Page 2 of Treble

Most people would be concerned about having a stalker. I am not most people and welcome the attention. There’s something intriguing about having a man obsessed with you to the point he learns a string instrument to be close to you. It started small with him showing up at performances, the gym, or my local coffee shop. Part of me is comforted having someone ensure my safety but I haven’t been laid in a year because he scares away all of my dates.

On my way out of the shop, I spot Victor’s car with the windows rolled down. I pull out my phone and fake a phone call, loudly announcing how I’m going to get railed by a large cock tonight. He doesn’t strike me as a dangerous man, but I’d hate for Paul to be the brunt of any wrath. I claim it’s a man named David. I don’t know a David, or at least haven’t since high school. The last I heard, David lives on the other side of the country with his wife and three kids.

When I hang up, I’m bored with the charade and grab the pint of ice cream from my front seat, then march over to Victor. He squirms in his seat and I do everything I can to school myexpression as a smirk tugs at my lips. “Hey, Victor! I thought that was you.”

“Oh, hi, wh-what are you doing here?”

“Just picking up a few things.” I shrug. “What about you?”

“I, uh, was picking up a friend.”

I open the passenger door of his SUV and sit, loving the shock etched in his features. “Cool. I’ll wait with you. I’ve got mint chip.” I tease the bag then pull the pint from it. “Want to share?”

He shakes his head.

Taunting a stalker is reckless, but what’s the worst that could happen? I suppose being found murdered with a pint of mint chip ice cream should make the top of my list, but Victor is an amateur. I bite my lip as a delicious idea forms in my head—I should stalkhim. Tomorrow after rehearsal I should drive tohishouse instead of mine. Better yet, I should wait until he leaves and follow him home. It’s delightfully unhinged but beats the stupid purchases I made today.

With a new mission, I peck Victor’s cheek and wish him a goodnight while he waits for his friend—who is as real as my cat, affinity for toothpaste ice cream, or my need for three gallons of lube.

I really should get a hobby.

3

VICTOR

Keri drives home but Paul never stops by her apartment. Neither does the elusive David she was going on about. Her routines are no longer predictable, and she’s been running odd errands all over town and making up fictional plans.

I’m starting to wonder if it’s all a show. Does she know I’ve been watching her?

As promised, she texts me to meet this morning while I’m already on my way to her place. She includes the address as if I didn’t know where she lives. Before I head over, I stop at her favorite coffee shop to pick up two almond milk lattes and chocolate croissants, loving that she drinks the same coffee as me.

Pulling up to the apartment complex, I spot Paul’s truck parked in the usual guest space I like to use. He didn’t stay the night—I snuck into her room to watch her sleep until three in the morning—but it doesn’t matter. The fact that he’s here at all has my blood pressure spiking.

With my knuckles poised to knock, the door swings open. It’s not Keri, and it’s entirely too tempting to put my fist right into Paul’s nose. I resist.

“Paul,” I greet through gritted teeth.

“Hey, man, what are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

He’s about to say something when Keri calls from inside the apartment, “Is it Victor? Tell him I’m taking a shower and will be right out.”

Paul smirks and opens the door wider for me to come in. I set the coffee on her kitchen counter then retrieve my bass from my car. When I return, he’s drinking one of the lattes.

“That’s not yours,” I huff. He doesn’t reply and I notice only one cello in the living room—Keri’s. “Did you forget yours?”

He shrugs, sipping the coffee to hide his grin. “I didn’t come to play… Or at least not music.”

Fuck. This. Guy.

Keri wanders out from her bedroom, drying her wet hair with a towel. I’m unsure if she dressed in a hurry, but her nipples peak against her white tank. I love and hate that she’s not wearing a bra—mostly hate, since Paul is here.

“Hey, Victor,” she beams. “That was fast. I thought you wouldn’t be by for at least another half hour.”

“I was in the area,” I lie and gesture to the remaining coffee cup and bag of croissants.

Her eyes light up and she prances over to them with a smile splitting her face. “You really shouldn’t have.Ooh, are those chocolate croissants?”

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