Watching Her Chapter 7 - Penny
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Chapter 7 - Penny - The Rescuers
Penny is a timid child, but is gutsy and very brave.
BPOV
The house is nearly silent.
There's the soft whir of the ceiling fan overhead, the sound of the wind outside rustling the branches of the trees that shroud the house on all sides but one. A floorboard creaks, a door opens, but there's not a voice to be heard. Anywhere.
I'm used to the silence; after this long I'm not sure I'd know what to do with myself if there was a constant hum of talking … of living, in the house. Words are spoken here, but only when necessary. Clinical and precise, most of the time anyway. There are times they're laced with concern and compassion … probably pity, too, though I try to ignore those.
I have no idea what I'll do when school starts in a few months, when I have to interact with people on a daily basis. Do I even remember how? I wonder, not without a little bitterness at the underlying truth. I mean, of course I know how to talk to people, I'm just … out of practice.
My skin itches, tight, like it's the wrong size for my body. It's always this way as I watch the minutes count down until two o'clock. If you asked me a hundred times, I couldn't tell you what the significance of the hour means. It's not the witching hour or anything like that; it just seemed like the best time to flee from the claustrophobia of the house the first night, then it just became a routine.
It's not like anyone will tell me not to go outside or that it's too late or that I should be in bed. I huff, the self-pitying thoughts scattering like the seeds of a dandelion as I let my mind concentrate on the song that's been in my head all day. Cursing my rotten luck and my splintered drumstick, I think about what I'll do tonight instead. Reading perhaps … or I could dance but I don't really feel like it. Maybe I'll pull the cover off my baby, a 1954 Buick Wildcat II, and do some work on her for a bit.
It doesn't matter what I do out there, not really. Of course I love playing, I need to play, but it's the escape that matters more than anything. It's the freedom from the monotony, of the endless waiting … always waiting.
Limbo … it's the constant state I live in.
The last few minutes finally pass, the countdown to my escape as torturous as it is every night. I can't be early. I can't be late. Why I have no idea, I just … can't. Maybe it's because my life's in one constant state of hurry up and wait, and this, this small aspect, is my way of taking control of one damn thing.
I slip into my flip-flops and quietly walk down the hall, the normal slap slap absorbed by the plush carpeting. I pass a door, stopping long enough to lay my hand on the wood, and look down at the white-blue ribbon of light that peeks from beneath. There's no sound inside, save for the steady, unchanging, pfffft whoosh pfffft whoosh. I've become so accustomed to the sound that it barely registers anymore. I wait a moment, then another, before I turn and go outside.
The first inhale of night air always hits me the hardest. I suppose that comes from being cooped up inside almost all day, every day. I don't linger tonight, though, the urge to get to my special place is more pronounced than normal.
I take one step inside and the sense that someone's been here is so strong it makes me sway for a moment. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and a chill walks up my spine. I look toward the bookshelf, my eyes scanning over the titles I know by heart. A few more steps, and that same feeling of unease grows.
Turning my head just a bit I see something strange, something so out of place it makes me freeze as if I've been turned to stone by Medusa herself. On the stool behind my drums there's a pair of drumsticks, ones which are definitely not mine, on top of a notebook which is, but which I most assuredly did not leave there.
What the hell?
I take another step and can see writing covering the page of the notebook. Oh, God, someone's been here, I think, anger and terror fighting for the more dominant emotion. Why the hell would someone come inside and leave a letter and a set of drumsticks?
One more step, and my head whips around, almost in a full circle searching for something, anything, that would give me an answer to the questions flying through my mind. Another shuffling slide of my feet along the floor and I'm closer still. I'm breathing so fast, so hard, that my vision blurs just the tiniest bit. I flick my tongue out, wetting my suddenly parched lips. My whole body shakes, fear and adrenaline seeps from every pore. Closer, closer I move until I'm standing right next to the stool.
With a hand that trembles so hard it looks like I suffer from Parkinson's disease, I reach out and pick up the drumsticks, gripping them so tightly in my hand my fingers turn white. I hold the notebook in my other hand, reading words but not comprehending them. I read once, then again, this time the words making sense … but not.
Drummer Girl … last night … afraid … won't hurt you … My mind plucks out words, each one more ominous somehow than the one before. Like I've been shocked, I loosen my hands.
Oh, God.
I turn around quickly, my hair swinging. I can feel the rush of air from moving so fast. I stare out into the night, wondering, knowing that whoever the freak is, he's probably out there right now, watching me, probably through binoculars, leering, panting doing God knows what to himself.
Perverted fucker.
It's enough to make me sick to my stomach. Frantically, I bolt forward, reaching for the automatic door button. I press it once, twice, over and over until I hear the groan of the motor as the doors begin to lower. I narrow my eyes, trying to see, to catch even a glimpse of whoever is out there.
Once the doors are firmly closed I collapse on the loveseat. My whole body shakes and sweat pours down my chest, little rivulets slipping between my breasts. The sound of my breathing is loud. God, it's so loud. I lean over, my stomach turning somersault after somersault. When it settles enough to let me know I'm not about to see the late night snack of sugar cookies and milk I had just an hour before, I scoot back into the corner and pull my knees up under my chin. I wrap my arms around my legs and concentrate on breathing in and out, until it no longer feels like I'm going to hyperventilate.
I rest my forehead against my knees and close my eyes. There's not a sound and it's spooky, menacing almost in its stillness.
"What the hell is going on?" I murmur, the sound of my own voice strange in my mind.
I turn my head and catch a glimpse of the drumsticks; one has rolled almost to the bookshelf, the other in the opposite direction. By the stool, the notebook lies there, face up. I can't read the words from where I'm sitting, but it's not like I've forgotten what they say.
For the life of me I can't figure out what would possess someone to act in such a way, to invade my personal space.
What the hell am I going to do now?
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Chapter 7 - Penny - The Rescuers
Penny is a timid child, but is gutsy and very brave.
BPOV
The house is nearly silent.
There's the soft whir of the ceiling fan overhead, the sound of the wind outside rustling the branches of the trees that shroud the house on all sides but one. A floorboard creaks, a door opens, but there's not a voice to be heard. Anywhere.
I'm used to the silence; after this long I'm not sure I'd know what to do with myself if there was a constant hum of talking … of living, in the house. Words are spoken here, but only when necessary. Clinical and precise, most of the time anyway. There are times they're laced with concern and compassion … probably pity, too, though I try to ignore those.
I have no idea what I'll do when school starts in a few months, when I have to interact with people on a daily basis. Do I even remember how? I wonder, not without a little bitterness at the underlying truth. I mean, of course I know how to talk to people, I'm just … out of practice.
My skin itches, tight, like it's the wrong size for my body. It's always this way as I watch the minutes count down until two o'clock. If you asked me a hundred times, I couldn't tell you what the significance of the hour means. It's not the witching hour or anything like that; it just seemed like the best time to flee from the claustrophobia of the house the first night, then it just became a routine.
It's not like anyone will tell me not to go outside or that it's too late or that I should be in bed. I huff, the self-pitying thoughts scattering like the seeds of a dandelion as I let my mind concentrate on the song that's been in my head all day. Cursing my rotten luck and my splintered drumstick, I think about what I'll do tonight instead. Reading perhaps … or I could dance but I don't really feel like it. Maybe I'll pull the cover off my baby, a 1954 Buick Wildcat II, and do some work on her for a bit.
It doesn't matter what I do out there, not really. Of course I love playing, I need to play, but it's the escape that matters more than anything. It's the freedom from the monotony, of the endless waiting … always waiting.
Limbo … it's the constant state I live in.
The last few minutes finally pass, the countdown to my escape as torturous as it is every night. I can't be early. I can't be late. Why I have no idea, I just … can't. Maybe it's because my life's in one constant state of hurry up and wait, and this, this small aspect, is my way of taking control of one damn thing.
I slip into my flip-flops and quietly walk down the hall, the normal slap slap absorbed by the plush carpeting. I pass a door, stopping long enough to lay my hand on the wood, and look down at the white-blue ribbon of light that peeks from beneath. There's no sound inside, save for the steady, unchanging, pfffft whoosh pfffft whoosh. I've become so accustomed to the sound that it barely registers anymore. I wait a moment, then another, before I turn and go outside.
The first inhale of night air always hits me the hardest. I suppose that comes from being cooped up inside almost all day, every day. I don't linger tonight, though, the urge to get to my special place is more pronounced than normal.
I take one step inside and the sense that someone's been here is so strong it makes me sway for a moment. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and a chill walks up my spine. I look toward the bookshelf, my eyes scanning over the titles I know by heart. A few more steps, and that same feeling of unease grows.
Turning my head just a bit I see something strange, something so out of place it makes me freeze as if I've been turned to stone by Medusa herself. On the stool behind my drums there's a pair of drumsticks, ones which are definitely not mine, on top of a notebook which is, but which I most assuredly did not leave there.
What the hell?
I take another step and can see writing covering the page of the notebook. Oh, God, someone's been here, I think, anger and terror fighting for the more dominant emotion. Why the hell would someone come inside and leave a letter and a set of drumsticks?
One more step, and my head whips around, almost in a full circle searching for something, anything, that would give me an answer to the questions flying through my mind. Another shuffling slide of my feet along the floor and I'm closer still. I'm breathing so fast, so hard, that my vision blurs just the tiniest bit. I flick my tongue out, wetting my suddenly parched lips. My whole body shakes, fear and adrenaline seeps from every pore. Closer, closer I move until I'm standing right next to the stool.
With a hand that trembles so hard it looks like I suffer from Parkinson's disease, I reach out and pick up the drumsticks, gripping them so tightly in my hand my fingers turn white. I hold the notebook in my other hand, reading words but not comprehending them. I read once, then again, this time the words making sense … but not.
Drummer Girl … last night … afraid … won't hurt you … My mind plucks out words, each one more ominous somehow than the one before. Like I've been shocked, I loosen my hands.
Oh, God.
I turn around quickly, my hair swinging. I can feel the rush of air from moving so fast. I stare out into the night, wondering, knowing that whoever the freak is, he's probably out there right now, watching me, probably through binoculars, leering, panting doing God knows what to himself.
Perverted fucker.
It's enough to make me sick to my stomach. Frantically, I bolt forward, reaching for the automatic door button. I press it once, twice, over and over until I hear the groan of the motor as the doors begin to lower. I narrow my eyes, trying to see, to catch even a glimpse of whoever is out there.
