That bastard is taking up cheap real estate in my head.
I slam my laptop closed.Focus, Tory, fucking focus. But even my inner voice sounds distant and preoccupied with other things.
I stand, pace, stretch, and then shake my body like that would shake him loose out of my thoughts. It doesn’t work, he’s still there. Not in the room, physically, but very present in my brain. A ghost in my system. I check the time, and it’s only nine forty-five, which means no bottle for me yet.Fine. I grab my phone and hit call before realizing what I’m doing.
Alex couldn’t sound more surprised. “Yeah?”
“I need a shadow.”
Pause. “Is this about the contracts?”
“No,” I say, stating the obvious. “It’s for the Professor.”
Another pause—longer this time. I can practically hear his eyes rolling.
“Oh great. I thought we weren’t touching that one. When’s the wedding?”
“We’re not,” I blurt out flatly. “He’s just fucking with my brain.”
“Pretty sure that’s what honeymoons are for.”
I ignore the sarcastic comment. Paying attention to whatever Alex says, outside of the job, is like having a structural engineering discussion with a three-year-old— useless and most likely borderline insane. “He’s in my head all the time, and I didn’t ask for it. I just want to know what the hell he’s up to.”
“Look, if this is your version of closure—” Alex starts, but I don’t have time for it.
“It’s not, I don’t want closure. I’m not done with him yet.”
“Jesus,” he sighs. “You’re starting to scare me. You’re worse than my ex.”
“Did your ex also stalk mentally deranged professors for fun?” I counter.
“Touché.”
Silence.
“You sure you’re not doing this because you feel something?”
I hesitate. Just a fraction of a second, but that should be enough to make me question it. Do I feel something? Apart from the rage that is a given, considering the way he treated me? I don’t know yet.
“Send me what they find,” I say and hang up before this conversation goes sideways even more than it already has.
I throw my phone across the bed and stare at the ceiling for a minute just to—fuck.
The cat.
“Shit.”
I stand so fast that my vision blurs, and the room spins for a second. When I finally get to the kitchen, he is sitting by the counter, staring at me with that ancient predator judgment that only cats and contract killers seem to master, no forgiveness in sight.
“Did I almost starve you with neglect, or are you just being dramatic?” I ask, bending down to scratch him behind his ears. That seems to do the trick because one second he’s giving me the death-stare, and the next one he’s purring.
I move to the fridge, trying to find something decent for a cat to eat.Mental note: buy cat food for the cat you decided to share your house with.
“Fantastic. Now I need to add a cat-sitter to my fucking team. Alex better know a guy,” I mutter to the little guy, but he seems unimpressed.
I dump half a can of tuna into a bowl and set it down as a small peace offering. He sniffs it and walks away. Fine.Bitch.
Classic non-spiraling behavior.