Watching Her Chapter 13 - Bashful

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Chapter 13 - Bashful - Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
Bashful is extremely shy and nervous. He has a tendency to blush and hide his face.

Once I'm safely hidden, I allow myself to finally breathe. It takes a few minutes for the spike of adrenaline to abate and for my heart to not feel like a wrecking ball against my rib cage. A bead of sweat begins to slide down the side of my face and I lift up my arm, intending to swipe at it with my finger, but whack myself with the edge of the notebook still clutched in my hand. Grinning like a damned fool, I immediately lower my arm and stare at it.

I'm still pretty much in shock that the doors were open, let alone that she wrote me back. I never expected it. I mean I wanted it, fuck did I ever want it, but after seeing the look on her face last night, it was more than I felt I could hope for. I hate that she's still scared of me, but I totally understand it. I mean, I am watching her, there's no way to deny that, and though I know I won't hurt her, it's impossible really for her to know that, no matter how many times I tell her. I'd think she was a damn fool if she wasn't afraid of me.
Now, how to get her to trust me … that's really the question.

There's no time to think about the answer though, because hell fucking yeah … it's that time again. I start bouncing on the balls of my feet, every muscle in my legs coiled and just waiting to spring. I don't even have to look at my watch to know she's about to walk out the door. The fact that my heart's racing and my blood feels like warm fire spreading through my body tells me all I need to know. The door opens, a hell of a lot slower than normal I think, but maybe it's just because the thought of seeing her, here, now, is somehow a hundred, thousand times more significant than any previous night.

Will she try to find me? 

Will she run inside her building and close the doors again when she sees I've left another letter?

Will she stay?

Will she play? 

I suck in a sharp breath when she walks out and stops on the top step. Holy hell, she's something else. The shorts tonight – hot pink. The t-shirt - tight, black, and covered with a huge picture of Bashful from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs on the front. My heart stutter steps and my stomach does this weird and kind of funny feeling twisty turny thing when I realize that she's picked it on purpose … for me. It has to be for me, right? I mean, who else could it be for?

She doesn't move for the longest time; she just stares toward the building. She doesn't look left, she doesn't look right, almost as if she's afraid that if she looks anywhere but straight ahead she might see me. I like the way my body reacts when her gaze slides past me, the tingles and the rush of heat everywhere … even the way my jeans tighten to the point it hurts … but as long as she walks down those steps and goes inside her building, I'm good.

Really fucking good.

Finally, after what seems like hours, she slowly walks down the steps and toward her drum set. Seeing the sticks I gave her in one of her hands makes my knees practically knock together. The words from her letter flash in my mind. Thank you for the sticks. It's the first present I've gotten in … well, a really long damn time.

How long? I wonder. Once she's far enough inside so that she can close the doors if she wants to, she stops. I can tell by the way her back is pin straight and her hands are curled into fists beside her sexy legs that she sees the notebook. I swear, I fucking swear I see her smile and her shoulders drop just the tiniest bit before she takes the few steps forward necessary to reach the stool.

"It's okay, Drummer Girl," I whisper into the night air. "Trust me. Please."

God, I want her to trust me, so fucking badly. I lean my head against the tree beside me and my eyes close. Now that this, whatever it is, has started, I want more. I want to know everything there is to know about her. What her favorite color is, what her favorite food is, does she like to cook? Who taught her how to play the drums, whose car is under the tarp? Where are her parents and why don't they care that she's outside every morning at 2 A.M? Does she have any friends? Why is she in Forks? Where did she come from?

The list of things I want to ask grows with each passing second, that is until I hear her giggle. My eyes snap open and zero in on her like a tractor beam finding a target. She's holding my notebook and she stares at the letter I left her. The seconds pass by, more than are truly needed to read the few words I wrote.

"Please don't freak out. Please don't freak out," I mutter in time with the banging of my head over and over against the tree that's become my second home.

I mean, I've spent more time here, in this spot, than I have just about anyplace else for the last 13 nights. I swear before too long the bark of the tree will wear away where my shoulder leans against it for hours on end. The tip of my index finger finds its favorite spot where I've already dug the perfect groove so that it rests just so.

A cool gust of wind comes out of nowhere and swirls the leaves at my feet and rustles the ones overhead, but I can't take my eyes off her. Christ, just looking at her drives me crazy. She takes a deep breath, I know this only from the lift of her shoulders, and then she sets the notebook down on the arm of the loveseat.

I stop breathing when she sits on the stool. My fingers dig into the loose bark of the tree and I hear it as it rains down on my shoes.

"Play for me," I whisper.
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