Page 14 of Whirlwind
I nod my thanks and find my way out of the arena, where I can be alone with all these damn feelings.
4
Kit
One week, three different women.
Today, she’s a brunette, the past two have been blondes. I was starting to think Tyson had a type. Well, I guess he does…it’s not about looks, though. She probably only needs to be willing to have a good time and get the fuck out early in the morning.
They’ve all left shortly after dawn. Before he starts his morning yoga routine, where I can watch from my living room, a cup of steaming coffee in hand. It’s a damn nice wake me up. The view and the caffeine.
He had never struck me as the player type, but I did only know him when he was in a weird sort of committed relationship with Isla. Then, there was that small scandal involving him, which shattered any preconceived notions I had of him.
It’s much more likely that Tyson Murphy is a man-whore than he is the sweet, wholesome guy who had no problem dating a single mom with a ton of baggage. Can he be both? I guess. I’m not one to judge what a grown adult does with their free time, as long as it’s not harming anyone else.
Besides his escapades with random women, I believe he’s still a good guy. He bought Nightmare a gift, after all.
The other day, I arrived home to find a neon green harness and a custom nametag shaped like a heart wrapped up in a giftbag on my doorstep. It could have only been from him, since nobody else has met the furball of terror yet. The new harness fits him much better; he won’t be escaping this one, thankfully. I swear, when he slipped loose and ran across the street, it damn near gave me a heart attack. This is my first time taking care of something all by myself.
I should have started with a houseplant. But like the bozo I am, I jumped straight off the high dive and into the deep end without so much as a single swimming lesson.
Nightmare has been easy, so far. Other than being particular about food, he doesn’t like kibble, so we tried a handful of wet food varieties to find what he likes. Salmon was the clear winner. There hasn’t been a single indoor accident, yet anyway. And he kennels easily when I’m not home and at night.
He seems too easy, honestly. Maybe he’s a cyborg dog, or just broken. I mean, I’m not complaining. I’d rather have an easy dog than one that eats its way through locked doors or something. That’s partly why I picked a small breed, I’ve seen plenty of videos of damage via pets. I pay too much for my little home to have extra cash for unnecessary repairs.
Tyson bends into a position that puts him on all fours. A strange little tickle sparks between my legs, making me blink in surprise. It’s a rare occurrence, at best. What’s more rare than rare? That’s how often I feel any sort of attraction to a real flesh and blood human in front of me.
Willa asked me once if I was asexual and I had to think about it thoroughly. Which is my way with everything. Except pets, apparently. Typically, I’m an overthinker. An analyzer to my very bones. I let her question marinate for a time. After a while, I deduced that I’m not. I do feel attraction; it simply isn’t common for me. I’ve seen men that I think are handsome, who define good-looking by my own standards, but it usually stops atappreciation and doesn’t progress past that. Plus, I like watching pornography. I like getting myself off to images of beautiful people.
It’s the reality of another person in my life that has never held much appeal.
It isn’t that I don’t wish for it. It’s more that I’m terrified of it.
So why now? Why him?
I’ll have to leave those questions to steep, as well. Likely, whatever it is will dissipate into the ether and no longer matter anyhow. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy the view he gives me every morning. It’s a nice show, since he performs his routine in nothing but boxer briefs each day. Obviously, you have to be in prime form to play in the NHL, but having it on display in front of me every day puts a whole new stamp of appreciation on how hard the guys work at it.
No fat, no flab, no wiggle, or jiggle. Tyson is all taut muscle, thick thighs, bulging biceps. His burnished curls falling low on his forehead as he contorts from pose to pose. He rocks his hips toward the mat at the same time I lift my coffee mug to my mouth, missing entirely in my distraction, and the hot fluid dribbles down into my cleavage.
“Damn it,” I curse, causing Nightmare to bounce up from his bed and yelp alertly. “It’s okay, buddy. Just your mom being a dumbass voyeur.”
That’ll teach me.
Or not.
Nightmare follows me to the kitchen to put away my mug, then to my bedroom to find clothes for the day. It’s Saturday, and Willa is going with me to a few secondhand stores, as I’m still on the hunt for more furniture and décor.
The basics are covered—a bed, a sofa, a desk. Yet it still looks like a minimalist lives here, and that is something I mostdefinitely am not. I probably lean toward the maximalist side of center. I like quirky, kitsch, and color. When I’m done with this place, every corner will have something interesting to look at. Something that spurs my imagination and activates my brain.
My dad called me Chaos as a kid. Not because I ran all over the place wreaking havoc, but because my mind never settled. I would jump from subject to subject, question to question. Never satisfied with whatever new information I’d learned, I always wanted more. I still do.
After a quick shower and a quicker bowl of Cinnamon Life cereal, I’m dressed and ready when Willa arrives.
“You’ll never guess who my neighbor is,” I tell her when I open the door to her.
“Who?”
“Tyson Murphy,” I say. “Just across the street, in that fancy modern house that doesn’t fit in with the rest of the neighborhood.”