Once the doors are firmly closed I collapse on the loveseat. My whole body shakes and sweat pours down my chest, little rivulets slipping between my breasts. The sound of my breathing is loud. God, it's so loud. I lean over, my stomach turning somersault after somersault. When it settles enough to let me know I'm not about to see the late night snack of sugar cookies and milk I had just an hour before, I scoot back into the corner and pull my knees up under my chin. I wrap my arms around my legs and concentrate on breathing in and out, until it no longer feels like I'm going to hyperventilate.
I rest my forehead against my knees and close my eyes. There's not a sound and it's spooky, menacing almost in its stillness.
"What the hell is going on?" I murmur, the sound of my own voice strange in my mind.
I turn my head and catch a glimpse of the drumsticks; one has rolled almost to the bookshelf, the other in the opposite direction. By the stool, the notebook lies there, face up. I can't read the words from where I'm sitting, but it's not like I've forgotten what they say.
For the life of me I can't figure out what would possess someone to act in such a way, to invade my personal space.
What the hell am I going to do now?
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Watching Her Chapter 6 - Piglet
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Chapter 6 - Piglet - The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh
Piglet's main characteristic is his timidity and his fearfulness. Although Piglet is extremely cowardly, he joins Pooh and friends on their many adventures, and tries his best to conquer his fears. In many situations Piglet is the only one that can save the day; he may hesitate at first but will eventually come through.
Not more than a few minutes pass, barely enough time for me to pull my hood over my head and for my insides to stop feeling like they're in a blender, before the door opens and out she comes.
Pale pink shorts. A huge picture of Piglet embellishes a white t-shirt ringed in black at the arms and the neck. She's wearing a pair of flip-flops and oh, holy hell, her hair's up. I have to bite the inside of my cheek, hard, to stop the low, animalistic growl that wants to escape when I spy not one, but two ponytails - pigtails - hanging low and loose on either side of her head. Her shorts are so short and her shirt looks like it's at least one size, possibly even two, too small for her.
She's the hottest damn thing I've ever seen.
My mouth goes dry. My dick wants out so it can show its infinite appreciation for how sexy she looks. The blood that races through my veins feels warm, tingly, and my entire body shivers as I watch her practically skip toward the garage, her flip-flops slapping against the asphalt. The sound floats through the still night air and by the time it reaches me, I'm finally able to swallow over the golf ball-sized lump in my throat.
"Please don't freak out. Please don't freak out. Please don't freak out," I chant and bang my head lightly against the tree to punctuate each word.
I should've come up with a better plan. I should've baked her a pie or a casserole or something and brought it over to welcome her to the neighborhood, or hell even just knocked on her front door and introduced myself as her neighbor … anything but leaving her a cryptic letter in the middle of the night.
I don't know why I didn't, besides the fact that as much as I want to know her, find out everything about her, I like watching her.
Call me a perverted sneak if you must, but it's the fucking truth. The way she moves, the way she plays, the secret smiles that come out of nowhere, except from deep inside of her, keep me coming back night after night.
She's going to freak, and she's going to hate me, I think and ball my hands up in tight fists inside of my hoodie. My heart leaps into my throat as she slowly makes her way toward her drum set. I know she hasn't seen the notebook or the sticks yet because she's looking in the direction of the bookshelf as she walks. God, I wish I knew why she has a shelf filled with self-help books, some medical books, and most strangely of all, a book on rebuilding car engines. It's driving me crazy, trying to reconcile those books with her, wondering how they connect. Are they hers? Has she read them, and if so why?
Oh, fuck. I begin panting, my breath choppy and quick. She takes another step and then comes to an abrupt stop. She sees the drumsticks and the notebook on the stool. Her head whips around and the wide, fear-filled eyes I see makes my stomach drop. She takes a tentative step forward and then stops again, closer, but not close enough to read the letter. My hands are on each of my legs, fingernails digging into the denim.
Shit, shit, motherfucking shit, I scream silently. I'm such a fucking asshole for doing this to her. I watch as she takes the final step, stopping directly in front of the stool.
Her body is ramrod stiff and I swear I can feel her fear float through the air. Her mouth is open, her pink tongue darting in and out. There is no doubt if I were closer, I'd be able to hear the pounding of her heart.
My feet are rooted to the ground; I'm frozen in place as if cement covers my shoes. I want to move, to go to her, to explain that I was only trying to do something nice for her, to make her smile. I'd tell her that all I want is to be her friend because she looks so much like she needs one … that I could listen to her play for days and never get tired of it. That I want her to be able to finish her song, that it's all I can think about.
I force my legs to move, just the smallest of steps before I'm the one that stops dead in my tracks. She's stepped closer, close enough now to read the letter. She lifts her hand, tentatively, inching it closer, so, so slowly, as if it's a snake, coiled and ready to strike at any moment.
Oh no, oh God, this is it. She takes the final step and I watch, spellbound and petrified as she gingerly picks up the drumsticks. Her hand closes around them and with her other, she holds the notebook. I'm transfixed, my lips pressed tightly together, holding every ounce of breath inside my body.
Her eyes widen and in the next moment, she drops the notebook as if it's caught on fire and burned her hand. The pages flutter as it falls through the air. Clack, ping, clack, ping. The sound of the drumsticks dropping to the cement floor rings out, hollow and desolate.
I'm sick. I'm so angry at myself.
She whips her head around again and I can see the wheels turning in her head. I groan when she rushes forward and slams her hand repeatedly against the wall. For the briefest of seconds I wonder what she's doing until I hear the whirring of a motor and watch, devastated, as the bay doors begin to lower simultaneously.
Her eyes are wary as they scan from left to right, peering out as the doors close, lower, lower, until she's safely, and I would guess permanently, hidden from me.
I can't move for the longest time. I can't take my eyes off the building. I know she won't come out and it hurts. God, it hurts so fucking much. I can picture her behind the steel, pacing, too afraid to even come out, maybe wondering how long she has to stay in there before it's safe to go back into her house.
When I can't take it anymore, I slowly turn and begin the torturous trek back home. I wonder what in the hell I'm going to do now. I'm at a loss, confused about it all … mostly why it hurts so badly. I climb the steps to my house and then trudge up the stairs to my room. I kick off my shoes and then fall into my bed, having neither the will nor the inclination to get undressed. I roll over and stare at the ceiling; my mind is a chaotic mess, and her frightened eyes haunt me.
The only thing I can make sense of is that I'm not giving up. Two o'clock tomorrow morning I'll be there … watching and waiting.
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Chapter 6 - Piglet - The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh
Piglet's main characteristic is his timidity and his fearfulness. Although Piglet is extremely cowardly, he joins Pooh and friends on their many adventures, and tries his best to conquer his fears. In many situations Piglet is the only one that can save the day; he may hesitate at first but will eventually come through.
Not more than a few minutes pass, barely enough time for me to pull my hood over my head and for my insides to stop feeling like they're in a blender, before the door opens and out she comes.
Pale pink shorts. A huge picture of Piglet embellishes a white t-shirt ringed in black at the arms and the neck. She's wearing a pair of flip-flops and oh, holy hell, her hair's up. I have to bite the inside of my cheek, hard, to stop the low, animalistic growl that wants to escape when I spy not one, but two ponytails - pigtails - hanging low and loose on either side of her head. Her shorts are so short and her shirt looks like it's at least one size, possibly even two, too small for her.
She's the hottest damn thing I've ever seen.
My mouth goes dry. My dick wants out so it can show its infinite appreciation for how sexy she looks. The blood that races through my veins feels warm, tingly, and my entire body shivers as I watch her practically skip toward the garage, her flip-flops slapping against the asphalt. The sound floats through the still night air and by the time it reaches me, I'm finally able to swallow over the golf ball-sized lump in my throat.
"Please don't freak out. Please don't freak out. Please don't freak out," I chant and bang my head lightly against the tree to punctuate each word.
I should've come up with a better plan. I should've baked her a pie or a casserole or something and brought it over to welcome her to the neighborhood, or hell even just knocked on her front door and introduced myself as her neighbor … anything but leaving her a cryptic letter in the middle of the night.
I don't know why I didn't, besides the fact that as much as I want to know her, find out everything about her, I like watching her.
Call me a perverted sneak if you must, but it's the fucking truth. The way she moves, the way she plays, the secret smiles that come out of nowhere, except from deep inside of her, keep me coming back night after night.
She's going to freak, and she's going to hate me, I think and ball my hands up in tight fists inside of my hoodie. My heart leaps into my throat as she slowly makes her way toward her drum set. I know she hasn't seen the notebook or the sticks yet because she's looking in the direction of the bookshelf as she walks. God, I wish I knew why she has a shelf filled with self-help books, some medical books, and most strangely of all, a book on rebuilding car engines. It's driving me crazy, trying to reconcile those books with her, wondering how they connect. Are they hers? Has she read them, and if so why?
Oh, fuck. I begin panting, my breath choppy and quick. She takes another step and then comes to an abrupt stop. She sees the drumsticks and the notebook on the stool. Her head whips around and the wide, fear-filled eyes I see makes my stomach drop. She takes a tentative step forward and then stops again, closer, but not close enough to read the letter. My hands are on each of my legs, fingernails digging into the denim.
Shit, shit, motherfucking shit, I scream silently. I'm such a fucking asshole for doing this to her. I watch as she takes the final step, stopping directly in front of the stool.
Her body is ramrod stiff and I swear I can feel her fear float through the air. Her mouth is open, her pink tongue darting in and out. There is no doubt if I were closer, I'd be able to hear the pounding of her heart.
My feet are rooted to the ground; I'm frozen in place as if cement covers my shoes. I want to move, to go to her, to explain that I was only trying to do something nice for her, to make her smile. I'd tell her that all I want is to be her friend because she looks so much like she needs one … that I could listen to her play for days and never get tired of it. That I want her to be able to finish her song, that it's all I can think about.
I force my legs to move, just the smallest of steps before I'm the one that stops dead in my tracks. She's stepped closer, close enough now to read the letter. She lifts her hand, tentatively, inching it closer, so, so slowly, as if it's a snake, coiled and ready to strike at any moment.
