BEY
New life. New job. New home. New goals...
I vowed to make drastic changes and to never fall back into old habits. But then Shawn Carter showed up and blew all my good intentions to hell. I should have stayed away. I shouldn't have played his ga...
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BEYONCÉ
It's just starting to get dark, and I walk in with more of the fabric squares with pictures on them. I hated blowing off Shawn, but I really want to finish this project. Besides, the more I spend time with him, the less I see him as a hot time. He's starting to become a lot more to me, and that's dangerous territory with a guy who has confessed he's ready to live like he never had the chance to.
Just as I walk through my kitchen, I hear a noise slap the floor, and something else slams into the ground as well. The fabric pictures tumble from my hand as I sprint across the room and head toward my bedroom as fast as possible.
Another loud noise clatters to the ground, and I scream, then clamp my hand over my mouth so that I don't become the first dead dumbass in the horror film. As soon as I get my door shut, I lock it with shaking hands.
My entire body is trembling when I grab my phone out, and I dial the first person who comes to mind.
"Glad you called," Shawn says on a sigh. "Listen, have I done something to—"
"Shawn!" I hiss, double-checking to make sure my door is locked. "Someone's in my house!"
"On my way. Lock yourself in a room and don't move," he says, sounding winded like he's running.
I hear his car cranking, and I stay on the phone, overjoyed with the fact he doesn't live far away from me at all.
Another sound rattles out, like something is scurrying across the floor. "Hurry," I whisper-yell.
"Just stay on the phone with me," he says, sounding angry or panicked or both. I'm not sure which.
Silence stretches, with the exception of a few occasional curses coming through on the phone, and I press my other ear to the door, listening. If a knife slams through the wood, I'll just go ahead and die from a heart attack.
Too many horror films.
As the unknown slasher or axe-murderer on the other side of the door maintains their silence, I bounce from one foot to the other, warily casting glances toward my window to make sure the asshole doesn't sneak up on me that way.
"I'm almost there," Shawn says harshly, reminding me he's still on the phone.
"Do you have a weapon?" I hiss, watching for his lights.
"Yeah, there's an assault rifle strapped to my back," he deadpans.
"Really?"
"Fuck no. I just jumped in my car."
"What if he has a gun?" I ask, still whispering.
"He? You know it's a guy?"
"Do you know of any women who might break into my house and chop me into tiny bits? Men are the psychotic ones."
