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“Ahhh. Arghhhh!”
I grunt as I let myself into the shoebox apartment.
It’s three in the morning and I’d hoped to be able to crash, but of course, that’s too much to ask on a Saturday night. Or is it Sunday morning?
“Oh, Willem!” one of my roommates shrills.
Across the narrow corridor, the second responds with a, “Harder, Pete!”
Then the thumping commences.
Needless to say, we have thin walls.
I drag myself into the kitchen, and heat up a Cup Noodles, before making my way to my bedroom, yawning.
I’m not hungry, but I know better than to go to bed without something in my stomach; if I do, I’ll be up in three or four hours, irritated and starving.
Alone in my bed, staring at the ceiling while I wait for my roommates to finish their fuck fest, I find my thoughts drifting back to my stranger, the one who always watches in silence.
I’ve never seen him from close enough to actually make out all his features but from a distance, he seems incredibly beautiful. Dark, tousled hair. Penetrating eyes that don’t shift from the object of their attention—namely, my legs.
I try not to feel weird or guilty as my fingers slide between my legs. After all, he’s been watching me for a month, and I’m pretty sure at one point or another, he must have thought back to my bends and my splits in the shower, his hand around his cock. The difference is I’m not paying for the privilege of using his pretty face.
It’s rather sad that I have no one else to fantasize about, but such is my life. At school, the pretty guys lost their appeal the moment they opened their mouths, and I’m too superficial to go fornice personalitiesblessed with zits. The simple reality is that I’ve never so much as had a crush.
I could probably just think about Henry Cavill like your average girl, but my stranger’s my choice tonight.
I make myself come to the sound of my roommates’ fun, finishing after them, and I manage to fall asleep almost immediately.
I wake to a sunny afternoon. I shoot a text to Tricks, knowing she’s likely too busy with rehearsals to hang out with me. She joined the corps at the Royal Anderian Ballet last month. She’s free most evenings, but that’s when I work. Her twin, Jinx, isn’t as close a friend—she’s a little shy and bookish, and I’m introverted, so when we’re alone, the conversation is just scintillating. Not.
Both replies come fast: no, they aren’t free.
I sigh, and resolve to visit my third, and sadly, final friend: a swan with a broken wing I’ve fed at the park for the last couple of years.
Grabbing my ebook reader, I take an inventory of all the things I need to buy for the coming week, planning to stop for groceries on the way in, so I can pick up some spinach and peas for Aurore. I called him that before one of the park rangers informed me that he was a he.
Half an hour later, I’m crouched by the lake, chatting with Aurore as he nibbles his treats, sipping my coffee, when I hear him.
“There’s a Don’t Feed the Ducks sign, you know.”
I turn, because the low rumble is too suave not to wonder who it comes from, though I don’t expect him to be addressing me.
There are a fair few people in the park today, given that it’s so nice out, but they all fade into the background.
A few paces away, leaning back on a stone picnic table, stands my stranger.
He doesn’t quite belong in broad daylight in my mind, likely because I’ve always seen him in the dim club, but there’s no denying that it’s him. And he’sdefinitelytalking to me.
I stand slowly, at loss for words.
“Well?” he prompts, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Should I get you arrested?”
I blink. “Arrested?”
“You’re not supposed to feed it, you know.”
