Scream For me

DAPHNE

I stare at the unknown number on my phone, reading the ominous message again. I contemplate ignoring it but something makes me curious so I respond.

Me: Who is this?

“Yeah, I’d die first in a horror movie,” I say to myself realizing how stupid it is to reply to a text asking me if I’m home. What’s next, I’m watching you?

The reply from the number is instant.

Weston: Weston Vaughn.

I jump off the couch in surprise. I’m not so sure I wouldn’t rather it be a stalker or serial killer than him. I wouldn’t be so surprised that a parent is texting me but asking me if I’m home is more than out of the ordinary.

Me: Yes, can I help you with something?

I stare at the phone, chewing the edge of my thumb but the three little bubbles that usually show up when someone is typing a response never appear. A sharp knock at my door less than a minute later startles me, the phone tumbling out of my hand and onto the floor. It’s probably just Steve, inviting me over for another movie.

“Shit.” I pick it up and race to the door, looking through the peephole, expecting to see the top of Steve’s head since he usually stands staring down at his feet after knocking but it’s not him… Instead, I see Weston Vaughn on the other side.

“How the hell?”

I glance around frantically, checking to make sure my always spotless apartment is clean or if I’ve left out something embarrassing. Then I look down at my outfit. An oversized t-shirt, shorts, and no bra. I’m seconds away from running down the hall to throw one on when he knocks again, only harder.

Even his knock is rude.

I open the door, halfway hiding behind it. “Hi, what-” “I need a huge favor,” he says briskly.

“Hi, Miss Flowers!” Daisy pops out from behind her dad, completely throwing me.

What is going on?

“Hi, sweetie.” I look back up at Mr. Vaughn who’s carrying a small Disney Princess bag. “Do you want to come inside?”All content is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

I close the door behind us, turning back to face him as Daisy walks past us, looking around my living room. “How do you know where I live?”

“It’s on the internet.”

“Right. So, why are you here?”

“I know this is completely unorthodox, but I need someone to watch Daisy. I have a very important dinner that I absolutely cannot miss.”

“You don’t have a regular sitter?”

“I do,” he says, a little frustrated. “She can’t make it work and my mother is busy. Trust me, this is a last resort.” He looks down at my body and I quickly cross my arms over my chest, very aware of my nakedness beneath my shirt. “But you don’t look like you have any plans,” he says, gesturing to my oversized shirt and my fuzzy sock combo.

“Wow, thank you.” I smile, watching him shake his head as he apologizes. “Did you just apologize, Mr. Vaughn? Never thought I’d see the day.” I can’t pass up the opportunity.

“Look, can you help me or not?”

“Depends. What’s it worth to you?” I play with my fingernail nonchalantly, attempting to be funny but he isn’t in the mood.

“Can you please stop with your attempt at flirting and focus?”

“I wasn’t flirting,” I scowl, his attitude kind of pissing me off.

Okay, I was attempting to flirt a little but calling me out like that wasn’t exactly necessary.

“I’ll pay you cash and it will just be for a few hours.” He glances at his watch and I can see that he truly is flustered.

“Yes, yes, I can watch her.”

“Her favorite snacks are in here; she’s already had a bath and is in her pajamas. She will probably be asleep within an hour.” He thrusts the bag toward me, no thank you or you’re amazing for helping me out.

“I got it,” I say, reaching out and taking the bag from him.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Go to your dinner, I have your number if anything happens.”

“Thank you. I owe you one.” He looks past me and calls for Daisy who runs over to hug him goodbye before returning to my craft station in the corner of my living room.

“By the way, how did you get into my building? You’re supposed to have a fob or get buzzed in.” I raise an eyebrow at him.

“I own the building and the entire block,” he says nonchalantly as he walks through the door toward the elevators.

“Of course you do,” I mutter to myself. “Just don’t be too late, Mr. Vaughn. I need to make sure I make my shift at the Sugar Factory,” I laugh at my joke about one of the famous strip clubs out by the airport. I turn around and start to close the door when suddenly his hand is on the door, yanking it back open and pulling me halfway out into the hallway. “What the-”

“Do you always have to be a smart-ass?” He towers over me, his voice low and a touch menacing as a smirk settles on his lips. My belly does that flip-flop thing that makes me almost dizzy with excitement.

“Do you always have to get the last word in?”

He’s not flirting; he’s just an asshole. He made that abundantly clear a moment ago.

I remind myself not to read into these little comments and smirks from him. Men like him get off on making others feel inferior to them. Even knowing that I don’t know what it is about this man, but rings out my inner rebel, or maybe it is my inner smart-ass. Maybe it’s because men like him just assume that every woman wants them and they’re used to getting what they want. Whatever the reason, it makes me want to antagonize him, even though I know I’m playing a dangerous game.

“Just saying.” I shrug. “It’s hard to live on a teacher’s salary in the city.” When I worked as a public schoolteacher, that was true, but now at a private school, I make three times what I did. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

The smirk slowly dissipates from his face as his brow knits together. I can’t tell if he’s angry or concerned. “Tell me you’re joking,” he says, his tone serious. I laugh but he says it again. “Say it, Daphne.” This is the first time he’s said my name and it sounds delicious in his low, almost growling tone, even if he is angry at me.

“I was joking. Jeez. I don’t work there.”

He releases the door, turns around, and walks to the elevator without another word. I stand there for a second, thoroughly confused when Daisy’s small voice brings me out of my thoughts.

“Can we do a paint-by-number?”