Page 29 of Run For Me (Until You’re Mine Duet #1)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Sailor

It’s dark when I get home and I curse myself for not turning on the porch light before I left.

I should leave it on all the time so I don’t forget.

Now that I have some sort of social life, it would make sense since I don’t know when I’ll be home some days.

I should be more cautious, considering I live alone, and JT has proven how easy it is to get my information.

Meaning, anyone could find me. I trust him with it, though.

For some sick and crazy reason, I trust him.

Something inside me tells me he wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do… but what about someone else?

Once I’m inside the house, a faint, unfamiliar scent hits me and I stop and turn around, sniffing the air, but it’s gone. I take a few steps trying to find it again, but it’s lost.

Hmm… maybe Sam’s smell lingering? Or the echo of someone who lived here before?

It’s not the first time I’ve felt echoes in this old house.

Every now and then I hear footsteps or smell smoke, feel like someone’s watching me.

When I was little, it scared the crap out of me.

As I got older, my view on death changed after dealing with it so often, and I no longer feared the ghosts, but welcomed them, hoping maybe it was my parents coming back to visit me. To tell me they miss me and love me.

This smell though, this isn’t my parents. It also didn’t smell like anything old. It was musky and new—expensive.

Knowing there isn’t anything I can do about it, I put my stuff down and go to the fridge for some water. The last thing I need to worry about are ghosts hanging around.

I sit on the sofa with my bottle of water and turn on the TV.

I have homework to do, and I should go to the dining table.

I glance at it and cringe. It’s so uncomfortable.

I should get a desk, but there’s nowhere to put it.

Not unless I get rid of some furniture and I really don’t want to do that.

Or take on the giant task of cleaning out the guest room, which I should do at some point.

Instead, I open my phone and search for couch tables and find one I like, so I order it.

There, the perfect solution. I’ll be able to sit comfortably on the couch while doing homework.

For now, I spread my books out on the coffee table and sit on the floor with my back against the sofa and do a mix of studying and taking notes for a test I have tomorrow.

Before I know it, it’s midnight. My eyes are burning and I’m getting a headache from staring at the small letters and glossy pages for so long.

I toss my pen down and lean back, rubbing my eyes and taking a few breaths.

I get up and go to the fridge, looking for a snack.

It’s still pretty full from when Sam went grocery shopping.

Most of this will go bad soon if I don’t eat it.

Problem is, everything that’s in here is nothing I want to eat.

I go through the freezer and find triple chocolate fudge ice cream and grin as I grab the whole carton, snatch up the can of whipped cream, take a spoon from the strainer, and go back to the couch. I can never say no to ice cream.

An Avengers movie is on, and I sit back, enjoying some Tom Hiddleston and Chris Hemsworth while I eat my snack.

Of course, if I had to choose between the brothers, I’d go for Loki.

I’ve always been one for the villains. In every movie I’ve watched, the bad guys steal my heart.

Instead of Hercules it was Hades. Instead of Batman it was Joker.

Kylo Ren. Tyler Durden. Joe Goldberg, specifically.

I could go on.

I was born into the dark side, I guess.

I’d started doing some research on the internet, about the stuff I think about, and it seems it’s more common than people let on, and it’s finally starting to normalize thanks to a few social media sites.

I’d never wanted to join Tik Tok before, but after seeing some videos showcasing how people learned about their kinks, I’d considered it.

I didn’t do it, but I’d thought about it, if only to watch that stuff.

I eat half the container of ice cream, squirting some whipped cream over each layer as I go.

My lips are numb, and my stomach is full, so I replace the cover and put it back in the freezer, saving the other half for another day.

Eating half a carton of ice cream isn’t smart, but after my father died, my mother always spoke of how important it is to live for the day because you never know when it’ll be your last. Instead of following those words for all these years, I’ve done the opposite and hid myself away out of fear.

It may be dramatic, but I feel as if I’ve been reborn in a sense. Like I’ve been given a chance to start over. Each day that passes, I feel better and better… with everything, but especially with who I am.

Not holding on to secrets is much easier than fighting with myself to pretend to be someone I’m not.

I just need to be me.

I pack up my school stuff, so it’ll be ready in the morning. There’s a good chance I won’t be up early, so it’s best I get everything together now, so when I need to rush out the door, I’ll only have to grab my bag and go.

I head into my bedroom to grab some clothes so I can take a quick shower. That scent hits my nose again, and I stop. A woodsy, musky scent, but as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. So strange.

I dig through the drawers of my tall dresser for pajamas to sleep in and when I pull out my last pair, I realize I need to do laundry.

Groaning, because laundry is literally the bane of my existence, I toss the clothes in my hand onto the bed and gather up the dirty stuff.

I scoop it all up, tossing it into the hamper, and cringe when I touch something cold and wet on a pair of sleep shorts by my bed.

I don’t even want to know what that is.

“I really need to do laundry more often,” I mumble when the basket is stuffed full and there are still clothes littering the floor.

I bring the basket to the kitchen and open the accordion doors, toss the dirty clothes into the wash, add soap, and start it.

Once I’m back in my room, I finish getting the dirty stuff together, but when I come to my closet, I freeze.

My eyes slowly move up the doors from floor to ceiling.

Something isn’t right here… It’s different. Something is different.

But what—

I gasp and take a step back, my hand covering my mouth as my eyes dart back and forth.

When did that door get fixed? The door has been broken for months, and I swore I would fix it but never got around to it.

Did Sam do it when he was here? I run through the last few weeks, trying to recall what the door looked like while I was in here, but I can’t remember.

I don’t check my room for changes every time I come in here.

It’s my safe space, and usually I’m hiding out in my bed or sleeping. I didn’t notice the door.

But if it was Sam, surely I’d have noticed it sooner, right? He’s been gone a few weeks now.

It had to have been Sam. No one else has been here.

I take a step closer to the closet and place my hands on the knobs, fear working its way up my spine as I prepare to pull them open. Is someone hiding in there?

Is it him?

I tug the doors open so quickly they make a snapping sound and bounce back. I duck my head in and find it’s empty—as usual. I wasn’t using it because the door was broken.

But it’s fixed now.

I stare at the closet for a long, long time, my thoughts going this way and that.

I finally make the decision that it most certainly was Sam who fixed it and I’ve been too distracted to notice.

I should at least thank him, so I send him a quick text doing just that and then go in the shower.

It’s quick because I don’t wash my hair, and when I’m done, I feel so much better and I’m ready for a good night’s sleep, now that it’s almost one in the morning.

When I plug my phone in, I see a text from Sam. I open it and my heart drops from my chest.

Sam: I didn’t fix your closet doors.