Page 2 of Shared Obsession

Paranoia, I tell myself: just nerves and too much cheap wine. But I yank the curtains shut, recheck the locks, and crawl under the covers. I listen to every creak and groan of the apartment as I finally let myself sink into an uneasy, wine-soaked sleep, the feeling of being watched lingering at the edge of my dreams.

Alexander

When I saw Ayla last night, I tried to convince myself it was just curiosity that made me look twice. Maybe it was her legs, bare and athletic under the streetlights, or the way she held herself, shoulders squared against the world like she expected it to push back. She didn’t bother with makeup or a practiced smile. She didn’t need it. There was something honest about her—something raw and unguarded in those wide, dark eyes. I found myself wanting to know what she was thinking, what had put that crease between her brows.

I shouldn’t have followed her home. I know that. I kept my distance, hung back far enough she’d never notice. It’s not something I’ve done before, not like this. But there was a pull—something about the way she moved, the tension in her posture, how she seemed both wary and stubbornly unafraid at the same time. I told myself I just wanted to make sure she got home safe. That was it. Just one more block, then I’d turn around and leave her to her life.

But I didn’t turn around. I watched her park under the only working streetlight, check over her shoulder twice before getting out, keys braced between her fingers. Careful. Smart. Someone taught her that. Or she learned the hard way. I waited until she’d gone inside, lights flickering on in the corner apartment. Only then did I let myself breathe.

From the shadows, I could see her through the bathroom window, perched on the edge of the tub, hands twisting together in her lap. She looked so small for a moment—nothing like the girl who’d stared me down in the parking lot. I saw her shoulders tense, then drop, watched her take a shaky breath as she read the test in her hands. Relief flickered across her face. I felt it, too, though I barely understood why.

I should have left then, but I stayed. I told myself I was watching out for her, but if I’m honest, I wanted to see more. Not just her silhouette against the glass, but the way she poured herself a glass of wine, leaned against the window, lost in thought. There was nothing dramatic about it—just a girl trying to quiet her mind at the end of a long day somehow, that made her feel more real. More like someone I could reach for, if I let myself.

I know this isn’t normal. I know I should feel ashamed. But I don’t. Not really. I’m not sure if it’s obsession yet—maybe just fascination, the kind that builds slowly, quietly, until you look up and realize you can’t remember what it felt like before. I tell myself I’ll see her again because she invited me, not because I can’t stay away. I tell myself I’m just curious. But as I walk back to my bike, I know that’s a lie, and I let myself want it anyway.

Chapter Two

Ayla

Nerves fizz just beneath my skin as I get ready for work. The hot shower feels like armor, washing away the day’s doubts, but my mind races anyway. I choose my strawberries-and-cream body wash because it reminds me of summers before everything got complicated—innocence bottled up and set free for a few minutes. The scent clings to me as I dust glitter through my hair, across my collarbones, and down my arms. I want to sparkle under the club lights, to be seen, even if it’s only for the version of me I put on for strangers. My makeup is pure performance: bold lashes, glossy lips, just the right amount of blush to fake innocence even when I feel anything but.

I pull on sweats and a hoodie, turning myself invisible for the walk-in, hiding the heels and scraps of pink lace that mean survival. As I pack my bag—five-inch clear heels, pink lacy bra, boa, a barely-there thong and mesh skirt—I remember how, when I was younger, I’d play dress-up and imagine being admired. Now, the admiration is a currency, the costume a shield. My thick, wavy brown hair tumbles down to my hips, nearly grazing my ass, the final touch before I spritz on perfume—something sweet, with a hint of danger. I stare at myself for a beat too long, trying to spot the cracks in my own act.

One last look in the mirror and I attempt a smirk. "Alright, Ayla, it’s just another night, just more creepy men," I mutter, pep-talking myself with a bravado that feels paper-thin. "The more you pretend, the more they pay." Curtain up.

