Page 11 of Ready Or Not

And that hasn’t happened since…Manson.

Right now, the woman is sitting in her driveway in her little Toyota. I know she’s thinking about me. I bet she’s wondering what my pussy tastes like.

Most women do. Not that I ever let them taste it.

Maybe she’s crying again? It’s possible I read her wrong, although it’s rare—if ever—that I’m wrong.

Bambi’s car door pops open, her dome light turns on, and she gets out. I’m leaning against the neighbor’s house, watching her. If she sees me, it’ll be round two.

But she doesn’t, and there are no tears on her face.

My mouth kicks up in a grin. What a fascinating little creature.

I wait until she goes inside, moves around, flips what I assume is the bedroom light on, and then, finally, it goes off again.

Fuck. I need a cigarette. They’re in my saddlebags on my bike—a Ducati Panigale—but I can’t step away from her house, not even for a minute.

What is my little deer like? The little deer who gives nothing away?

My phone vibrates. I pull it out, expecting a message from Manson. Instead, it’s a message from a rando I’ve been conning.

User1995: I’m in for 500

I roll my eyes. I saw this coming a mile away. The man did a shit job of pretending he wasn’t interested in the mounted deer head I said I had. Sure, he didn’t know it was me he was talking to. He thought it was Wesley, the deer-hunting YouTube sensation. But I hunt, too, and I’m a hell of a lot better than Wesley.

Anger prickles over my skin, and I message back.

Me: Great! I can deliver if that makes it easier.

User1995: That would be awesome.

He gives me his address, and I smile while rage boils in my chest. Nothing makes me angrier than posers—people who want to mount an animal on their wall and pretend like they hunted it, brag to their friends, and make up stories about things they didn’t do.

No poser deserves that attention, and no animal deserves to be dead on the walls of those shits.

I shake it off. I’ll take care of him later.

I glance at my doe’s window and wait longer. After I’ve waited as long as I can, I break in.

Not that I care if she’s awake to call the cops, but people have less opportunity to lie about who they are when they’re unconscious. And I find lying inconvenient.

Unless I’m the one doing it, of course.

Bambi’s house is a small ranch. I’m guessing three small bedrooms, a bath, and no garage. As soon as I kick the front door open, the faint smell of old person fills my nose.

Well fuck. Old people are inconvenient. Much like children. Is she stuck taking care of one?

The living room is silent. Is she a hard sleeper? Probably, after I fucked her good. She exploded in my mouth, her pussy gripping me so tight I was shocked.

I grin.

My doe’s living room is decorated in 1970s decor and Halloween accents. She has multicolored flower-print chairs, oranges and yellows all over everything, and an extravagant chandelier over the dining room table. She also has pumpkin decor and ghosts and witches everywhere. It’s kinda ugly.

I frown. Is this her choice, or does someone else live here?

I sort through the mail she has on the dining room table.

Rachel. I don’t see anyone else’s name. So, my bambi’s name is Rachel.