C'mon, doll. A motel? Really? You could do better than that. He could do better than that. ‎ Yeah, you've been drawing away lately. Crossing your pretty little legs and closing up shop like the stubborn thing you are. He knew he'd wear you away eventually. Perhaps a movie night at the cinema, where you wouldn't be able to push him away without kicking up a fuss. Have Stu throw another one of his famous ragers—get you all pliant and gooey over his kitchen counter. Or he could always hijack one of Tatum's quaint, girly little sleepovers. A pillow would work. Or his palm. Nobody would know a thing.

But now—this. A braindead jock from your econ class? At the dingy motel on the outskirts of town, no less. This is your thanks for his patience?

He's gonna have to teach his darling a fuckin' lesson.

"Oh, doll." Billy's drawl is something low and sleazy. You've been waiting at the steps of the motel, for an hour now, your increasingly irate texts and calls gone unanswered. Stood-up—you! You almost can't believe it. You're the sweetheart of Woodsboro; nobody stands you up. (What you don't know, is that silly fucking Steve doesn't have the fingers to text you back, anymore. Or a head.)

"A little birdie told me you wouldn't be at home tonight." Billy takes a step down, standing just behind you. You can hear the smirk in his gravelly voice, the smug arch of his brow. "It's dangerous for a pretty thing like you to be out, y'know. In the dark. All alone." He's just trying to scare you. He does that, all the time. A little boy tugging on a girl's pigtails because he likes the attention.

If you turned around, you could see the way his teeth gleam under the streetlamp, thumb wiping away a stray spatter of blood from his cheek. He's so obvious, and yet your head turns a moment too late. He's right in front of you, and yet you still can't see him. It makes his blood hot in more ways than one. Dumb little doll, you.