At Stoplight, I slip in through the back, the thump of bass vibrating through my chest before I even reach the floor. I peek through the curtain: the crowd’s thick, every table full, the front row already waving bills. Good. Rent is due. Maybe there’s enough here to cover a little hope, too.

In the locker room, Kyra and Stacie breeze in, laughter trailing behind them. Kyra’s cheeks are still flushed from her last set, glitter sticking to her skin in all the right places. “Hey girl,” Kyra calls, catching her breath. “You should’ve seen the look on this one dude’s face when I wrapped my boa around him. He nearly fell out of his chair.”

Stacie snorts. “Please, that guy’s probably still drooling. Did you see the bachelor party? They’re like piranhas out there.”

Kyra grins. “Let’s give them a show they’ll never forget. Ayla, you up for a little friendly competition?”

I grin back, slipping into my pink costume. “Bring it on, ladies. Loser buys shots after shift.”

My turn comes. I step out into the lights, pink glitter catching every beat of the music. The bass rattles the floor, some generic remix pumping the crowd. I move with practiced grace, the pole steady in my grip, scanning the faces for anything interesting. Usually, it’s all the same: groups of men shouting, waving bills, the bachelor party wild and half-drunk. It’s a blur of noise, the kind of crowd where I can disappear inside the act.

I drop to my knees, grabbing a guy’s face and nestling him between my breasts—his friends howling, cash raining down. I do a quick spin, clack my heels, toss my ass toward the bachelor party, teasing, flashing a glint of my piercing. It’s routine, all smoke and mirrors. Their excitement is hollow. I’m detached, counting down the seconds, wondering if there’s more to me than this stage version.

Then, as I’m wishing the set was over, someone throws more money from the far end. I sashay over, expecting more empty flirtation—until I see him. Alex. The air catches in my lungs, a jolt running through me. I’m never shy up here, but his gaze makes me want to cover myself. His smile is slow and deliberate, and suddenly I feel stripped bare in a way I never do with strangers. “Hey, darling.”

My heart skips. I recover fast, letting my sass take over. “Hey, handsome,” I purr, voice practiced, but something shaky underneath. I lean in, pressing my breasts to his face—but there’s a charge in the moment, a heat that’s more than just routine. When his tongue discreetly traces a line up my sternum, it nearly knocks me out of character, and I have to fight not to gasp. For once, I’m not bored—I’m alive. I want to know what he sees when he looks at me, if he sees the act or the girl beneath it.

I linger, flashing him every curve, daring him to look away. When I move on, I force myself to dance for the next guy, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch Alex’s stare—protective, almost possessive. It annoys me that I like it, that I want to be seen by him. I remind myself: men stare at me for a living. This shouldn’t feel different. But it does.

After my dance, I slip offstage. The bachelor party howls, but honestly, they’re more interested in their drinks than conversation. I drift through the crowd, hunting for extras, and spot a group of younger guys—fresh-faced, awkward, here for a buddy’s birthday.

I slide into the booth, smile practiced but not quite as bright. “So whose big night is it, boys?”

One grins sheepishly. “That’s Tyler. It’s his 21st, so we dragged him out for some real entertainment.”

Tyler blushes, stammering, “I’ve never been to a place like this before.”

I laugh, twirling a lock of hair around my finger as I lean in, my voice lowering to a sultry purr. “I promise to make it a night you’ll never forget. Any fantasies I can make come true for you, birthday boy? Lap dance that’ll leave your heart racing and your pants tight—but if you want something dirtier, you’ll have to tip extra.” I let my gaze linger, smile slow and wicked, but the whole time, I’m half-listening for Alex’s voice in the crowd, half-hoping to spot him watching.

The guys joke about the birthday boy getting a dance he’ll never forget, and I tease and flirt, but I feel a pull, like there’s a thread tying me to the far side of the room. I’m locked in on the birthday boy when Alex appears, his presence cutting through the noise.

He doesn’t waste a second. “Dance for me?”