Watching Her Chapter 3 - Ariel

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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.
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