Watching Her Chapter 2 - Donald Duck

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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.
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