The blood drains from my head, leaving me questioning my reality. Is he really here, am I even real, are we all just part of someone else’s simulation? Too many questions that stun me silent and cause me to rock back on my heels. Still watching me intently, he raises the brow that has a metal bar pierced through it.
“I can see this needs to be broken down slowly,” he drawls. I instantly come back to myself, that fight I’ve learnt to hide behind rising to the surface. Condescension seems to be the trigger. “Where did you expect them to put the rehab kids, if not right next to the teacher’s quarters where we can be monitored closely?”
I open my mouth to argue, to pretend I already knew that, but the words die somewhere behind the raw burn in my throat. Of course, I’m not the only messed-up one around here, and of course, they put us all together. He’s probably just as screwed up and scrutinized as I am. Still, the surprise of seeing him again out of seemingly nowhere unsettles me.
“You could at least turn your music down,” I mutter, yanking my towel higher as if I can protect myself from the way his eyes study me like he already has me figured out. “Some of us nearly died today.”
His eyes grow cloudier, as if he’s making an effort to ignore me, even though I’m standing right in front of him.
“And some of us are trying to drown out the fact that other people even exist.” Turning away from me, I see the flash of a canvas on an easel and several more stacked against the wall in his room. I cock my head, finding myself more curious than ever. He’s about to shut me out, probably for good, and the opportunity of having someone in a similar situation to me is slipping through my fingers.
“Wait, I don’t even know your name,” I blurt out. He stops, half twisted away from me to look back over his shoulder.
“Good,” he replies, and slams the door shut in my face. For a second, I just stand there, blinking at the peeling paint on his door, stunned into silence.
“Well, fuck me, I guess,” I mutter, shaking my head as I turn down the hall and let myself into my room. Luckily, I tucked a spare key behind the fire extinguisher. A trick my mom taught me for our apartment back home, in case I ever decided to visit last minute while she was out of town.
The second I step inside, I go still. Fresh linen and faint hints of lavender wash over me, like someone aired the place out. Apparently, they have, given that the window is wide open, anew set of keys sit on the side. My eyes sweep over the unfamiliar room as if seeing it for the first time. I suppose I am.
A faint hum emanates from my computer, already powered on with the dual monitors glowing gently. The desk it rests on is new, sleek and wooden, set up with a diary, planner, sticker packs, highlighters and a Stanley cup. My familiar chair has been moved over from the rehab, but the small bookshelf stacked with spines is new. The bed is every girl’s dream of fluffy cushions and a blanket that appears to be weighted.
Tears prick the back of my eyes, this time from relief. With everything that was going on today, I’d completely forgotten Thiago was sending the removals company over with my computer. But the rest of this stuff is completely unexpected. I drift further inside and toy with the corner of the blanket in my fingers. Yep, it’s weighted. I sigh out all of the lingering tension in my body and sink down, bouncing slightly on a mattress that was definitely not this comfortable yesterday.
“Oh sweet mother of small mercies,” I groan orgasmically. The towel slips a little, but I don’t care. I wriggle up to the cushions, allowing the mattress to absorb the defeat of the day, the ache behind my eyes, and the low-grade tremble that hasn’t left me since the smoke.
I exhale a breath that feels like I’ve been holding for years and sleep finds me immediately.
Chapter Seven
Meg looks so beautiful when she sleeps.
When her guard is down and her mind has switched off. I shouldn’t be watching, but that ship sank when I programmed the camera on her computer to activate when it sensed any movement in the room and feed it directly to me. I could pretend I wasn’t going to set up the programming for that anyway, but after the heart attack she gave me earlier today, I now consider it a necessity.
I was watching her match as much as I could, scrolling through the live feed of multiple spectators. They were trashing Meg to try and gain more followers, whilst I was creeping inthe background to have a multi-view of Everest cheating his way through the most biased try-out I’ve ever seen.
Every time he barged into her or cheated, my blood boiled hotter in my veins. I was about to sink his trust fund into an off-shore account he would never be able to find when the first plume of smoke skated through the background. Ironically, I reckon I saw it before anyone else. Seconds later, an alarm was blaring and I lost all visuals on her. Instead, I was left with jerky footage of running feet and embellished screams blaring through my headphones.
There’s only so much frantic hacking a guy can do before his heart gives out, trying to stop my fingers from shaking whilst hopping from social media feeds to surveillance cameras. All of the ones inside the stadium were hindered by the smoke, so I was left staring at the entrance from across the street. I’ve never felt so helpless, even as I digitally logged the blaze with the fire department and ordered an immediate dispatch.
At least she’s back home and cuddled up safe now. Safe under my watch. Meg mutters in her sleep and rolls over, causing the towel to unravel a little more. I swallow hard, reaching for a sticker to place over her now-exposed nipple like the gentleman I am. I may be watching her without her permission, for safety reasons, but I’m not a pervert.
When Meg reveals her body to me, it’ll be because she’s begging me to touch her. To kiss and lick and suck and enter her. Annnnd my hand is back on my cock. Fuck, I am a pervert.
I wake some hours later, still in my leather swivel chair, my dick limply hanging out of my boxers. Poor dude took quite the beating. That’s what happens when Meg puts me through the height of stress, and then tells me she risked her life so she couldtextme. I challenge any man to be told something like that and not need to blow his load into a sorry-looking sock.
The woman in question is awake and fully dressed, not that I watched. She’s moved the computer to the corner, which actually gives me a perfect view of the door as well now. Sitting at her new desk, she continues to fill out her planner for the week, completely oblivious to my presence. She’s using the highlighters and stickers I sent, which I plucked from her private online wish list. Creepy, maybe. Endearing, hell yes.
Meg’s blue eyes flick to the computer to reflect her digital timetable, and then back down to the planner again. Every time she looks up, a jolt goes through me as if she’s looking directly at me. My chest is bare, my dick now tucked away, and I’m sipping a latte from the coffee machine right beside my dresser. Some people rely on luck for happiness, and some of us craft it for ourselves.
Meg picks up her phone, and mine buzzes a moment later. I’m smiling before I even look at it.
Meg:Pretty sure I died in my sleep, and I’m not even mad about it. That mattress is a slice of heaven.
My grin bites into the sides of my cheeks. I wish I could say the mattress choice was purely selfless and that I don’t have intentions of sharing it with her one day, but it’s far too early to be lying to myself.
Thi:You’re welcome, Amorzinha.
Meg huffs a small laugh and goes back to her planner, sipping from her Stanley cup once in a while. The feed is on mute, not that I need sound to know what she’s thinking. She chews on her pen when she’s overanalyzing. She taps it on her cheek when she’s trying to distract herself. Every so often, her hand drifts towards her phone, her fingers twitching like she wants to message me again but won’t let herself.
