Page 32 of Willing Prey

TWENTY-SEVEN

Claire

I wake up alone, naked and tangled in Shane’s sheets.

My mouth is dry, and my hair’s a tornado.

The bathroom’s dark, the door open. A glance at my phone shows it’s after six.

Maybe Shane’s making coffee. Yesterday’s clothing is folded on the foot of the bed; I throw it on.

My hand is on the doorknob when I hear a voice I don’t recognize.

I freeze, not wanting to chat with anyone in my disheveled state.

It’s a woman’s voice, high and melodic. “What’s that way?” Not Margot, definitely not Gretchen.

I recognize the answering voice. Margot says, “That’s Mr. Underwood’s room. Come on, I’ll show you the downstairs.”

My stomach flips, then knots at the strange woman’s response, her voice faint as they move away. “How big is the property exactly?”

My brain jumps to panic mode, doing frantic math. This woman’s presence plus Shane’s absence equals I’m being replaced.

Don’t overreact.

There must be an explanation for why Margot’s giving a woman a tour of Shane’s house, but I’m too sleep-fogged to figure it out.

Opening the bedroom door, I start down the hall.

I’ll wash my face, find Shane, and see what’s going on.

As I pass the guest room next to mine, my eyes wander.

The door is open, and I can see all the way across the space, to where a hot pink duffel bag and black purse sit on the foot of the bed.

What. The. Fuck.

I’m standing in the hall, gaping at the luggage, when my phone vibrates repeatedly in the waistband of my leggings.

Please be Shane about to explain this.

It isn’t, but against my better judgment I read the text anyway.

Cheating Piece of Shit: It was good to see you the other night. I wish we could have talked longer.

Cheating Piece of Shit: I miss you. I’ve been under a lot of stress at work, and I wish I could talk to you about it. I’d love to have you in my life again.

It’s all I can do not to fling the phone into the guest room. The level of audacity it takes to reach out to me for emotional support is staggering. I’m gripping the phone too hard.

For the first time in thirty days, I cave and respond: Talk to Naomi about it.

Then I block his number, like I probably should have done a month ago.

The last petty word is mine. I should feel good, but I don’t.

Because I’m still staring at some other woman’s luggage.

Heat licks my cheeks. Last night’s hope shrivels, dying from embarrassment.

No matter how intimate having sex in Shane’s bed was, how close it made me feel to him, he hasn’t come out and said he wants more.

I think I’ve been projecting my feelings all over him.

There’s no way he’s in the kitchen. He’s left, gone to work because, to him, this is just another day.

I’m the one who’s making it weird, who almost started a so what are we? conversation last night.

A haze settles over me. I’m not in Shane’s hallway anymore.

I’m in my old bedroom, discovering Keith’s texts to Naomi.

Gutted by the realization that I’ve been replaced.

Learning that while I was still invested in him, he’d already moved on to someone new.

The world shifts, and I’m back in Shane’s hallway, my brain shrieking that Oh my god, it’s happening again .

I’m getting replaced. But this time, there’s nobody to blame for the gnawing in my stomach but me.

Shane committed to thirty days, and his time’s up.

Whatever betrayal is happening here I created in my head by getting attached to someone who literally made me sign a contract that this was not a relationship.

Reality hits so hard my knees wobble. Shane may be paying for the hunt, but he’s also paying for it to end cleanly.

No muss, no fuss, no standing teary-eyed in the hallway like I am right now.

Fuck.

I rush to my room. If there’s a world record for speed packing, I’m pretty sure I’m in the running, because I’ve crammed my things in my bag and stripped the sheets from the bed fast enough for it to count as cardio.

I hold my breath as I go down the stairs, like if I can keep air in my lungs, I can keep all the little pieces of myself together.

Wounds can be licked at home, my humiliation faced and dealt with.

Now, I need to get out. Complete the final portion of my contract and leave.

I’m at the front door when I hear the click of high heels on the wood floor.

Fuc—

“Claire!” Margot calls out. “This is Sophia. Sophia, Claire. Claire, Sophia.”

