Page 8 of Shared Obsession

I hit up my old barber. The scissors buzz away a year’s worth of rough edges, and when I step out, I almost recognize myself. I can’t help the small grin tugging at my mouth. Got to look sharp before I show up to claim what’s mine, right? Ayla, my darling—I’m coming for you. Promise.

I roll up to Rusty Bull, engine rumbling, and tuck my helmet under my arm. Inside, Dean’s already posted up at the bar with Zayn and Luca—familiar faces and just enough noise to drown out the nerves. Dean spots me, grinning like I’m some kind of war hero, and shoves a shot my way before I even sit down.

“Drink, bro,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder.

I don’t hesitate. The whiskey burns in the best way, and for a second, it almost feels like old times. Dean lines up another shot next to my empty glass, raising a brow. “So, you gonna tell us if prison food is as bad as they say, or are you sworn to secrecy?”

“Wouldn’t recommend the chicken, if that’s even what it is. I have questions,” I deadpan, and the guys laugh, easy and loud.

Dean leans in, dropping his voice. “Real talk, though—are you gonna reach out to Ayla? Ya know, since you went full psycho over her?”

My jaw tics, and I force a shrug, keeping my eyes on the row of bottles behind the bar. “Not sure she wants to hear from me, man.”

He nudges me, voice gentle. “You still thinking about her?”

I just sigh, spinning the shot glass between my fingers, but in my head, Ayla’s all I can see. I haven’t messaged her. Not yet. Not until I figure out what the hell I’d even say.

Zayn elbows me, grinning. “Bro, honestly? You should hit her up. You literally went to jail for this girl—the least she could do is hear you out.”

I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Drop it, Zayn.”

He throws his hands up, all innocent. “Hey, I’m just saying—”

“Seriously. Change the subject,” I say, my voice low, threading just enough warning through it to kill the conversation. It works; the guys shift gears, but my mind’s already tangled up back where I don’t want it—thinking about her.

“So, man, what was prison actually like? You get into fights, or is it just like the movies?” Dean asks.

I snort, rolling my empty glass between my hands. “You have no idea. I got into it with more than a few guys. Most of the time, it was just boring as hell. But the fights? You learn quick who not to mess with. And it’s lonely. Lonelier than you can imagine. Makes you think too much, about everything you did wrong and everyone you let down.”

Dean claps me on the shoulder, his grip solid. “Well, you’re out, man. And you’re not alone now.”

I pull out my phone and stare at her contact—Ayla. My Ayla. Dean verified for me that her number is the same. Just seeing her name lights something up in my chest, fierce and hungry. My thumb hovers over the screen, itching to call, but I shove it back in my pocket. She doesn’t get a text. Not yet. I want to see my girl’s face when I show up. I want her to remember that she’s mine—that I did a year for her, and I’d do a hundred more if that’s what it takes. Soon enough, she’ll know it.

We knock back a few more shots, the conversation spinning off in every direction. Luca starts up about the last girl he hooked up with, bragging about how she blew his mind. I let the noise wash over me. These guys are my brothers, but my girl—the only girl who matters—she’s not some story for bar talk. I don’t say her name, don’t let them touch it. Ayla’s mine, and nobody gets to talk about her but me.

Ayla

It’s nearly ten when I hear Derek’s key scrape the lock—always too loud, always in a hurry. I’m curled up on the couch, TV flickering, a book forgotten in my lap. The house is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the tick of the cheap wall clock Derek says he will replace but never does.

He comes in, suit jacket slung over his arm, tie half-undone, Bluetooth still stuck in his ear. He doesn’t say hi. He never does anymore.

I push myself up, smooth my hair, and set the book aside. “Long night?” I ask, already heading for the kitchen.

He grunts, tossing his keys in the bowl by the door. “Miller filed the wrong motion—again. I had to fix the whole thing myself.” He drops his bag with a thud like punctuation.

“Want a drink?” I reach for the bottle of bourbon he likes, the fancy stuff he keeps on the highest shelf.

He doesn’t answer right away, just shrugs out of his tie and tosses it over a chair. “Yeah. Make it strong.”

I measure out two fingers, add a single cube—he hates when it’s watered down. I hand him the glass, and he takes it without looking at me, already scrolling through emails on his phone.

“Thanks,” he mutters, not really meaning it, not really here.

I watch him for a moment, wondering if I should ask about his day, about the trial, about anything. Instead, I just lean against the counter, the kitchen light too bright, my reflection in the window looking tired and unfamiliar.

It’s been six months since I stopped dancing—since I packed up my real life and squeezed it into a couple battered boxes, moving everything into Derek’s house, living on his schedule, by his rules. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the girl staring back. The old me—confident, flirty, on stage and unashamed—feels like someone I dreamed up. I think about how I used to tease the girls backstage about the men who came in, the bets we’d make about who’d tip the best, and how I’d laugh about the ones who always wanted to whisper secrets in the dark. I miss them.

In the first few weeks, Derek was perfect—a total gentleman, opening doors, bringing me flowers, texting me all day just to say he missed me. He was sweet, attentive, and made me feel like I was the only woman in the world. He listened, remembered the smallest things, and was amazing in bed—confident, generous, the kind of lover who made me crave his attention and touch. I’d never had someone want me like that before, and I soaked it all up, starving for affection after so many years of settling for scraps. I craved the way he looked at me, the way he’d pull me close and make me forget about everything else. I wanted to believe I could be happy in that kind of love.