Oh no, oh God, this is it. She takes the final step and I watch, spellbound and petrified as she gingerly picks up the drumsticks. Her hand closes around them and with her other, she holds the notebook. I'm transfixed, my lips pressed tightly together, holding every ounce of breath inside my body.
Her eyes widen and in the next moment, she drops the notebook as if it's caught on fire and burned her hand. The pages flutter as it falls through the air. Clack, ping, clack, ping. The sound of the drumsticks dropping to the cement floor rings out, hollow and desolate.
I'm sick. I'm so angry at myself.
She whips her head around again and I can see the wheels turning in her head. I groan when she rushes forward and slams her hand repeatedly against the wall. For the briefest of seconds I wonder what she's doing until I hear the whirring of a motor and watch, devastated, as the bay doors begin to lower simultaneously.
Her eyes are wary as they scan from left to right, peering out as the doors close, lower, lower, until she's safely, and I would guess permanently, hidden from me.
I can't move for the longest time. I can't take my eyes off the building. I know she won't come out and it hurts. God, it hurts so fucking much. I can picture her behind the steel, pacing, too afraid to even come out, maybe wondering how long she has to stay in there before it's safe to go back into her house.
When I can't take it anymore, I slowly turn and begin the torturous trek back home. I wonder what in the hell I'm going to do now. I'm at a loss, confused about it all … mostly why it hurts so badly. I climb the steps to my house and then trudge up the stairs to my room. I kick off my shoes and then fall into my bed, having neither the will nor the inclination to get undressed. I roll over and stare at the ceiling; my mind is a chaotic mess, and her frightened eyes haunt me.
The only thing I can make sense of is that I'm not giving up. Two o'clock tomorrow morning I'll be there … watching and waiting.
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Watching Her Chapter 5 - Aladdin
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Chapter 5 - Aladdin - Aladdin
You dream of a life with a beautiful princess, and have the courage to risk it all for that one special magic carpet ride.
"Shit, shit, shit," I mutter as I traipse through the woods feeling very much like a thief in the night as my feet skitter through the pine straw that litters the ground. Dressed in black from head to foot, I tell myself for the seven hundred ninety-eighth time since I ate dinner that what I'm getting ready to do doesn't make me a creeper, or a pervert … or a hyper-sexed almost eighteen-year-old.
There's a damp chill in the air, the remnants from last night's rain, and the ground beneath my shoes is slick and spongy. The moon is hidden behind thick clouds that almost blend in with the sooty sky. There's not a star to be found, none bright or strong enough to penetrate the pea soup overhead.
My feet know the way even without the glow of the moon to guide me. If I were an even bigger idiot than I am for doing what I'm about to do, I might be tempted to try to do the whole walk with my eyes closed. It'd be just my luck, though, that some wayward branch would thwack me in the face or I'd trip over a stump and jack my knee all up before ODP camp … Coach would definitely not like that at all.
I look through a break in the trees and I can see her house off in the distance. My steps slow, my breathing does not … neither does my heart. Fuck. I grip the drumsticks in my hand so tightly that I'm afraid I might snap them in half. A few more steps and it's do or die time. I stop, scared out my damned mind, knowing that I'm about to cross some kind of line, though if I'm being honest with myself, I crossed it more than a week ago when I watched her the first time … and I definitely crossed it when I came back the second night.
As usual, two of the three bay doors are open, the light from inside spilling out onto the driveway. Her Escalade's parked in the driveway in its normal spot and a small gray car is beside it. The Escalade is always the same; the other cars change periodically. There's a pattern to the comings and goings of the vehicles but I'll be damned if I can figure it out. Most nights when I crawl into my bed, exhausted, confused, and cold, I conjure up the most ridiculous explanations for what's going on. It's like the beginning of a mystery or a political thriller movie, there are pieces, seemingly unrelated pieces of a puzzle, scattered about and it's just going to take some time until they come together and make sense.
I rock back and forth on my heels, and stare at her house. Like my own, it's huge, two stories with windows on all sides like polka dots. I can't see the front because I come from the west and her house faces south. I know, because I've lived in Forks most of my damned life, that there are two huge columns in the front and a wide porch that runs the entire length of the house. When we were younger, we never missed a chance to Trick-or-Treat here. Old Mr. and Mrs. Abbott always gave out the best candy … the high-dollar, full-sized Reese's and Snickers and Kit Kats … none of that generic shit and plastic-tasting bubble gum.
Drummer Girl's metal building is new and I wonder, not for the first time, how I missed noticing it. You can't really see it from the road that winds by her house because of the trees and from how far back from the road it sits, but you'd think I would have heard it being built or something, but I didn't. Like everything else about her, it's a mystery.
I raise my arm and glance at my watch. I don't have long to make my move if I want to get in and out before she shows up. My heart jackhammers in my chest, so hard I rub a hand over it as if there's a bruise there already. I can feel my pulse pound in my head and my breathing sounds loud, so fucking loud, in my ears. I take a step forward, my knees knocking. The muscles in my legs that are normally coiled and ready to flex and move, are suddenly mush beneath skin that's now covered in goosebumps.
Get it together, you pussy, I think and take another step, positive that some unseen spotlight is suddenly going to light up the night sky and track me like an inmate making a run for it. When nothing happens, I straighten my shoulders and then break into a sprint that would make David Beckham jealous. I flatten myself against the side of her Escalade, panting and gasping for breath, and then hope that like the rest of Forks, she doesn't bother with setting her car alarm.
When the only sound I hear is my own choppy puffs of breath and the leftover rain as it drips off the corner of the building, I close my eyes and say a quick prayer of thanks. My whole body is one huge jumble of electricity, but before I can talk myself out of it, I take five short steps until I'm standing inside the building. Immediately, it's as if her entire essence surrounds me. Frayed nerves calm, goosebumps fade, and my tense muscles relax. The air is filled with the lingering scent of rain and wet pine, but there's also a hint of peppermint and sugar cookies layered beneath. I take a deep breath, then another. I hope when I get home that somehow the smell has saturated my clothes. It smells like nothing I've ever experienced and it makes my stomach do the strangest things.
Something I can't even think about … well, not right now and get the hell out of here before someone sees me. Before she sees me. Dressed as I am, there's no way that would be anything but a clusterfuck of epic proportions.
That thought spurs me into action and as much as I'm dying to look, to really look around, I don't have time. I walk toward her drum set, ignoring the flare of lust and want that blazes hot and bright. I'm almost eighteen-years-old. I've seen porn, lots of porn, and I've seen my share of hot girls dressed in short cheerleader skirts and in barely-there bikinis on the beaches of La Push, but not one of them comes close to the hotness of Drummer Girl.
Wild hair. Long legs that are sinuous and perfectly proportioned to her fuck-hot body. Arms that are thin, but not so skinny I'd be afraid to snap her like a toothpick if I held onto them. A smile that makes me want to do whatever's necessary to ensure there's never a moment she doesn't smile.
I touch the stool, feeling a little perverted since that's where her ass is for hours at a time, but it's also where she sits to escape from whatever it is that haunts her. I set the drumsticks down, more scared than I've ever been in my life, but more determined, too. There's something there … here … that's right and good. I can feel it. Deep in my bones, in my soul. Expectant, destined, I don't even know.
I turn to walk out, leaving the sticks lying across the stool. I stop, sighing. I can't just leave them there, like they appeared out of nowhere. As much of a peeping Tom/stalker I feel like when it comes to this girl, I know leaving the drumsticks with no note or anything is liable to freak her the fuck out. Besides, I want her to know they're from me. I'm not sure I want her to realize I've been watching her, but I can't very well do one without the other. I turn back around, my eyes scanning for something, anything to write on.
"You thought this out real good didn't you, slick?" I mutter. I need to hurry though because I've spent way too much time in here. I want to be safely hidden in the trees when she makes her appearance.
I find an old notebook on a shelf behind the drums, the edges rolled and the wire at the end kinked and uneven which makes folding it open to tear a sheet of paper a challenge. Thankfully there's also a pen. I tap the pen nervously against my lips as I think about what to write.
Hi, you don't know me but I thought you could use a new set of drumsticks …
You might not believe this, but the drum fairy told me you broke one of your drumsticks last night …
I promise I'm not a stalker, but I've been watching you …
"Fuck me." I groan out loud, ignoring the minutes ticking loudly by in my mind.
Sucking in a lungful of the mouthwatering air I scrawl a quick note, cringing a bit because I know no matter how I try to word it, I'm going to come across as horribly as I think I will.
Drummer Girl,
These are for you.
The song you were playing last night was so incredible; I just want you to be able to finish it.
Please don't be afraid of me. I won't hurt you, I promise.
Fuck, how the hell do I sign this so I don't sound like an escapee from an insane asylum? I can't tell her my name, not yet. I sure as hell can't sign it something as lame as "Your Secret Admirer" and I damn sure know I can't sign it "Love" or with Xs and Os.
Without wasting any more time, I decide to just sign it with my soccer jersey number … #18.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I set the notebook down on the stool beneath the sticks and hurry from the garage without looking back. When I reach the safety of the trees and the dark night, sweat's pouring down the side of my face and my heart's trying to beat its way out of my chest. I'm so tempted to hightail it the hell out of here and go home so I can hide under my covers and pretend none of this has happened … but I can't.
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Chapter 5 - Aladdin - Aladdin
You dream of a life with a beautiful princess, and have the courage to risk it all for that one special magic carpet ride.
"Shit, shit, shit," I mutter as I traipse through the woods feeling very much like a thief in the night as my feet skitter through the pine straw that litters the ground. Dressed in black from head to foot, I tell myself for the seven hundred ninety-eighth time since I ate dinner that what I'm getting ready to do doesn't make me a creeper, or a pervert … or a hyper-sexed almost eighteen-year-old.
There's a damp chill in the air, the remnants from last night's rain, and the ground beneath my shoes is slick and spongy. The moon is hidden behind thick clouds that almost blend in with the sooty sky. There's not a star to be found, none bright or strong enough to penetrate the pea soup overhead.
My feet know the way even without the glow of the moon to guide me. If I were an even bigger idiot than I am for doing what I'm about to do, I might be tempted to try to do the whole walk with my eyes closed. It'd be just my luck, though, that some wayward branch would thwack me in the face or I'd trip over a stump and jack my knee all up before ODP camp … Coach would definitely not like that at all.
