Page 11 of Meeting Melody
“Dude,” Greyson prods.
I shake my head and drain the rest of my beer. “Weird night, sorry.” I contemplate telling them. Greyson and Steele both have that edge about them—like they’re into fucked-up stuff. But I’ve only known Greyson for a semester, and I’m not really willing to put Melody’s career on the line by talking about it.
If that’s the threat I can hang over her head, I need to be the one with absolute control over it.
“You ready for finals?” Steele asks. His brow is lowered, like he’s fucking concerned.
Okay, so I may have asked him for help with that stupid fucking English class before I decided to act on my professor.
I lick my lips. “I’ll be fine. I’m working something out.”
“If you need help—”
“I said I’ll be fine,” I snap.
“She’s the hot one, yeah?” Greyson raises his eyebrows. “Kind of young, too…”
“Fuck off,” I groan. “If I was planning on seducing her, I wouldn’t tell you assholes.”
Steele chokes. “Yeah? Well, you’re doing a fat lot of good from over here.”
“You just want to torture her a bit first, huh?” Greyson grins. “I get it. I’d do the same…”
“Better that than failing,” Steele adds.
Great.
Greyson sighs. “Shit. My dad just texted that he wants evidence of me studying.” He flashes us his phone and the multiple texts from his father. “Sorry, guys.”
I wince. It’s a Thursday, after all. Going out drinking is a little irresponsible the week before the biggest tests of the semester. Even if it’s to spy on Melody. “You guys can leave. I’m going to have another, then head home.”
Greyson and Steele exchange glances, but I wave them off. Guess I can be fucking convincing when I want to be.
I spend the rest of the evening watching Melody Cameron. At one point, there’s a little crowd dancing, and her friend pulls her from her chair. They disappear into the throng of bodies, and I rise, as well. I go first to her table and overturn a small vial in her drink. A quick slip of my wrist, with no one any the wiser.
She’s so fucking perfect. I don’t understand my obsession, or the way I need to be close to her. I just do, and I’m sick of fighting it.
When she finally returns to her table, she drains her drink. They pay their tab and leave.
I follow Melody home. Her friend drives—that was the only way this was able to work—and drops her off at the curb. Melody’s movements are clumsy, but she waves off her friend from coming inside. She fumbles with the key, then the door swings inward and admits her.
A light turns on. Her friend drives off.
I frown in the direction of the taillights, then return my attention back to Melody’s house. I see her in the window, kicking off her shoes. She stumbles up the stairs, and her bedroom light turns on. Then goes off.
My pulse is quickening, my dick stiffening. I watch her through the cameras as she wipes off her makeup and tugs off her dress, revealing a black bra and panties.
Her eyes are drooping. She’s in the dark, but the blinds are open. The streetlight outside her window lets in a yellowing glow, just enough to make out her features. She climbs onto the bed and curls on her side.
I grip the steering wheel and force myself to wait another twenty minutes. Then I slip out of the car and make my way inside. There’s a pile of envelopes on the corner of her kitchen counter. Bills due, an invite to a faculty Christmas party next week. I take a picture of the invitation and set it back down.
Upstairs, I toe off my shoes and unzip my jacket. Her door is open, and when I step through, my focus goes straight to the sleeping songbird.
I pull my shirt off and kneel beside the bed. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted.
I haven’t kissed her yet. And I won’t kiss her until she initiates it. That’s a promise I make to myself. But I can kiss other parts of her…
“Melody,” I say.