Turning, I nod at Margot and Sophia, letting out a croak of a hello. Margot’s looking at me funny, but Sophia smiles, her straight, white teeth looking like a toothpaste commercial. She’s stunning. There’s no way she’s older than twenty-three.

Sophia is lovely, with shoulder-length chestnut hair and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose.

In her leggings and teal cropped hoodie, I can picture her as an Instagram influencer or yoga instructor.

I can’t see her running through the woods, branches snagging her gorgeous hair, clawing her pretty face.

I don’t want to picture Shane fucking her.

“Where are you going?” Margot asks. “You look sick. Are you okay?”

I don’t know why she’s asking where I’m going. Shouldn’t she know? Maybe she thinks I’m off to the next man’s house, that I have a substitute Shane lined up the same way he clearly prepared to replace me with a newer, prettier version.

Just like fucking Keith.

I want to scream. Or sob. Possibly vomit. Anything but what I’m doing, which is smiling at the woman who is going to be fucked by the man I have way too many feelings for.

“No, I’m great.” The lie tastes sour. “Just me this early, without makeup.”

Sophia smiles back at me, nose scrunching. She’s so cute it hurts. “I get it. I’m in the same boat today.”

My laugh sounds as unhinged as I feel. We aren’t in the same boat, not even the same ocean. “Well, you look great.” What am I supposed to say? Do I give her some tidbit of advice?

By the way, Shane loves pulling hair, so leave yours down. It’s impractical but worth it.

Images of Shane behind Sophia, rough fingers tangling in her hair, make me think I’m going to vomit after all. I have to get out of here.

Margot’s expression is quizzical. “You’re just…leaving? While Shane’s at work?”

“Yeah, sorry, I need to go. I’m running late for stuff.

And things.” Forcing a smile to cut off my rambling, I give Margot a quick goodbye hug and open the front door.

Then I’m free, crossing the front porch for the last time.

As I hurry across the gravel driveway to my truck, telling myself it shouldn’t hurt this much does nothing to ease the agony.

This was a gig, just a job.

No matter how many times I think it, it doesn’t feel true.

I know it isn’t a breakup, but it hurts like one, the pain intensified by the fact that I’m the only one hurting. That’s good, though. Having Shane know I read more into our relationship than exists would be mortifying.

The drive home is a blur. It isn’t until I’m back in my empty apartment that I let myself cry.

I check my bank balance through tear-filled eyes, and for a moment, a ridiculous part of me hopes the payment won’t have gone through.

That I’ll have a reason to contact him, because I—absurdly—already miss him.

The money’s there, though, every last cent.

More money than I’ve ever had in my account at one time.

I shouldn’t still be crying, but I am. Big, pathetic tears that I can’t stop.

I know so much better than this, but I did it anyway.

Let myself think there was something there when there wasn’t.

Even though I know this isn’t the same thing, the wound is close enough to discovering Keith’s affair that the pain starts to blend.

The cutting realization that I didn’t matter as much as I thought—or in Shane’s case, hoped—I did.

Humiliation pouring over the gash like rubbing alcohol, leaving me breathless and teary-eyed.

Except this time, I injured myself, pulled the blade across my own flesh.

So now I’m bleeding, and there’s no one to blame but me.

Four hours, another hearty cry, and a shower later, I’m better.

Not good, but better. Sydney is at her fiancé’s this weekend.

She’d be back in an instant if she knew how emotionally wrecked I feel, but I don’t want her to abandon her plans.

I also don’t want to admit that I’m a starry-eyed optimist who entered a sex contract and started thinking the other person wanted a relationship.

She won’t judge me, and I’ll tell her eventually, but I need to soak in my hurt feelings solo for a day or two first. Still, wallowing or not, the idea of moping around the apartment all weekend is unappealing.

There’s only one option: I’m going camping.

I need to get back in the woods for a few days.

Do a hike-in campsite. Let nature soothe me how it always does.

Shake off Shane and reset. I’m single and about to pay off my student loans with a decent chunk of change left over.

I should be happy. Grateful. I spent thirty days having incredible sex with a man who’s as attractive as he is kind, and I was paid for it.

I need to keep perspective. I’m lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky.