One Hot Fall Term (Yardley College Chronicles Book1) (16 page)

I let out a really loud, throaty moan. “I’m playing with myself,” I admit.

“Me too.”

I can imagine it. His strong hands. His thick shaft. The beautiful, swollen, kissable head swelling as he pumps his fist hard.

I rub myself like wild. All my frustration comes out. I’m almost raw when the climax finally ignites. I cry out into the phone. “Oh God, Ryan. I’m coming. Oh! Oh!”

He lets out a deep moan. I can picture him coming, just like he did on the dock. I want to sob in regret. Why didn’t I seduce him months ago? On our second date? Oh hell, why not on the first date? Why didn’t I spend every minute in bed with Ryan that I could?

I breathe heavily into the phone and so does he.

“That was so sexy,” he tells me softly.

Five years of college are required for me to get a degree in Architecture. I can’t survive it. I really can’t. Not when I want to share my life with Ryan.

“We could do it again,” I say. “A lot.”

***

At the end of the week, Lara’s asleep but I’m up at midnight, working on my sketches of the Parthenon for my History of Western Architecture project. I’m working on my desk in the corner, sprawled over the page because I’m working with only one light on so she can sleep and I need to be that close to see detail.

Outside the door I hear footsteps. That’s not unusual as people come and go from their rooms all the time. People roll in from parties at all hours of the night. But the footsteps stop outside our door. Someone raps lightly on it.

Jonathon?

At midnight? It could be, but he doesn’t ever come to the dorm room. Well, he came once to drop me off, but he didn’t want to come in. It would be way too awkward. I haven’t hidden my friendship with Jonathon from Lara but haven’t exactly told her about it either. I mean I wouldn’t lie about it if she asked. She just hasn’t asked.

The
photos
. Is it possible whoever took them found out which room is ours? That he is standing outside the door right now?

But you can’t get in residence without a key after ten, unless someone lets you in. So the stalker guy is either someone who lives in this dorm. Or has a friend in here.

All I have to do is go to the door. Open it. I’d find out who he is.

Yeah, and then have him clamp his hand over my mouth, drug me, rape me, kill me, dump my body in a garbage chute. I’ve seen enough CSI episodes to know that my brave action would lead right to my demise.

Something slides under the door. A sheet of paper.

Sitting up and utterly motionless, I watch it slip in, inch by inch.

No, this is insane. He is right there. I can end this now. I pick up my cell phone and dial 911. What am I going to say?
I don’t know if I’m in danger, but could you hang on for a minute?

Still, he won’t know that 911 is not listening to everything, if I can bluff.

I’m wearing a sweatshirt and my pyjama bottoms, so it’s not like I’m creeping to the door in a baby doll negligee. Phone pressed to me ear like I am speaking to a 911 operator, I stalk to the door. I wish I had one of those whips from Jonathon’s club in my hand right now.

The paper scoots fully under the door.

I twist the deadbolt knob as silently as I can. I turn the door handle gently, and open the door an inch. Our security chain is in place. I try to make it not obvious I am opening the door. Really, as if I will take the guy by surprise.

Someone is running away from the room, down the hall. Damn it. Now I want to get a look at him—if he’s fleeing I’m not in danger. I could learn what he looks like and have the door slammed again before he could do anything.  I fumble with the chain and yank the door open. But the figure has vanished through the fire door at the end of the hall and must be running down the stairs.

I’m not crazy enough to follow him down an empty stairwell.

Was it a guy? I don’t know. The person wore a shapeless coat of army green and jeans, I think. A ball cap. I don’t know if I saw shoulder-length dark hair or just shadow.

I would make a perfect witness for a defence lawyer, I know.

Two girls come up the stair. As they pass, I ask them about the guy.

They both shake their heads. “We didn’t see anyone.”

But then I realize he must have ducked out onto the second floor when he heard them. Damn.

I close the door, pick up the paper.

This time it’s a print out of a picture, and it’s taken of Jonathon and me inside the Irish pub. One word is written below it. Slut.

My hands shake.

