Page 12 of Little Author

I heard him, not in a dream or a memory. I heard him now. In the dark, just inches from my neck.

“Mmm. That’s right. Sing for me.”

I spun around so fast I nearly slipped in my own shameful pool of come. My back hit the wall, and I held my breath like it would make me invisible.

There is nothing here.

No footsteps, no coat flapping around the corner. No deep, heavy silhouette stepping from the shadows to own me completely.

Just the air.

But it was thick with him.

I touched my throat.

I was trembling.

I could smell the scent. I would never forget the musky tang of him.

The one I couldn’t wash from my mind ever since the day I had first smelled him. Going into that confession area and smelling his telltale scent was intoxicating.

Now, it was like a live wire beneath my skin.

I couldn’t stop shaking.

Not from fear.

Not really.

From the fact that I’d liked it.

That I wanted this to be real.

That my cunt clenched tighter when I heard his voice than it had for any man who’d touched me. That I could still smell him, even though logic screamed I was alone.

He was real.

He’d been here. Close enough to see my face when I came. Close enough to know I was doing it for him. Then he vanished like a ghost who didn’t need to haunt…because he knew I was already his .

I stood in the alleyway for too long.

My coat was open, my thighs sticky, and my whole body buzzing with post-orgasmic panic and the shameful thrill of being witnessed.

I didn’t fix my dress.

I walked home like that, raw and pulsing.

When I got inside, I didn’t turn on the lights. I dropped my coat on the floor, peeled off the soaked dress like dead skin, and went straight to my desk.

My hands didn’t hesitate.

Opening the top drawer, I ripped the black button out of the hidden spot and ran over to peer out my dark window, half expecting to see his eyes staring back at me.

I bit my lip, knowing this was practically an invitation, an acceptance of the challenge.

I had to beat the Maestro at his own game. The cops would never be able to stop him.

I was the only one who knew him—the only one who felt what he was going to do before he did it. Pages and pages of my notes showed everything I knew about him. After years of research, I knew him better than I knew myself.

He’d grown up in Tennessee in America. He was an orphan at thirteen and joined a gang where he became a killer in New Jersey, before fleeing to London. I knew his past. His pain. His lovers. His family.

Everything.

I had to do this.

Sighing, I put the button to my lips before leaving it on my windowsill.

Facing the street.

Facing him.

If he came back, if he were watching, he’d see it.

He’d know.

I wasn’t running.

I was ready.