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.
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