I’m tempted to rip it up and destroy it. Who gives this psychotic idiot the right to judge me? Even if my behavior was questionable in the past, that is
my
business. With Jonathon I was completely in control and did nothing wrong. But some idiot jumps to assumptions and makes it his duty to try to hurt me.

Then my anger dissolves. Someone followed me to the Irish pub? Crap, how did someone do that? Why?

I want to make this picture go away. I really want to set it on fire, so it dissolves into ash as if it never existed. I can’t—I’d probably set off the sprinklers.

And I don’t want to wake up Lara.

I know I have to keep the picture intact. Channeling CSI, I know I have to keep it in case I need it for clues.

CSI could dust for fingerprints after my body has been found.

Stop it.
Tomorrow, I’m going to show it to campus security.

***

Other than campus security, I don’t tell anyone about the picture. Not Lara—I just warn her to be careful, to not open the door, to watch out for stalkers, etc. Given this last picture, I think this creep’s attention is directed at me. I guess it explains why the earlier emails were sent to me. I also turned them over to Yardley’s security.

They’re taking it seriously. I spoke to the head of the security, a lady named Ms. Marilu Keeble, and while her name sounds a bit fluffy, she looks like I imagine a female prison guard should look, and is just as intimidating. But I realize, after being interviewed by her, there’s not a lot that can be done proactively. Lots of evidence can be gathered after the fact—i.e. after an attack. But I’d really rather not be assaulted to catch this weirdo.

I have to finish my ‘Structures in Architecture’ project for Monday. I’m required to make a model of a floor system. For the last two days, I’ve stayed up until 3 a.m. using a hot glue gun and hand saws to make a replica of a wood joist floor. I’ve also slept in the studio on those nights so I didn’t have to walk home where I might be prey for my stalker. The only bathing I’ve been able to do is to throw water on my face in the girls’ washroom. I haven’t been back to my dorm room in two days. I did call Lara and tell her so she wouldn’t freak out.

We don’t get to use the shops after five o’clock, when the shop supervisors go home, but we can stay in studio as long as we like to work. All night if we have to. The security guards know us and stop in to talk to us. Usually a group of us make coffee and food runs just before the University Centre closes. I’m starting to feel like part of the group in studio, at least.

Dremel tools buzz and the smell of burning hot glue fills the room. On any given night someone will cut off the end of a finger with an Exacto knife. Architecture students are well known at the special nurses’ station in the residence commons building, which is where we head when there’s an accident. Fortunately for us, they’re open on evenings and weekends.

At ten o’clock on Sunday night, I set down my glue gun, a big blog of glue falling to my table. I’m done. I can’t believe it. My model is finished, my drawings are done. And I really, desperately want to get a shower.

It’s not
that
far to walk back to my dorm.

Except that would be stupid when I have a stalker.

I can’t call a cab—I’d end up walking half the way anyway. I really, really just want to bathe and go to bed. I’m swaying on my feet from lack of sleep over the last few weeks Suddenly, not being able to get to my bed, then take a shower in the morning, feels like the biggest disaster in the world.

And seriously, will my stalker have hung around here for hours or days in the hope that I leave the studio?

That would be totally nuts.

He followed me to the pub.

Or he just happened to see me in there. I didn’t really pay attention to other people in the pub.

I call Lara and she doesn’t answer, so I leave a message, then text her. I also phone Jonathon and leave a message for him. I don’t want to ask anyone from studio to walk with me; everyone is rushing to meet their deadlines.

I do take some precautions. I turn on my phone and stick it in the pocket of my winter coat—it’s cold now, especially at night. My winter coat is a Walmart special from two years ago. Everyone else has stylish wool coats.

The good thing about my coat is that it’s grey, so not obviously feminine. I pull on a hat; wind a scarf around my face. With my hand in my pocket on my phone, I walk outside into a wind that’s a fierce breath of winter. I’ve been studying how Jonathon walks. The long-legged, confident stride of a guy. I’ve noticed that guys walk a certain way, which I suspect is related to the fact they have a penis and a set of balls between their legs.

Doing my best guy walk, I move as fast as I can toward my dorm.

