#fremania

" silent treatment? bitch, what? " tatum barks a laugh, incredulous, hip-checks her car door and stuffs her keys into her purse. she feels fried. sweaty. it's a bajillion degrees out, her thighs are chafing, and the last thing she needs is nikki freeman up her ass for being a little weird — like hello? pot, meet kettle. freshly re-appeared from psycho, co-dependent relationship purgatory. freed from the shackles of that one loser guy. brandon? brady? brad?

the one who used to stalk her stories. always seen within twenty seconds of posting, like he had a sixth sense for where nikki was, who she was with, what she was doing ... and there's something about her. something way beyond the standard nikki brand of weird. from cute, but cooky, to straight up freaky-deaky.

" this isn't a treatment, nik. this is a totally rationale response to — this. " she gestures to her friend as they walk, huffing a little as rummages for her lipgloss, pushing aside gum wrappers and vape paraphernalia. a bottle of cheap perfume. " you disappeared. i thought you were chained up in his basement or — i dunno. god. i was fucking worried! and now you're texting me like, hey tate, i'm actually not dead and there's this party. we should go! "