I look through a break in the trees and I can see her house off in the distance. My steps slow, my breathing does not … neither does my heart. Fuck. I grip the drumsticks in my hand so tightly that I'm afraid I might snap them in half. A few more steps and it's do or die time. I stop, scared out my damned mind, knowing that I'm about to cross some kind of line, though if I'm being honest with myself, I crossed it more than a week ago when I watched her the first time … and I definitely crossed it when I came back the second night.
As usual, two of the three bay doors are open, the light from inside spilling out onto the driveway. Her Escalade's parked in the driveway in its normal spot and a small gray car is beside it. The Escalade is always the same; the other cars change periodically. There's a pattern to the comings and goings of the vehicles but I'll be damned if I can figure it out. Most nights when I crawl into my bed, exhausted, confused, and cold, I conjure up the most ridiculous explanations for what's going on. It's like the beginning of a mystery or a political thriller movie, there are pieces, seemingly unrelated pieces of a puzzle, scattered about and it's just going to take some time until they come together and make sense.
I rock back and forth on my heels, and stare at her house. Like my own, it's huge, two stories with windows on all sides like polka dots. I can't see the front because I come from the west and her house faces south. I know, because I've lived in Forks most of my damned life, that there are two huge columns in the front and a wide porch that runs the entire length of the house. When we were younger, we never missed a chance to Trick-or-Treat here. Old Mr. and Mrs. Abbott always gave out the best candy … the high-dollar, full-sized Reese's and Snickers and Kit Kats … none of that generic shit and plastic-tasting bubble gum.
Drummer Girl's metal building is new and I wonder, not for the first time, how I missed noticing it. You can't really see it from the road that winds by her house because of the trees and from how far back from the road it sits, but you'd think I would have heard it being built or something, but I didn't. Like everything else about her, it's a mystery.
I raise my arm and glance at my watch. I don't have long to make my move if I want to get in and out before she shows up. My heart jackhammers in my chest, so hard I rub a hand over it as if there's a bruise there already. I can feel my pulse pound in my head and my breathing sounds loud, so fucking loud, in my ears. I take a step forward, my knees knocking. The muscles in my legs that are normally coiled and ready to flex and move, are suddenly mush beneath skin that's now covered in goosebumps.
Get it together, you pussy, I think and take another step, positive that some unseen spotlight is suddenly going to light up the night sky and track me like an inmate making a run for it. When nothing happens, I straighten my shoulders and then break into a sprint that would make David Beckham jealous. I flatten myself against the side of her Escalade, panting and gasping for breath, and then hope that like the rest of Forks, she doesn't bother with setting her car alarm.
When the only sound I hear is my own choppy puffs of breath and the leftover rain as it drips off the corner of the building, I close my eyes and say a quick prayer of thanks. My whole body is one huge jumble of electricity, but before I can talk myself out of it, I take five short steps until I'm standing inside the building. Immediately, it's as if her entire essence surrounds me. Frayed nerves calm, goosebumps fade, and my tense muscles relax. The air is filled with the lingering scent of rain and wet pine, but there's also a hint of peppermint and sugar cookies layered beneath. I take a deep breath, then another. I hope when I get home that somehow the smell has saturated my clothes. It smells like nothing I've ever experienced and it makes my stomach do the strangest things.
Something I can't even think about … well, not right now and get the hell out of here before someone sees me. Before she sees me. Dressed as I am, there's no way that would be anything but a clusterfuck of epic proportions.
That thought spurs me into action and as much as I'm dying to look, to really look around, I don't have time. I walk toward her drum set, ignoring the flare of lust and want that blazes hot and bright. I'm almost eighteen-years-old. I've seen porn, lots of porn, and I've seen my share of hot girls dressed in short cheerleader skirts and in barely-there bikinis on the beaches of La Push, but not one of them comes close to the hotness of Drummer Girl.
Wild hair. Long legs that are sinuous and perfectly proportioned to her fuck-hot body. Arms that are thin, but not so skinny I'd be afraid to snap her like a toothpick if I held onto them. A smile that makes me want to do whatever's necessary to ensure there's never a moment she doesn't smile.
I touch the stool, feeling a little perverted since that's where her ass is for hours at a time, but it's also where she sits to escape from whatever it is that haunts her. I set the drumsticks down, more scared than I've ever been in my life, but more determined, too. There's something there … here … that's right and good. I can feel it. Deep in my bones, in my soul. Expectant, destined, I don't even know.
I turn to walk out, leaving the sticks lying across the stool. I stop, sighing. I can't just leave them there, like they appeared out of nowhere. As much of a peeping Tom/stalker I feel like when it comes to this girl, I know leaving the drumsticks with no note or anything is liable to freak her the fuck out. Besides, I want her to know they're from me. I'm not sure I want her to realize I've been watching her, but I can't very well do one without the other. I turn back around, my eyes scanning for something, anything to write on.
"You thought this out real good didn't you, slick?" I mutter. I need to hurry though because I've spent way too much time in here. I want to be safely hidden in the trees when she makes her appearance.
I find an old notebook on a shelf behind the drums, the edges rolled and the wire at the end kinked and uneven which makes folding it open to tear a sheet of paper a challenge. Thankfully there's also a pen. I tap the pen nervously against my lips as I think about what to write.
Hi, you don't know me but I thought you could use a new set of drumsticks …
You might not believe this, but the drum fairy told me you broke one of your drumsticks last night …
I promise I'm not a stalker, but I've been watching you …
"Fuck me." I groan out loud, ignoring the minutes ticking loudly by in my mind.
Sucking in a lungful of the mouthwatering air I scrawl a quick note, cringing a bit because I know no matter how I try to word it, I'm going to come across as horribly as I think I will.
Drummer Girl,
These are for you.
The song you were playing last night was so incredible; I just want you to be able to finish it.
Please don't be afraid of me. I won't hurt you, I promise.
Fuck, how the hell do I sign this so I don't sound like an escapee from an insane asylum? I can't tell her my name, not yet. I sure as hell can't sign it something as lame as "Your Secret Admirer" and I damn sure know I can't sign it "Love" or with Xs and Os.
Without wasting any more time, I decide to just sign it with my soccer jersey number … #18.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I set the notebook down on the stool beneath the sticks and hurry from the garage without looking back. When I reach the safety of the trees and the dark night, sweat's pouring down the side of my face and my heart's trying to beat its way out of my chest. I'm so tempted to hightail it the hell out of here and go home so I can hide under my covers and pretend none of this has happened … but I can't.
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Watching Her Chapter 4 - Prince Edward
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Chapter 4 - Prince Edward - Enchanted
Prince Edward is handsome, funny, heroic, if not a bit clumsy, yet he is still tough. He is looking for that happily ever after.
"Hey, man, where the hell are you?" Jasper demands before I even say hello.
I huff, because it's only like the fifth time he or Emmett has called since I woke up. I know they're wondering where the hell I am or at the very least why they can't get into my house. I took the key from its hiding place outside under the planter. I'm not about to spend my summer with those two fools barging in whenever they feel like it. As usual, we're supposed to be practicing, but instead, I'm on my way to Port Angeles.
To buy drumsticks.
For her.
"I have an errand to run. I'll catch you guys this afternoon after lunch. Maybe we can go run or something," I try to deflect.
Of course he can't just let that go without a comment so he presses, asking, "An errand where? We'll just wait for you or you can meet us at the field when you're done."
"I'm going to Port Angeles, so I'll just meet you guys later. I'll call you when I'm done." My tone is brusque, but I can't help it. I know Jasper; he doesn't let shit go and he always knows when I'm hiding something.
Smooth, perceptive motherfucker.
There's silence on the other end, but it's the kind that creeps up your spine and makes the hair on your arms stand on end. Silence from Jasper is never a good thing. I can practically see him, his eyes narrowed as he goes over the past two weeks … my evasiveness, my lack of focus, the dark circles under my eyes.
I hear his breath through the phone. My skin prickles and my heart races in my chest as I hear him say, "Are you okay?"
"I don't know," I answer because at this point I have no idea.
My life's a jumble of sleepless nights, murky skies, and a girl that has somehow managed to seep into every part of me so much that I can't think or see or do anything.
"Be careful," is all he answers before he's gone.
I throw the phone onto the seat beside me and shift gears as my car slows through a sharp turn. My mind wanders, as always, to her. I hope the music store in Port Angeles has what I need. I fight the overwhelming compulsion to keep going toward Seattle just to make sure I find what I'm looking for. I even calculate in my head how long it will take me to get there, where to stop for gas, and what time I'd get home if I just keep heading east. Like driving an hour to Port Angeles doesn't make me seem stalkerish enough … driving three hours each way borders on insane. I tell myself that if I speed I can probably cut the round-trip by at least an hour … then I shake my head.
As much as I know that nothing about what I'm doing makes any fucking sense, there's something that tells me not to stop, to keep going, and see what happens.
Maybe I'm just trying to convince my damn self that buying some stranger drumsticks, a beautiful one though she is, is just me doing something nice.
Yeah, right, and I have a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn.
Knowing that I'm going to do it anyway, right or wrong, I flip to my favorite alternative station on the satellite radio and lose myself in the music for the rest of the trip. I find the store with ease; it's one I've been in enough times for myself. I spend a little time looking around, enjoying the fact that besides me and the old guy that owns the place, it's empty. For a small town music store, it's relatively well-stocked. I pick up a package of blank music sheets and a few picks for my guitar before moving toward the small selection of drumsticks. I don't want to give her something generic, but I don't know a whole lot about drums or what kind of sticks are the best. I don't even know if there's a brand or a kind she likes to play with.
I sigh, fighting the urge to flee the store and my stupid idea. What the fuck am I doing? She's just a girl. It was just a song, I chant, puffing my cheeks and holding my breath before letting it go in a long exhale. But she's not and it wasn't. I rock on my heels and run my free hand through my hair, pulling on it as I have a tendency to do when I'm nervous.
"Having trouble deciding?" The old guy's voice startles me and I jump. The tips of my ears heat up - a reaction I curse my mother for and hate frequently.
I shrug, shifting a bit from side to side. My fingers curl around the package in my hand and I know I'm wrinkling the sheets. Damn it. "I need to buy a … ah … um … a friend," I stammer, tripping over the word, "a new set of drumsticks but I don't know what kind to get."
He nods, a little knowingly I think, and then grabs a set off the wall. "These are the best we carry. If you want something a little more special, we can order a set for you." The thought's tempting, but I need drumsticks now. Maybe later… though I'm a fucking idiot for thinking about anything past tonight. Giving her these is probably going to ruin any chance I have with her, but I know I'm going to give them to her anyway.
I hand the guy my debit card once we're at the front counter, thanking my lucky stars that my parents don't check my bank account. I work for Dad at the hospital, doing odd things here and there and they give me an allowance for taking care of the yard and shit like that, so my money's mine to spend as I want. It's not as if they were to see a charge from a music store they'd be surprised, but the less questions I have to answer the better.
I hit up McDonald's, craving some Chicken McNuggets and a Coke. I'm certainly not going to waste a trip to Port Angeles without stopping for some fast food at Mickey D's. There are only so many burgers and fries a guy can eat at the diner, no matter how good they are. After topping off my gas, I head toward home.
I know the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that starts as I get closer to Forks isn't coming from the processed chicken I've just shoveled in my face. When I pass the general vicinity where I know her house is, set back from the road and hidden behind the tall trees, my heart thumps behind my rib cage and my fingers wrap around the steering wheel. A few hours, and then I can see her again. It's more than a few, closer to a dozen, but still, just knowing that I will see her somewhat loosens the knot that's pretty much taken up residence in the center of my chest.
Once I'm home, I throw some clothes in the wash, jump in the shower, and then take a nap. It's going to be a long night for me and I want to be ready.
Tonight can change everything.
For better or worse.
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Chapter 4 - Prince Edward - Enchanted
Prince Edward is handsome, funny, heroic, if not a bit clumsy, yet he is still tough. He is looking for that happily ever after.
"Hey, man, where the hell are you?" Jasper demands before I even say hello.
I huff, because it's only like the fifth time he or Emmett has called since I woke up. I know they're wondering where the hell I am or at the very least why they can't get into my house. I took the key from its hiding place outside under the planter. I'm not about to spend my summer with those two fools barging in whenever they feel like it. As usual, we're supposed to be practicing, but instead, I'm on my way to Port Angeles.
To buy drumsticks.
For her.
"I have an errand to run. I'll catch you guys this afternoon after lunch. Maybe we can go run or something," I try to deflect.
Of course he can't just let that go without a comment so he presses, asking, "An errand where? We'll just wait for you or you can meet us at the field when you're done."
"I'm going to Port Angeles, so I'll just meet you guys later. I'll call you when I'm done." My tone is brusque, but I can't help it. I know Jasper; he doesn't let shit go and he always knows when I'm hiding something.
Smooth, perceptive motherfucker.
There's silence on the other end, but it's the kind that creeps up your spine and makes the hair on your arms stand on end. Silence from Jasper is never a good thing. I can practically see him, his eyes narrowed as he goes over the past two weeks … my evasiveness, my lack of focus, the dark circles under my eyes.
I hear his breath through the phone. My skin prickles and my heart races in my chest as I hear him say, "Are you okay?"
"I don't know," I answer because at this point I have no idea.
My life's a jumble of sleepless nights, murky skies, and a girl that has somehow managed to seep into every part of me so much that I can't think or see or do anything.
"Be careful," is all he answers before he's gone.
I throw the phone onto the seat beside me and shift gears as my car slows through a sharp turn. My mind wanders, as always, to her. I hope the music store in Port Angeles has what I need. I fight the overwhelming compulsion to keep going toward Seattle just to make sure I find what I'm looking for. I even calculate in my head how long it will take me to get there, where to stop for gas, and what time I'd get home if I just keep heading east. Like driving an hour to Port Angeles doesn't make me seem stalkerish enough … driving three hours each way borders on insane. I tell myself that if I speed I can probably cut the round-trip by at least an hour … then I shake my head.
As much as I know that nothing about what I'm doing makes any fucking sense, there's something that tells me not to stop, to keep going, and see what happens.
Maybe I'm just trying to convince my damn self that buying some stranger drumsticks, a beautiful one though she is, is just me doing something nice.
Yeah, right, and I have a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn.
Knowing that I'm going to do it anyway, right or wrong, I flip to my favorite alternative station on the satellite radio and lose myself in the music for the rest of the trip. I find the store with ease; it's one I've been in enough times for myself. I spend a little time looking around, enjoying the fact that besides me and the old guy that owns the place, it's empty. For a small town music store, it's relatively well-stocked. I pick up a package of blank music sheets and a few picks for my guitar before moving toward the small selection of drumsticks. I don't want to give her something generic, but I don't know a whole lot about drums or what kind of sticks are the best. I don't even know if there's a brand or a kind she likes to play with.
I sigh, fighting the urge to flee the store and my stupid idea. What the fuck am I doing? She's just a girl. It was just a song, I chant, puffing my cheeks and holding my breath before letting it go in a long exhale. But she's not and it wasn't. I rock on my heels and run my free hand through my hair, pulling on it as I have a tendency to do when I'm nervous.
"Having trouble deciding?" The old guy's voice startles me and I jump. The tips of my ears heat up - a reaction I curse my mother for and hate frequently.
I shrug, shifting a bit from side to side. My fingers curl around the package in my hand and I know I'm wrinkling the sheets. Damn it. "I need to buy a … ah … um … a friend," I stammer, tripping over the word, "a new set of drumsticks but I don't know what kind to get."
He nods, a little knowingly I think, and then grabs a set off the wall. "These are the best we carry. If you want something a little more special, we can order a set for you." The thought's tempting, but I need drumsticks now. Maybe later… though I'm a fucking idiot for thinking about anything past tonight. Giving her these is probably going to ruin any chance I have with her, but I know I'm going to give them to her anyway.
I hand the guy my debit card once we're at the front counter, thanking my lucky stars that my parents don't check my bank account. I work for Dad at the hospital, doing odd things here and there and they give me an allowance for taking care of the yard and shit like that, so my money's mine to spend as I want. It's not as if they were to see a charge from a music store they'd be surprised, but the less questions I have to answer the better.
I hit up McDonald's, craving some Chicken McNuggets and a Coke. I'm certainly not going to waste a trip to Port Angeles without stopping for some fast food at Mickey D's. There are only so many burgers and fries a guy can eat at the diner, no matter how good they are. After topping off my gas, I head toward home.
I know the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that starts as I get closer to Forks isn't coming from the processed chicken I've just shoveled in my face. When I pass the general vicinity where I know her house is, set back from the road and hidden behind the tall trees, my heart thumps behind my rib cage and my fingers wrap around the steering wheel. A few hours, and then I can see her again. It's more than a few, closer to a dozen, but still, just knowing that I will see her somewhat loosens the knot that's pretty much taken up residence in the center of my chest.
Once I'm home, I throw some clothes in the wash, jump in the shower, and then take a nap. It's going to be a long night for me and I want to be ready.
Tonight can change everything.
For better or worse.
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Watching Her Chapter 3 - Ariel
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Chapter 3 - Ariel - The Little Mermaid
Ariel is a bright, spirited mermaid who is also adventurous and stubborn. Her curiosity and love for adventure sometimes gets her into trouble. Usually, however, Ariel overcomes any obstacle she faces.
"Oh, fuck me," I mutter, stomping my feet to try to get the blood circulating again. I look up, which is a big mistake considering a raindrop falls right into my eye. It's been sprinkling for the last thirty minutes, but now it's a steady, though light, rainfall. Taking my hands out of my hoodie, I pull my beanie down more over my ears and huddle closer to the tree trunk … as if that will help. A few drops of rain slide beneath the collar of my t-shirt and I shiver as they roll down my back.
"Edward, you're a fucking idiot," I chastise myself for at least the hundredth time.
I've got her timing down so well by now that I know I've got only about three or four minutes until she comes out the door. You'd think with as many times as I've trekked between our houses I'd know it by heart, which I guess I do, but it still takes a good twenty minutes or so to get here. It's normally not too bad of a walk, but in the rain it pretty much sucks ass. As soon as I closed my front door and walked down the steps, I stopped when I felt the first drops of rain fall from the water-logged sky, but I knew after seeing her in town today, I'd never be able to wait until tomorrow.
Having her that close, though it was only in passing, made me want to get closer.
I'm so fucked. I still don't even know her name, but it doesn't matter.
I do need a plan though.
I hear the click of the door and my body awakens, anticipation racing through my veins because she's coming. She stands on the top step, facing out into the night, and pulls the door behind her. Her eyes sweep from left to right and I swear, even though I'm positive she can't see me, when her eyes reach me, every cell in my body jumps to attention, shooting sparks of flaming hot want everywhere. I suck in a sharp breath, my skin tingling and my dick hard as a fucking rock as I watch her. She stands on the step, breathing in and out, once then twice, the golden-white glow of the porch light casting shadows across her face. She's in the same kind of shorts as she was last night, though tonight they're a bright turquoise instead of black and the t-shirt is Ariel. I have to smile at that, she's obviously in a much better mood than last night.
Maybe I should call her Rain Girl instead of Drummer Girl because she doesn't seem to mind the rain that's still falling. She moves from beneath the awning covering the steps and lets out the most adorable squeak when the first pellets of rain hit her skin.
She dodges a puddle or two and when she reaches the three bay doors, the light that spills from the two open ones glitters off the drops of rain that cling to her skin. She shakes her head as soon as she takes a step and strands of damp hair stick to the side of her face, her shoulder, while some curl down toward the slope of her chest.
God damn, but she's so hot! All firm ass and perky tits and legs that would look fucking incredible wrapped around my waist.
"Get a grip on yourself, you damned pervert," I scold myself, shifting and adjusting while I take a deep breath to try to calm down some. It's not that I don't want her that way because Christ almighty I've never wanted anyone more, but every part of me knows that there's so much more to this girl than a gorgeous face and a body that makes my dick weep with joy.
Tonight instead of going straight for the drum set, she walks around, looking this way and that. God, what I wouldn't give to know what she's thinking, especially when I see a sweet smile grace her face when she looks in the direction of what appears to be a bookshelf filled with books. There's a comfortable-looking loveseat with colorful pillows placed in the corners. A throw rug of some sort of furry material that looks soft enough to curl your toes in covers the floor directly in front of the loveseat.
Jesus, if I were Drummer Girl I don't know that I'd ever go inside.
I realize she goes there to get away from what's inside her house. Then again, there are times I've seen her stare longingly at the house, the window in the bottom left of the first story to be more exact, so I know that whatever makes her come outside isn't all bad all the time.