It’s raining. Of course I have no umbrella, but I’m actually pleased. No one is going to hang around in the rain, waiting to attack me.

Anyway, I haven’t had any emails or pictures since I went to campus security. Maybe he was following me then and saw me go into the security office. Maybe he’s given up—

Footsteps slap on the sidewalk behind me.

I’m halfway between the studio and my dorm. Panic hits me, of course.

It could be anyone. It could be someone innocent walking to the dorm. Someone I could walk with.

I doubt I would be that lucky. I turn and this time there is someone behind me. A dark, indistinct figure, but one that is tall and large. Rain glistens on the hood of a dark anorak. When I stop, the figure stops.

Oh god. My brain throws out a million thoughts at once.

I wish Jonathon were here. I really wish Ryan were here. I want to throw myself on a guy, cling to him tight and feel safe. With Ryan, I would be safe. He could handle this guy. Ryan learned martial arts from a MMA fighter who grew up in Milltown, and started a club there. I watched Ryan deal with brawls at the local sports bar. He has the skills to beat someone really badly, but he would never use them.

I know I should be tough in my own right. Able to look after myself. But right now I would love a little help.

Don’t run.
That’s the only thing my brain says. I make a plan as fast as I can. It’s basic and desperate: act like you’re so stupid you don’t get it. Just keep walking. When you get close to something safe, run for it.

It’s a dumb plan—once I get close to somewhere safe, isn’t he going to jump me before I can reach it?

I’m scared. Angry. If I were with Ryan, he could take this guy out no problem. Or—now I start to doubt—could he? This guy must be a psychopath, and that means he wouldn’t fight fair. Maybe it’s a good thing Ryan isn’t here. Maybe he would have just ended up dead. My blood is turning to a Slushie in my veins. I’m unspeakably angry because why can’t I walk home from effing studio at night? I have to be in the damn studio to get my work done. Why did I have to risk my life just to do my work?

I keep walking in my long, masculine swagger. Just in case this is not my personal stalker, and he actually is just someone walking home or he’s a mugger looking for a victim. If he is a random criminal, I have to look as little like prey as possible.

Where can I go?

I kept to the roads instead of taking the path that winds between the buildings on campus. But most of the buildings, though lit, are empty. Doors are probably locked.

I take out my phone. I call Lara, but it goes to message. I don’t bother to leave one. Again, the influence of CSI. By the time I get to the important part, I’ll be leaving just a gurgling scream.

I’ve got a few hundred yards before I reach the next building.

My fumbling fingers find Jonathon’s phone number. Click on it to dial. The moment I hear his voice I want to sob with joy. “There’s someone following me,” I say, cutting to the chase.

“Where are you?” Jonathon’s voice is terse, commanding.

I tell him which building I’m near and where I am. Maybe I’m going to get out of this okay. The guy is letting me talk to Jonathon. Maybe he’ll realize I’m on the phone and back off. Then the footsteps sound fast and hard behind me. “He’s running,” I gasp. Now I see the disaster—Jonathon will never find me in time.

I run, the phone against my ear, and shout, “Hello? Hello?” I can’t hear anything.  So I let the phone drop away from my ear, clutch it in my fist, and I run as fast as I can toward the building ahead of me. I’m only a hundred yards away, but there’s no one else around. Just me and the guy chasing me.

Who is he? Why me?

Hands grab my shoulders. How easy this is for him. He grips my arm and pushes me forward. I’m stumbling over my feet, driven on by my momentum, and he throws me forward so I fly off the road and go sprawling on the dark, wet grass. I skid along the slick surface and slam into bushes, sliding half underneath them.

Everything hurts. Branches are sticking into my cheeks and my arms and legs. I feel as if I’ve been pelted by rocks. But I scramble against mud and wet grass to try to slide out. I’m out of the range of the street lamps here, hidden by shadow. Slipping and sliding.

God, I can hear him. His hard breathing makes me want to vomit. And cry. And curl up and be afraid.

I can’t do any of those things. I have to get
away
. I get onto my knees and a fist slams into my back from behind, knocking me down. I’m furious—how could I have let him make me fall again? I have to fight—