It’s a twenty-three-hour, two-thousand-mile drive from the southern tip of Florida to the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, and I’m somewhere around hour fifteen. Stuck in Nashville for the night, I pull my Jeep into the hotel parking lot and park while I plan the next leg of my journey home. I spent a week in Florida with my father and his new insta-family, and all I got to show for it was a pink Jeep Gladiator, a wicked red sunburn across the bridge of my nose, and a new tattoo on my inner thigh. The Jeep was a gift from my father; it was his way of throwing money at a problem and hoping it would resolve itself.
I was failing out of college. One semester away from graduating with a degree in a program I didn’t give two shits about, my grades were subpar, my motivation was gone, and every last fuck I’d had about working in finance law had flown right out the window on the flight to Tampa. If Daddy were calling me home to scold me over my grades, I would take my lumps and get out as soon as possible. He paid tens of thousands of dollars a semester for a degree I had no intentions of using, and to add insult to injury, I was a moody twenty-two-year-old with no marriage prospects on my horizon. Daddy always wanted me to go for an ‘Mrs.’ degree instead of studying my passions. He humored me for exactly 9 months, and by the end of my first year of school, when I wasn’t engaged, he declared my major for me and sealed my fate. Three and a half years later, I was one failed midterm away from dropping out of DU, moving back in with my mother and her third husband in Alaska, and cementing my place as the family fuck-up.
Daddy thought buying me a pink Jeep, like the one I had as a child, would bribe me to go back to Denver, finish my degree, and put myself in the market for a job and a husband. I agreed to go back to Denver; I never said anything about my degree or finding myself a man. At this point in my life, Daddy was lucky I wasn’t a full-time lesbian; I was only gay on the high holy days, or when I had an itch a cock couldn’t fully scratch. But, he didn’t need to know about my indiscretions. He didn’t need to know anything about me.
The night before I left Tampa, I drove around for hours, looking for a souvenir I could bring back with me. Tacky t-shirts and oversized sunhats weren’t my style. I didn’t care for tchotchkes, and even though the stuffed manatees at the gas station were tempting, I couldn’t bring myself to pick one. When a wrong turn took me down a dark alleyway with a neon sign reading ‘Shame & Regret: 24-hr Tattoos,’ I took it as a sign. I was full of shame and regret; what didn’t I have? A tattoo.
Two hours, two hundred dollars, and a chat with an artist named Thunderkat later, a pink peony, my namesake, graced my skin. Sent packing with aftercare instructions, Aquaphor, and the artist’s phone number, ‘ in case anything came up,’ I went home to my father one last time. I drove slowly through the suburbs, keeping my music low so as not to wake anyone in the later hours of the night. Somewhere between the tattoo shop, the highway, and the Waffle House, where I stopped at for coffee, a car began following me. At first, I blew it off. I was the stranger here; Tampa wasn’t my home and never would be. I was the lost one, driving in circles until I found Daddy’s street. I was the suspicious one.
By the time I pulled into the driveway, I lost my tail, and I was the only set of headlights on the street. Even though I knew I was alone, I couldn’t stop the eerie feeling of being watched as I slunk inside my father’s home. I snuck in through the back door, pushing it closed and locking it silently behind me. A shadow passed over the window, a spectre in the moonlight, and I jumped, a scream catching in my throat.
I knew I was being silly. I knew it was probably just an animal on the fence, or the neighbor boy, Kyle, sneaking in late from a night of partying with his high school friends. I could write off every spooky thing that had happened that night as a coincidence or happenstance, but I couldn’t explain away the creepy feeling of being watched as I tiptoed through Daddy’s big new house. Quiet as a mouse, I snuck up the stairs, passed Daddy and his new wife in their bed, and then made my way to the guest room at the end of the hall.
After undressing, I peeled back the thin layer of DermaSkin on my thigh to look at my new tattoo. Pulling the protective plastic coating stung and burned with each tug, but once I got it off and could see the pretty pink flower peeking out from under my shorts, I felt better. I felt in control of my life, and my new ink, my new secret, was the first step toward taking myself back and forging my own path forward. Daddy may have bought me a Jeep and paid for my education, but he didn’t own me.
As I lay down in the small guest bed, pulling the top sheet over my shoulders, my phone buzzed and the screen lit up the inky darkness in pale blue light. A second later, another buzz, then another.
What could be so urgent at two in the morning?
I opened my phone to find three unread messages from a number I didn’t know. I hesitated before opening them, but my thumb slipped, and the first message lit up my screen.
Unknown: Hi, pretty girl.
Unknown: Show me some skin, pretty girl. I want to see how tender that new tattoo is. I bet it’s pink. I bet you’ve got something else pink to show me too.
Unknown: Don’t be shy pretty girl. Put on a show.
My heart flopped in my chest and shot into my throat. My fingers shook, my head spun, and my pulse pounded in my ears like the sound of war drums.
Had I been followed home? Was I being stalked? Was I being watched right now? No one knew about my tattoo. There was only one photo, on Thunderkat’s phone. Was he stalking me? Was he hunting me?
I didn’t have time to think it through. My phone buzzed again as another message came through. I threw my phone onto the bed and jolted, pulling my knees up to my chest and hugging my arms around them.
Unknown: Pretty girl, don’t leave me on read. It’s not nice.
Unknown: Be a good girl. Show me that pussy, and I’ll leave you be, pretty girl. Just a sneak peek. Just a taste. 😉
I curled deeper into myself, wrapping my arms tighter around my legs as my phone buzzed over and over, until I found the courage to turn it off. The room went pitch-black and deadly silent; I couldn’t even hear my father snoring down the hall. As my heart raced, I looked around the room and took stock of my surroundings in an effort to calm myself. I counted five things I could see, four things I could hear, three things I could feel, two things I could taste, and one thing that made me feel safe.
I fell asleep curled into a ball on my side, back to the window. I didn’t hear the window open, nor did I feel the breeze that pushed the curtains open. I didn’t hear footsteps in the plush carpet, and I didn’t taste the smoke from the cigarette hanging from his lips until the next morning.
When I woke up, the window was open. The curtains were a mess. My room smelled like Newports and cheap whiskey. The sheets were pushed down around my ankles, and my panties lay beside me on the pillow. A folded note sat behind them.
I told you not to leave me on read, pretty girl. I don’t like being ignored. I can have you whenever and wherever I want, pretty. Don’t forget that. Next time I text, answer your phone. 😉
Content Warning: This dark romantic thriller contains themes of stalking, serial homicide, and sexually threatening situations, including implied non-consensual contact. Recommended for mature readers.
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