The not knowing is really starting to kill me though, slowly but surely. All these scenarios play in my head, everything from witness protection to her being some sort of sex slave to a Hugh Hefner wannabe. Both far-fetched I'm sure, but the possibilities are pretty much endless. I mean who the hell moves to Forks for God's sake? The last time someone moved here it was like Disney World opened up right in the middle of downtown. People came out of the woodwork and the gossip had started the second Armand St. Croix moved to town and opened the new beauty salon when I was in seventh grade. It took months before the rumor mill even thought about dying down.
The clang of the cymbals jerks my attention from wondering what her story is to simply watching her. She taps out some rhythm on the silver discs with her fingers, smiling to herself like she's just had an epiphany of some sort. She scurries toward the stool behind the drum set, picking up the sticks that are laid across the snare before sitting down. I love watching her when she first sits down. Her entire body relaxes. It's as if the weight she always carries vanishes when she's outside, like a wisp of smoke floating in the air.
My breathing picks up and I fight the urge to move forward, just to get closer to her as she begins to play. There's a fluttery feeling in my stomach as the beat of the drums fills the air. Tonight there's not any background music for her to play along with; it's just her and whatever melody she hears in her head. I'm a strong enough musician to be able to appreciate her skill … getting notes out of your head to your instrument isn't easy. While there's no doubt that she's hot as hell as she flexes and sways, the fact that she not only plays but she composes, too, has just ratcheted her hotness factor off the fucking Richter scale.
The beats are heavy, but there's a feeling of something close to hope and joy buried beneath the cadence. Whatever she's playing, a song, or just strings of beats together, sounds fucking amazing until it abruptly stops.
I squint and feel a strange but powerful surge of disappointment. She holds up a splintered drumstick, scowling at it like it's just committed some heinous crime, though foolishly, I tend to agree. She huffs, clearly agitated which in turn makes me feel like hopping in my car and driving to the closest music store and camping my ass out there to wait until it opens so I can buy her a new set.
I want … I need to hear how the song ends. There was so much promise in what she's just played that to never hear the end of it would be almost criminal. A plan forms, bringing with it a smile and a shiver that wracks my entire body. If I have anything to say about it, by tomorrow night she'll have new drumsticks.
I want that song.
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Chapter 3 - Ariel - The Little Mermaid
Ariel is a bright, spirited mermaid who is also adventurous and stubborn. Her curiosity and love for adventure sometimes gets her into trouble. Usually, however, Ariel overcomes any obstacle she faces.
"Oh, fuck me," I mutter, stomping my feet to try to get the blood circulating again. I look up, which is a big mistake considering a raindrop falls right into my eye. It's been sprinkling for the last thirty minutes, but now it's a steady, though light, rainfall. Taking my hands out of my hoodie, I pull my beanie down more over my ears and huddle closer to the tree trunk … as if that will help. A few drops of rain slide beneath the collar of my t-shirt and I shiver as they roll down my back.
"Edward, you're a fucking idiot," I chastise myself for at least the hundredth time.
I've got her timing down so well by now that I know I've got only about three or four minutes until she comes out the door. You'd think with as many times as I've trekked between our houses I'd know it by heart, which I guess I do, but it still takes a good twenty minutes or so to get here. It's normally not too bad of a walk, but in the rain it pretty much sucks ass. As soon as I closed my front door and walked down the steps, I stopped when I felt the first drops of rain fall from the water-logged sky, but I knew after seeing her in town today, I'd never be able to wait until tomorrow.
Having her that close, though it was only in passing, made me want to get closer.
I'm so fucked. I still don't even know her name, but it doesn't matter.
I do need a plan though.
I hear the click of the door and my body awakens, anticipation racing through my veins because she's coming. She stands on the top step, facing out into the night, and pulls the door behind her. Her eyes sweep from left to right and I swear, even though I'm positive she can't see me, when her eyes reach me, every cell in my body jumps to attention, shooting sparks of flaming hot want everywhere. I suck in a sharp breath, my skin tingling and my dick hard as a fucking rock as I watch her. She stands on the step, breathing in and out, once then twice, the golden-white glow of the porch light casting shadows across her face. She's in the same kind of shorts as she was last night, though tonight they're a bright turquoise instead of black and the t-shirt is Ariel. I have to smile at that, she's obviously in a much better mood than last night.
Maybe I should call her Rain Girl instead of Drummer Girl because she doesn't seem to mind the rain that's still falling. She moves from beneath the awning covering the steps and lets out the most adorable squeak when the first pellets of rain hit her skin.
She dodges a puddle or two and when she reaches the three bay doors, the light that spills from the two open ones glitters off the drops of rain that cling to her skin. She shakes her head as soon as she takes a step and strands of damp hair stick to the side of her face, her shoulder, while some curl down toward the slope of her chest.
God damn, but she's so hot! All firm ass and perky tits and legs that would look fucking incredible wrapped around my waist.
"Get a grip on yourself, you damned pervert," I scold myself, shifting and adjusting while I take a deep breath to try to calm down some. It's not that I don't want her that way because Christ almighty I've never wanted anyone more, but every part of me knows that there's so much more to this girl than a gorgeous face and a body that makes my dick weep with joy.
Tonight instead of going straight for the drum set, she walks around, looking this way and that. God, what I wouldn't give to know what she's thinking, especially when I see a sweet smile grace her face when she looks in the direction of what appears to be a bookshelf filled with books. There's a comfortable-looking loveseat with colorful pillows placed in the corners. A throw rug of some sort of furry material that looks soft enough to curl your toes in covers the floor directly in front of the loveseat.
Jesus, if I were Drummer Girl I don't know that I'd ever go inside.
I realize she goes there to get away from what's inside her house. Then again, there are times I've seen her stare longingly at the house, the window in the bottom left of the first story to be more exact, so I know that whatever makes her come outside isn't all bad all the time.
The not knowing is really starting to kill me though, slowly but surely. All these scenarios play in my head, everything from witness protection to her being some sort of sex slave to a Hugh Hefner wannabe. Both far-fetched I'm sure, but the possibilities are pretty much endless. I mean who the hell moves to Forks for God's sake? The last time someone moved here it was like Disney World opened up right in the middle of downtown. People came out of the woodwork and the gossip had started the second Armand St. Croix moved to town and opened the new beauty salon when I was in seventh grade. It took months before the rumor mill even thought about dying down.
The clang of the cymbals jerks my attention from wondering what her story is to simply watching her. She taps out some rhythm on the silver discs with her fingers, smiling to herself like she's just had an epiphany of some sort. She scurries toward the stool behind the drum set, picking up the sticks that are laid across the snare before sitting down. I love watching her when she first sits down. Her entire body relaxes. It's as if the weight she always carries vanishes when she's outside, like a wisp of smoke floating in the air.
My breathing picks up and I fight the urge to move forward, just to get closer to her as she begins to play. There's a fluttery feeling in my stomach as the beat of the drums fills the air. Tonight there's not any background music for her to play along with; it's just her and whatever melody she hears in her head. I'm a strong enough musician to be able to appreciate her skill … getting notes out of your head to your instrument isn't easy. While there's no doubt that she's hot as hell as she flexes and sways, the fact that she not only plays but she composes, too, has just ratcheted her hotness factor off the fucking Richter scale.
The beats are heavy, but there's a feeling of something close to hope and joy buried beneath the cadence. Whatever she's playing, a song, or just strings of beats together, sounds fucking amazing until it abruptly stops.
I squint and feel a strange but powerful surge of disappointment. She holds up a splintered drumstick, scowling at it like it's just committed some heinous crime, though foolishly, I tend to agree. She huffs, clearly agitated which in turn makes me feel like hopping in my car and driving to the closest music store and camping my ass out there to wait until it opens so I can buy her a new set.
I want … I need to hear how the song ends. There was so much promise in what she's just played that to never hear the end of it would be almost criminal. A plan forms, bringing with it a smile and a shiver that wracks my entire body. If I have anything to say about it, by tomorrow night she'll have new drumsticks.
I want that song.
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Watching Her Chapter 2 - Donald Duck
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Chapter 2 - Donald Duck
Donald is a short-tempered, impatient, angry, but sometimes nice, innocent and honest.
When I walk in the spot, (yea) this is what I see (okay)
Everybody stops and they staring at me
I got a passion in my pants and I ain't afraid to show it, show it, show it, show it …
I'm sexy and I know it
"God damn it, Emmett." I growl into the phone, eyes still closed.
The pain in the ass doesn't even have the decency to apologize for waking me up, or for putting that ridiculous song as his ring tone … again. It doesn't matter how many times I threaten him or change it, the slick asshole always changes it back. I crack my eye open, and groan even louder. Jesus Christ. "You fucker, it's not even nine o'clock yet. What the hell do you want?"
"Stop bitching and get your bony ass out of bed. Jas and I are coming to pick you up. We're going to the field to practice. We'll be there in thirty." Before I can even respond, he's gone.
I toss the phone on the bed beside me and groan. I'm so not in the mood to practice, but I know there's no way in hell Jasper and Emmett will take no for an answer. I stumble my way to the shower, bleary-eyed and feeling like shit. No more, I tell myself as I strip, kicking my boxers into the corner of the bathroom.
Blindly, I turn the shower on, taking a piss while the water heats up. As soon as I stand beneath the spray I sigh. Every muscle aches, from fatigue and from the strain of standing still for so long in the cold. "No more, Edward," I say out loud, slapping the tile wall with the palm of my hand.
Of course I know I won't listen.
I can't.
Tipping my head back, I let the steaming water run through my hair. I close my eyes and it doesn't surprise me in the least that the only thing I see is brown hair, bare legs, and creamy skin.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I mutter, now sporting wood hard enough to drill a hole into the wall.
I squirt some shower gel into the palm of my hand knowing if I don't take care of this now, it's going to make it impossible to practice. I jerk and tug, grunt and groan, and come in only a matter of minutes. Not surprising, really, but I have to admit I feel better, or at least less tense. I scoot out of the way so that the spray can wash the mess down the drain because that shit's just gross, and speed through the rest of my shower.
Just about the time I pull a t-shirt over my head, I hear the front door open, followed by the unmistakable clomp of Emmett's feet as he goes straight to the kitchen.
"Yo, Ed," he hollers like I can't hear every word he says. The dude's loud even when he's talking in his 'inside voice.'
