Page 160 of Faking the Goal

My heart is already hammering before my hands even reach for the box, and by the time I lift the lid, my fingers are shaking so badly I nearly fumble it onto the floor.

Inside the box are photographs.

At first, I think they're just more pictures of me.

Then I realize they're photographs of my photographs.

He had scattered them across what looks like a hardwood floor before taking the picture. Every single print is stained with a dried, yellowish-white substance, smeared across my smile... my body... my face.

I frown, tilting the photograph toward the light for a better look. For a second, my brain tries to convince me it's glue. Paint. Wax. Anything else. Anything that makes sense. But the longer I stare, the harder it becomes to lie to myself. The truth creeps in anyway, slow and sickening, until there's no room left for denial.

My fingers go numb.

With a strangled gasp, I jerk my hands away as though the photographs have suddenly burned me, sending them tumbling back into the open locker. My stomach rolls so violently I have to slap a hand over my mouth.

"Oh my God..."

My eyes dart to the cream-colored envelope peeking out from beneath the pile.

For a moment, I can't make myself touch it.

Every instinct I have is screaming at me to run.

To throw the entire box away.

To pretend I never opened it.

Instead, I swallow hard, wiping my clammy hands against my jeans before reaching for it. My fingers tremble so badly that it takes me two tries to slide the card out. I unfold it slowly, my pulse pounding so violently I can hear it in my ears.

I lost count of how many times I came just by looking at your photos. Every thick, hot pulse of my cum—every rope I've painted across your face in these pictures—is all for you, little kitten. You should see how hard I get just thinking about your mouth, your tight little cunt, the way you'll whimper when I finally pin you down.

Soon, kitten.

Soon I won't need these photos anymore—soon I will be painting your sweet beautiful face with every single drop as I mark you as mine.

The card shakes between my fingers as the meaning of his words sinks in, and suddenly the room feels too small to hold all the fear rushing through me. My lungs tighten until every breath comes out thin and broken, barely making it past my throat, while my head swings from one side to the other as though I might catch him standing in the doorway if I move fast enough.

The room is empty, but it no longer feels that way.

Every corner seems to have eyes.

The dark gap between the lockers, the narrow window in the door, even the warped reflections staring back at me from the metal surfaces all feel like places he could be hiding, watching me panic over the disgusting little surprise he left behind.

He had been inside this room.

He knew which locker belonged to me, knew where I changed before every shift, knew exactly where to put the box so I would be the one to find it.

For all I know, he could still be somewhere inside the club right now, close enough to watch the fear spread across my face and enjoy every second of it.

I shove the card back into the locker without bothering to fold it, slam the metal door so hard the sound cracks through the room, and run. I don't stop to explain myself to any of the girls I pass or even register whether anyone calls my name as I tear through the hallway and shove my way out the back entrance.

The night air hits me like a physical thing. Cold and wet and smelling of dumpster rot and cigarette butts, and it's the best thing I've ever tasted. I double over, hands on my knees, and suck it in through my teeth until my lungs burn. My vision swims—tears or panic or both, blurring the cracked asphalt and the graffiti-scrawled brick wall into a watercolor mess.

Kentaro was right.

He was so fucking right, and I waved him off with my usual blend of stubbornness and financial desperation.

I shouldn't have come here tonight, not when some psychopath has been following me and especially not when Kentaro couldn't be here to keep an eye on me.