts his head to one side, then slowly shakes it, almost like he disapproves. My cheeks flush, but I don't retrieve the towel. Instead, I turn and step back into the shower. Ignoring the fact that my heart seems damn determined to burst through my chest, I squirt some shower cream into my palms and tip my head back as my hands move up and down my body, gliding over my breasts and catching on my rock hard nipples, down my tummy to cup my pussy.

From the angle of the window in relation to the shower, my personal peeping-tom will only have a partial view...and I bet he fucking hates that. I open my eyes and tilt my head to one side, leaning slightly forward to see if he's still there.

A strange disappointment settles in my gut when I find the backyard vacant, but the feeling doesn't have a chance to take root when I hear the familiar slam of my back door, the pane glass rattling and door chimes dingling from the impact.

Still covered in soapy suds, I do what everyone yells at the dumb blonde NOT to do in scary movies. I jump out of the shower, grabbing my towel as I race for the bedroom. My rifle remains where I left it, still propped against the bedside table. Wrapping the towel around my chest I pick up the rifle and turn towards the stairs.

The sound of heavy, booted footfalls echo through the hall. "Fuck," I whisper, hating the whimper in my tone. I run for my bedroom door, slam it closed and turn the lock. I step back as the footsteps get closer and closer, then my stalker's shadow appears beneath the doorway.

"I have a weapon," I warn, my voice shaking, palms sweating and towel starting to fall down my chest. "Please, please leave me alone." I hate that I'm begging, hate that this man has ruined my peace and solitude...REALLY hate that my pussy is pulsing like the desperate hoe she is.

A small piece of paper slides under the door, but I make no move to retrieve it.

After a moment of dead silence, the shadow chuckles. "Clever little lamb," he says, his voice quiet but cloaked in a deep, scottish timber. Slowly, his shadow recedes from the doorway. Footsteps casually make their way down the stairs, and again I hear my back door open and close.

I blow out a breath, one hand flying to my chest while the other let's my rifle drop to land beside my feet. The note catches my eye and I nearly stumble in my haste to snatch it up from the floor. My finger slides along the edge, desperate to unfold it, and I wince at the sting as the paper slices through the skin. The feeling is gone the moment I see the words scribbled on the page.

'I received your invite. It's dangerous exposing yourself to a stranger, little lamb. Now I hope you're ready to accept your punishment. See you soon.'

My legs buckle beneath me and I sink to the floor. I am so, royally, fucked.

To be continued...

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This is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

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