I grab my bag off the floor and sling my tied-together cleats over my shoulder. "Didn't your mothers teach you any manners?" I grumble stomping past them and heading straight for the refrigerator.
Flinging the door open, I grab the orange juice from the shelf. I drink straight from the carton, ignoring the first bitter taste because I just brushed my teeth. "And knock, damn it!" I huff at them both. "Just because my parents aren't home doesn't mean I want you two assholes barging in any time you want to." I grab a handful of granola bars out of the pantry and drop all but one into my bag.
"Whatever, Edward. It's not like we'd be interrupting anything since I can't even remember the last time I saw you with a girl." Jasper guffaws and holds his hand out for a fist pound from Emmett.
I have no idea why these two idiots are my best friends.
"Let's go. I need to work on my corner kicks." I glare at them, totally ignoring the amused looks on both their faces. I make sure I have a few bottles of water and a few Powerades and we head out to the field.
We've been practicing for hours. I'm sweating like a pig, my gray t-shirt long gone, when I hear Jasper whistle. "Nice ride," he drawls as his eyes are fixed on the road behind me.
I turn … and feel all the air leave my lungs. Adrenaline pumps through my veins so fast I get dizzy, and not from the sun beating down on me either. "It's her," I murmur too quietly for either of them to hear me. Thank God.
Her gleaming black Escalade heads in the direction of town and it's about all I can do not to make some excuse to the guys so we can leave and then I can follow her.
"Who the hell is that?" Emmett wonders aloud, juggling the soccer ball as he talks.
For some reason I play it off, wanting … needing to keep her to myself for a little longer.
"Probably just some guy traveling through town on their way to La Push." My tone is casual, indifferent. I'm anything but.
Last night was much the same as all the ones before. Two A.M. on the dot, and she was out the door like her ass was on fire. Short shorts, a tight t-shirt with Donald Duck emblazoned on the front and her hair up in a high ponytail, my favorite. It's about fifty/fifty whether it's up or down, but my preference is for up … always up. Watching her from where I do is hard enough; I don't need her hair hiding her face on top of it. Not to mention, when her hair is up, I can imagine what the skin of her neck tastes like on my tongue and what her hair feels like wrapped around my fingers.
There was something different though; she didn't play the drums. Instead, she danced. The moment I heard the heavy beat of the music, I felt it in my bones. When I saw her start to move and twist and thrust, I felt my dick try to push its way out of my jeans. It was so fucking hot. But at the same time, it made me want to hug her tightly and hold her close because I could tell, even from as far away as I was, she wasn't dancing to feel happy, she was dancing to express her pain. Even without the music, some grinding, pulsating, discordant-sounding mess, it was plain to see she was hurting.
It made me want to rage. Seeing her that way just seemed … wrong. I immediately wanted to take her pain away.
She danced for hours until her body was dripping with sweat. Her t-shirt clung to her body; it took her a good three or four minutes to catch her breath and even then, it didn't seem like she could get enough air in her lungs. There was no smile of accomplishment, the kind like I get after a good, hard practice when my body buzzes with adrenaline and the best kind of fatigue in my muscles. Instead, she looked more defeated, more anguished, than she had when she started.
I can only hope tonight, because I have to see her, she's back to playing the drums.
I wait until I can't see the back of her truck anymore then turn back to the guys. "Come on, let's finish up so we can go to the diner and grab some lunch."
In the back of mind, I'm already counting down the minutes until I can see her again.
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Chapter 2 - Donald Duck
Donald is a short-tempered, impatient, angry, but sometimes nice, innocent and honest.
When I walk in the spot, (yea) this is what I see (okay)
Everybody stops and they staring at me
I got a passion in my pants and I ain't afraid to show it, show it, show it, show it …
I'm sexy and I know it
"God damn it, Emmett." I growl into the phone, eyes still closed.
The pain in the ass doesn't even have the decency to apologize for waking me up, or for putting that ridiculous song as his ring tone … again. It doesn't matter how many times I threaten him or change it, the slick asshole always changes it back. I crack my eye open, and groan even louder. Jesus Christ. "You fucker, it's not even nine o'clock yet. What the hell do you want?"
"Stop bitching and get your bony ass out of bed. Jas and I are coming to pick you up. We're going to the field to practice. We'll be there in thirty." Before I can even respond, he's gone.
I toss the phone on the bed beside me and groan. I'm so not in the mood to practice, but I know there's no way in hell Jasper and Emmett will take no for an answer. I stumble my way to the shower, bleary-eyed and feeling like shit. No more, I tell myself as I strip, kicking my boxers into the corner of the bathroom.
Blindly, I turn the shower on, taking a piss while the water heats up. As soon as I stand beneath the spray I sigh. Every muscle aches, from fatigue and from the strain of standing still for so long in the cold. "No more, Edward," I say out loud, slapping the tile wall with the palm of my hand.
Of course I know I won't listen.
I can't.
Tipping my head back, I let the steaming water run through my hair. I close my eyes and it doesn't surprise me in the least that the only thing I see is brown hair, bare legs, and creamy skin.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I mutter, now sporting wood hard enough to drill a hole into the wall.
I squirt some shower gel into the palm of my hand knowing if I don't take care of this now, it's going to make it impossible to practice. I jerk and tug, grunt and groan, and come in only a matter of minutes. Not surprising, really, but I have to admit I feel better, or at least less tense. I scoot out of the way so that the spray can wash the mess down the drain because that shit's just gross, and speed through the rest of my shower.
Just about the time I pull a t-shirt over my head, I hear the front door open, followed by the unmistakable clomp of Emmett's feet as he goes straight to the kitchen.
"Yo, Ed," he hollers like I can't hear every word he says. The dude's loud even when he's talking in his 'inside voice.'
I grab my bag off the floor and sling my tied-together cleats over my shoulder. "Didn't your mothers teach you any manners?" I grumble stomping past them and heading straight for the refrigerator.
Flinging the door open, I grab the orange juice from the shelf. I drink straight from the carton, ignoring the first bitter taste because I just brushed my teeth. "And knock, damn it!" I huff at them both. "Just because my parents aren't home doesn't mean I want you two assholes barging in any time you want to." I grab a handful of granola bars out of the pantry and drop all but one into my bag.
"Whatever, Edward. It's not like we'd be interrupting anything since I can't even remember the last time I saw you with a girl." Jasper guffaws and holds his hand out for a fist pound from Emmett.
I have no idea why these two idiots are my best friends.
"Let's go. I need to work on my corner kicks." I glare at them, totally ignoring the amused looks on both their faces. I make sure I have a few bottles of water and a few Powerades and we head out to the field.
We've been practicing for hours. I'm sweating like a pig, my gray t-shirt long gone, when I hear Jasper whistle. "Nice ride," he drawls as his eyes are fixed on the road behind me.
I turn … and feel all the air leave my lungs. Adrenaline pumps through my veins so fast I get dizzy, and not from the sun beating down on me either. "It's her," I murmur too quietly for either of them to hear me. Thank God.
Her gleaming black Escalade heads in the direction of town and it's about all I can do not to make some excuse to the guys so we can leave and then I can follow her.
"Who the hell is that?" Emmett wonders aloud, juggling the soccer ball as he talks.
For some reason I play it off, wanting … needing to keep her to myself for a little longer.
"Probably just some guy traveling through town on their way to La Push." My tone is casual, indifferent. I'm anything but.
Last night was much the same as all the ones before. Two A.M. on the dot, and she was out the door like her ass was on fire. Short shorts, a tight t-shirt with Donald Duck emblazoned on the front and her hair up in a high ponytail, my favorite. It's about fifty/fifty whether it's up or down, but my preference is for up … always up. Watching her from where I do is hard enough; I don't need her hair hiding her face on top of it. Not to mention, when her hair is up, I can imagine what the skin of her neck tastes like on my tongue and what her hair feels like wrapped around my fingers.
There was something different though; she didn't play the drums. Instead, she danced. The moment I heard the heavy beat of the music, I felt it in my bones. When I saw her start to move and twist and thrust, I felt my dick try to push its way out of my jeans. It was so fucking hot. But at the same time, it made me want to hug her tightly and hold her close because I could tell, even from as far away as I was, she wasn't dancing to feel happy, she was dancing to express her pain. Even without the music, some grinding, pulsating, discordant-sounding mess, it was plain to see she was hurting.
It made me want to rage. Seeing her that way just seemed … wrong. I immediately wanted to take her pain away.
She danced for hours until her body was dripping with sweat. Her t-shirt clung to her body; it took her a good three or four minutes to catch her breath and even then, it didn't seem like she could get enough air in her lungs. There was no smile of accomplishment, the kind like I get after a good, hard practice when my body buzzes with adrenaline and the best kind of fatigue in my muscles. Instead, she looked more defeated, more anguished, than she had when she started.
I can only hope tonight, because I have to see her, she's back to playing the drums.
I wait until I can't see the back of her truck anymore then turn back to the guys. "Come on, let's finish up so we can go to the diner and grab some lunch."
In the back of mind, I'm already counting down the minutes until I can see her again.
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Watching Her Chapter 2 - Donald Duck Pic Tease & Teaser
Sunday, March 25, 2012
I turn … and feel all the air leave my lungs. Adrenaline pumps through my veins so fast I get dizzy, and not from the sun beating down on me either. "It's her," I murmur too quietly for either of them to hear me. Thank God.
Her gleaming black Escalade heads in the direction of town and it's about all I can do not to make some excuse to the guys so we can leave and then I can follow her.
"Who the hell is that?" Emmett wonders aloud, juggling the soccer ball as he talks.
For some reason I play it off, wanting … needing to keep her to myself for a little longer.
"Probably just some guy traveling through town on their way to La Push." My tone is casual, indifferent. I'm anything but.
Watching Her Chapter 1 - Belle
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Chapter 1 - Belle - Beauty and the Beast
Belle is kind, brave, intelligent, independent, stubborn, outspoken, bold, beautiful, and imaginative.
Jesus, I don't know how the hell it can still be so cold and be summer, but I'm freezing my ass off … and have been for over a week now.
For the past ten nights I've come to this exact spot to wait and watch … and watch and wait. It's totally and completely nuts; if I could figure out what the hell I'm doing, I'd seriously try to stop. I'm not a stalker or anything but I just can't stay away. I tell myself all day long that I won't come, and every night, I crawl out of bed and leave the warmth of my blankets to come here.
