Fast Lane | ✔️

12

Ch12

When Brooks walked into the house, he immediately sensed something wrong but couldn't put his finger on what it was. That weird sensation was nothing new, he'd felt it on a couple of other occasions in the past, except he could never find anything amiss. The house was always intact, just as he'd left it, and this time was no different. He took his time, walking from room to room, but there was not one single item out of place.

He glanced at his Rolex, an extravagant gift he'd bought himself the year before, and realized it was not even 1 am. What should he do? He hadn't been to bed that early in God knew how long and he didn't think he'd be able to sleep even if he tried. Tossing and turning was not an option so he flipped on his flat-screen instead, turning the channels until an old Rockymovie appeared. Maybe a little Sylvester Stallone might lull him into dreamland? He kicked off his black combat boots and settled into the plush couch, getting lost in the world of boxing.

After his eyes started to droop right around two, he clicked off the television and wandered up the wide staircase toward his room. He didn't bother turning on the light while he undressed, instead he climbed into bed in the dark and waited for sleep to take over. He shifted on the mattress, attempting to find a comfortable spot, when he noticed something crinkle on the sheets beneath him.

"What the fuck . . .?" he exclaimed.

Reaching over to his bedside table, he turned on a lamp and adjusted his eyes to the soft light that now filtered through the space around him. It was then that he finally noticed his surroundings.  His eyes shot open, wide with panic, and he jumped out of bed, turning around in circles as he took in the four walls of his bedroom. Each section was covered with close-ups of him. Hundreds of photos littered the walls, his closet doors, the bed. Not one square inch was free of his image. But these were not publicity photos taken by world-famous photographers . . . these were  intimate candid shots taken by someone else, withouthis permission. There were pictures of him on the red carpet, of him out partying with his friends, there were pictures as he performed on-stage at fundraisers and concerts, but the most disturbing were photos taken of him at his house when he thought he was alone. Pictures of him changing his clothes or climbing into bed, pictures of him . . .asleep.

Brooks' eyes wandered in disbelief to the large Chinese Elm that sat outside the picture window overlooking his spacious backyard. Someone had trespassed onto his property and climbed his tree. Someone hid in the long branches and had taken photos of him without his knowledge. And that same someone broke into his house and plastered the evidence everywhere!

His heart thumped wildly in his chest as his focus fell on the most alarming image of all. Showcased in the center of the room was a picture of him in the backseat of his SUV with none other than Jonathon Walters' teenage daughter! The photographer had done an impressive job capturing the moment; they'd left nothing up to the imagination. What was even more horrifying was that both of their faces were clearly visible; there was no denying who the lovers were.

Someone had been following him-had been stalkinghim-everywhere he went, and from the looks of it, and they'd been doing so for several months. With a dry mouth, Brooks studied the picture closer and he felt vomit rise in the back of his throat. He wasn't sure which made him feel more sick . . . the image of himself with the half-naked teenager, or the ominous message written in big, bold letters underneath . . .

"YOU'LL GET YOURS SOON YOU DIRTY PIG"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

What have I done?

The little man deserved it, he had it coming. No question about it.

But it wasn't part of the plan.