Page 4 of Shared Obsession

She rolls her eyes, cheeks flushed. “Possessive much?”

I shrug, not sorry. “Maybe. Maybe I just don’t like sharing.”

She laughs, but there’s an edge to it—like she likes the idea as much as she hates it. “Dinner first. Maybe.”

“Dinner, dessert, the whole damn menu. Please.” I grin, and when my thumb strokes the inside of her knee, she shivers.

We spend the rest of the hour wrapped in shameless flirtation, trading secrets and promises neither of us is quite ready to admit out loud. Every time my hand drifts higher on her thigh, her breath catches. When I lean in close to whisper in her ear, “You smell fucking amazing”, goosebumps erupt along her skin. She tries to hide how much I affect her, but there’s a softness beneath her sass I want to discover—slowly, thoroughly, again and again.

She makes an easy two hundred, but I don’t regret a cent. Before I leave, I press my number into her palm, my fingers lingering just a moment too long, searching her face for any sign this isn’t just an act. But the way her eyes drop to the slip of paper—hesitant, hopeful—tells me I’m not the only one tangled up in something dangerous.

It’s hitting me all at once—this is more than wanting her. It’s not just lust, not just curiosity. It’s starting to feel like obsession, something sharp and consuming that keeps tightening its hold. I want more of her: the reckless way she laughs, the way she glances at me like she’s fighting whether to trust me, the scent of strawberries on her skin. Every detail is burned into my mind. I can’t stop replaying the way she looked at me, like she saw straight through my bravado and might still let me in anyway.

I leave the club dizzy, half-wild, adrenaline still humming. She’s under my skin—utterly intoxicating. I want her everywhere and all at once. I imagine her fingers tracing my tattoos, her mouth pressed to mine, her laugh breaking open something in me I didn’t know was there. I’d burn down the world for another night, another hour, another chance to make her mine. Whatever this is, it’s only just begun, but it already feels dangerous—and I’m not sure I want it to stop.

Chapter Three

Ayla

By the end of my shift, I’m exhausted, sticky with sweat and glitter, and honestly a little grossed out by the memory of too many grabby hands. The moment I spot Stacie and Kyra posted up at the bar, I make a beeline for them, dumping myself onto a stool with a theatrical sigh.

“So who won?” I ask, and we spill our tips onto the counter, counting bills and trading war stories. We crack up over the night’s worst pickup lines, the creepiest regulars, and the rookie bachelor who almost cried when Stacie twirled his tie around her finger.

Shots appear, and we toast to surviving another night and making rent—with enough left over for takeout or, as Kyra puts it, “the glittery heels of our dreams.” Stacie raises her glass and deadpans, “To the guy who tried to tip me with a Chuck E. Cheese token—may he step on a Lego.”

Kyra snickers. “Or the creep who asked if I could dance to the Jurassic Park theme. I told him only if he wore the T. rex costume.”

We all burst out laughing, exhaustion melting away for just a minute. I can always complain about the men, but the money really is its own kind of magic.

Still, my mind keeps drifting back to Alex. I can’t quite pin down what he was doing—whether it was a game, a power play, or something real—but whatever it was, it worked. He was completely intoxicating, in a way that left me a little unsteady. The strangest part? I tried to give him a show, and all he wanted was to talk to me. It’s unsettling, but kind of thrilling—a change of pace I never knew I needed. There’s this weird magnetic pull between us, and I should be more wary, but I can’t help feeling drawn in, even as that little voice in my head tells me to be careful. Guys like him always come with warning labels.

But it’s more than just attraction. There’s a weight to him—something dangerous, maybe even obsessive, in the way he watches me. I wonder what he’s thinking when he looks at me like that. Am I just another challenge for him, or is there something about me he really sees? What if I get too close, and all that intensity turns out to be too much? What if I’m not prepared for someone who wants to know the real me, and not just the act?

Kyra tosses her glittery heels onto the bar next to me, eyes wide with gossip-fueled excitement. “Okay, Ayla, you have to tell us—who was the dark and brooding snack in the audience tonight? He looked like he just walked out of some forbidden romance novel.”

Stacie leans in, barely containing her grin. “Seriously, I thought he was going to set the place on fire with those looks. Where’d you find him? He’s not your usual brand of weird.”

I let out a laugh and swirl my drink. “Would you believe it if I said the gas station? I literally just ran into him last night—like, ran into him, holding the world’s most embarrassing brown paper bag.”

Kyra gasps. “Shut up. Is he a gas station mystery man? That explains the ‘I have secrets and a tragic backstory’ energy.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help smiling. “Right? He was just leaning against the wall, all leather and shadows, like he was waiting to be cast as the love interest in a TV show. I thought he was going to ask me for a cigarette or try to sell me a cursed artifact.”

Stacie laughs. “And then he shows up at Spotlight, looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s dying to solve. Did he even blink the whole time?”

“Not once,” I say, shaking my head. “I tried my best moves, and he’s just… staring. Not in a gross way, either. More like he was trying to figure out what planet I’m from. I half expected him to whip out a notebook and start taking notes on my mating habits.”

Kyra snorts. “Did he talk to you, or did he just communicate with brooding eye contact?”

I wave the slip of paper he gave me. “He talked. He’s got this whole ‘I’m mysterious but somehow want to know your soul’ thing going. He asked me questions—real questions. Didn’t even want the full show. Just wanted to talk. I’m torn between being flattered and checking to make sure I’m not about to get recruited into a cult.”

Stacie grins. “You love the drama, Ayla. Are you going to text him?”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Part of me says, ‘Run, he could be a vampire.’ The other part is like, ‘Well, Edward Cullen never paid two hundred bucks just to talk.’ Honestly, I’m too curious not to. I know it’s reckless, but I want to see what happens. If I’m being honest, maybe I want to feel that intensity focused on me again—even if it scares me a little.”

Kyra raises her shot. “To mysterious strangers and gas station meetings. If you disappear, we’ll avenge you.”

We clink glasses, and I can’t help but smirk at my phone. “If he turns out to be a brooding billionaire with a tragic past, dibs on the movie rights.”