For her.
A twig snaps behind me from somewhere hidden in the woods. I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt. I shove my hands deeper in the pocket of my Forks High Soccer hoodie and lean against the tree beside me, never taking my eyes off the door I know she'll walk through.
Night after night it's been the same thing. At precisely the ungodly hour of two A.M. she walks out of her house and makes her way to what I have come to call her sanctuary. Hell, to most everyone else it's like a huge game room or maybe even a workshop of some sort, but I can tell by the way she rushes out of the main house and the way her entire body relaxes the moment she steps foot inside the cavernous building, for her, the space means she's free.
Free from what I have no idea, but I'm damn sure going to find out.
From the first moment I saw her as she drove through town, catching just the barest glimpse of her long brown hair and her pale skin, she's occupied my every waking thought, and when I finally get my ass back in bed, my dreams as well.
I have no idea what her name is.
I have no idea what the hell she's doing in the tiny town of Forks.
I have no idea what makes me come and watch her every night from the trees that skirt her property, but here I am and here I'm going to stay until I can figure out what my next move is going to be.
Because as sure as I'm standing here in the fucking cold in the middle of the night, I will do something.
I have to.
If Emmett or Jasper ever catches wind of this, I'll never hear the end of it, but somehow no matter how cringe-worthy that thought is, I know I won't stop coming here.
I can't.
Thank God my parents are out of town for the next month or so now that summer vacation has started and thank God Dad convinced my mom that I'm old enough to stay home this year. I shiver, and not from the cold either, when I think about how thankful I am that I don't have to endure weeks of my 'Cousin' Tanya's nasty ass. She's not really my cousin, a fact for which I'm extremely grateful.
She's a pretty girl, I suppose,if you go for fake blonde hair and an even more fake personality.
I don't.
Whenever my parents force me to go to Alaska to visit their good friends Eleazar and Carmen and their daughter, Tanya, I pray every time I will make it back to Forks with my dick still attached. Sometimes I'm pretty fucking amazed I manage to make it out alive to be quite honest. Tanya's pretty damn relentless when she wants to be. Of course Jackasses One and Two, or Emmett and Jasper respectively, ride my ass like nobody's business for not tapping that when I'm given free shot after free shot, but it's just not my thing.
Thinking about the brown-haired beauty that will be making an appearance any second makes me extremely happy about that.
I'm not totally inexperienced mind you. I mean come the fuck on, I'm an almost eighteen-year-old male so I've fooled around some, but I'm not a man-whore like that fucker Newton. I have more respect for myself than that and after it being drilled in my head since I hit puberty, more respect for the few girls I've dated, too. I've had a few girlfriends in the past, but none I was ever serious enough about to even think of taking things to the next step and have sex with them.
It's not always easy, listening to the guys in the locker room go on and on about this chick or that chick and all the things they've done, but I know none of that's for me. Doesn't mean I don't want it, because Lord knows I really do, but up until now, not one girl I've ever met ever did much for me.
Not until her that is.
Drummer Girl.
I don't know her name yet, so that's what I've started calling her in my head.
Pretty apt description I think, since she plays the drums. And when I say plays, the girl fucking rocks. The first night I crept through the dark and saw her, I about came in my pants watching her she was so fucking hot. Sweaty, hair flying everywhere, arms flexing with each up and down movement; I swear it was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen. I play the guitar and piano so I know about getting lost in the music, but her … she wasn't just lost, she was totally immersed. She played with such wild abandon, it was as if she was running, trying to escape some unseen or maybe even unknown force and wouldn't stop playing until she was safe.
Free.
If I had any thoughts of talking myself out of watching her, after seeing her that first night, after watching the way her chest heaved and her body swayed and moved, after watching the most gorgeous smile I've ever seen grace her face when she was done … any thought of being able to stay away flew right the fuck out the window.
I want to know what makes her play like the devil himself is chasing her.
I want to know what the hell she's doing awake every damn day at two in the morning.
I want to know why she looks so sad when she walks out of her house.
I want to know her.
I want her.
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Chapter 1 - Belle - Beauty and the Beast
Belle is kind, brave, intelligent, independent, stubborn, outspoken, bold, beautiful, and imaginative.
Jesus, I don't know how the hell it can still be so cold and be summer, but I'm freezing my ass off … and have been for over a week now.
For the past ten nights I've come to this exact spot to wait and watch … and watch and wait. It's totally and completely nuts; if I could figure out what the hell I'm doing, I'd seriously try to stop. I'm not a stalker or anything but I just can't stay away. I tell myself all day long that I won't come, and every night, I crawl out of bed and leave the warmth of my blankets to come here.
For her.
A twig snaps behind me from somewhere hidden in the woods. I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt. I shove my hands deeper in the pocket of my Forks High Soccer hoodie and lean against the tree beside me, never taking my eyes off the door I know she'll walk through.
Night after night it's been the same thing. At precisely the ungodly hour of two A.M. she walks out of her house and makes her way to what I have come to call her sanctuary. Hell, to most everyone else it's like a huge game room or maybe even a workshop of some sort, but I can tell by the way she rushes out of the main house and the way her entire body relaxes the moment she steps foot inside the cavernous building, for her, the space means she's free.
Free from what I have no idea, but I'm damn sure going to find out.
From the first moment I saw her as she drove through town, catching just the barest glimpse of her long brown hair and her pale skin, she's occupied my every waking thought, and when I finally get my ass back in bed, my dreams as well.
I have no idea what her name is.
I have no idea what the hell she's doing in the tiny town of Forks.
I have no idea what makes me come and watch her every night from the trees that skirt her property, but here I am and here I'm going to stay until I can figure out what my next move is going to be.
Because as sure as I'm standing here in the fucking cold in the middle of the night, I will do something.
I have to.
If Emmett or Jasper ever catches wind of this, I'll never hear the end of it, but somehow no matter how cringe-worthy that thought is, I know I won't stop coming here.
I can't.
Thank God my parents are out of town for the next month or so now that summer vacation has started and thank God Dad convinced my mom that I'm old enough to stay home this year. I shiver, and not from the cold either, when I think about how thankful I am that I don't have to endure weeks of my 'Cousin' Tanya's nasty ass. She's not really my cousin, a fact for which I'm extremely grateful.
She's a pretty girl, I suppose,if you go for fake blonde hair and an even more fake personality.
I don't.
Whenever my parents force me to go to Alaska to visit their good friends Eleazar and Carmen and their daughter, Tanya, I pray every time I will make it back to Forks with my dick still attached. Sometimes I'm pretty fucking amazed I manage to make it out alive to be quite honest. Tanya's pretty damn relentless when she wants to be. Of course Jackasses One and Two, or Emmett and Jasper respectively, ride my ass like nobody's business for not tapping that when I'm given free shot after free shot, but it's just not my thing.
Thinking about the brown-haired beauty that will be making an appearance any second makes me extremely happy about that.
I'm not totally inexperienced mind you. I mean come the fuck on, I'm an almost eighteen-year-old male so I've fooled around some, but I'm not a man-whore like that fucker Newton. I have more respect for myself than that and after it being drilled in my head since I hit puberty, more respect for the few girls I've dated, too. I've had a few girlfriends in the past, but none I was ever serious enough about to even think of taking things to the next step and have sex with them.
It's not always easy, listening to the guys in the locker room go on and on about this chick or that chick and all the things they've done, but I know none of that's for me. Doesn't mean I don't want it, because Lord knows I really do, but up until now, not one girl I've ever met ever did much for me.
Not until her that is.
Drummer Girl.
I don't know her name yet, so that's what I've started calling her in my head.
Pretty apt description I think, since she plays the drums. And when I say plays, the girl fucking rocks. The first night I crept through the dark and saw her, I about came in my pants watching her she was so fucking hot. Sweaty, hair flying everywhere, arms flexing with each up and down movement; I swear it was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen. I play the guitar and piano so I know about getting lost in the music, but her … she wasn't just lost, she was totally immersed. She played with such wild abandon, it was as if she was running, trying to escape some unseen or maybe even unknown force and wouldn't stop playing until she was safe.
Free.
If I had any thoughts of talking myself out of watching her, after seeing her that first night, after watching the way her chest heaved and her body swayed and moved, after watching the most gorgeous smile I've ever seen grace her face when she was done … any thought of being able to stay away flew right the fuck out the window.
I want to know what makes her play like the devil himself is chasing her.
I want to know what the hell she's doing awake every damn day at two in the morning.
I want to know why she looks so sad when she walks out of her house.
I want to know her.
I want her.
~~~~OOO~~~~OOO~~~~
Watching Her - Banner, Pic Tease, Teaser!! New Story by les16
Sunday, March 18, 2012
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| Banner by Jamie Arkin Click banner for larger image. |
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| Chapter 1 Pic Tease |
Drummer Girl.
I don't know her name yet, so that's what I've started calling her in my head.
Pretty apt description I think, since she plays the drums. And when I say plays, the girl fucking rocks. The first night I crept through the dark and saw her, I about came in my pants watching her she was so fucking hot. Sweaty, hair flying everywhere, arms flexing with each up and down movement; I swear it was the most amazing thing I've ever seen. I play the guitar and the piano so I know about getting lost in the music, but her … she wasn't just lost, she was totally immersed. She played with such wild abandon, it was as if she was running, trying to escape some unseen or maybe even unknown force and wouldn't stop playing until she was safe.
Free.
If I had any thoughts of talking myself out of watching her, after seeing her that first night, after watching the way her chest heaved and her body swayed and moved, after watching the most gorgeous smile I've ever seen grace her face when she was done … any thought of being able to stay away flew right the fuck out the window.
I want to know what makes her play like the devil himself is chasing her.
I want to know what the hell she's doing awake every damn night at two in the morning.
I want to know why she looks so sad when she walks out of her house.
I want to know her.
I want her.
Watching Her will begin posting Sunday, March 25th. See you then!!
Blog, blog, blog!!
Monday, March 05, 2012
Okay, this is getting updated so you can all sign up and get email alerts if you want!
We are working on getting TB transferred over and when "Watching Her" starts, this will be the place along with FB to get the teasers!
Enjoy!!
We are working on getting TB transferred over and when "Watching Her" starts, this will be the place along with FB to get the teasers!
Enjoy!!
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