Page 17 of Who's Playing You
What was she doing offering people - strangers no less! - to spend time with her? To learn from her? To be graced by not only her presence, but by her full attention?
They weren’t worthy.
No, no, no. This wasnothappening!
As if that weren’t bad enough, she was looking for people to pose naked for her!Oh helllll to the fucking no.That was absolutely not happening.
Over my dead body.
I’d been enjoying a quiet morning at home, watching the live feed of Scottie sitting in her window overlooking downtown on the big screen TV in my living room, and it had been glorious. Her wearing nothing but that old T-shirt of mine made my heart hum.
Of course she didn’t know it was my shirt.
But some months back when I’d been checking on things in her apartment for her (alwaysforher), I had nonchalantlyreplaced one of her oversized white sleep T-shirts with one of mine. I’d made sure it was the same brand and size, but I’d worn it, washed it with the same detergent she uses and made sure it felt just like the one she had, then I wore it to Scottie’s apartment before swapping it out for the one she had.
That’s also when I took inventory of the rest of her other sleep shirts, and on my next trip to her apartment, I may or may not have replaced those too.
Did I relish in the fact that she took an extra whiff of them when she put them on? Of course I did!
Did I keep replacing the shirts as she washed them, making sure they always had a faint scent of me because they’d touched my skin last before then touching hers? Bet your ass I did.
So watching her sit in the window, sipping her coffee, wearing my shirt - ohhh, it was like heaven. It’d only be made better when she’d do that sitting inourhouse.
Soon. Soon enough.
When she tugged on the shirt to cover more of her luscious legs, I groaned. I hate when she hid what was mine from me.
It really hurt when she did that.
Because having her on full display was so hot. So satisfying. So pure and meant to be.
That look on her face when she tugged on my shirt quickly disappeared though and was replaced by determination. What was running through that beautiful brain of hers? After she tugged on the shirt, she moved over to the couch and grabbed her laptop.
I quickly grabbed my own and clicked over to the software I’d installed on her computer. It mirrored her home screen, like a share screen, on my laptop. Obviously unbeknownst to her.
I saw every click, every file, every word written.
The retreat she was planning sounded fucking amazing! I was so proud of her. But when she was inviting all these randos to spend time with her, ohhh, that was infuriating.
Nah-ah. Not happening.
I had to act quickly because I knew people would immediately sign up for her workshop, and the nude model? Butof coursethat position would get filled too. People would line up in droves to do anything with her.
Not on my watch though. It was justnothappening.
After some quick key strokes, I’d removed the posts from the art department’s bulletin board. I was able to unsend the email to her gallery. Thank fuck I had clicked the unsend option in her email settings when I added my software to her laptop. I knew it’d come in handy in cases like this.
I couldn’t unsend the mass email she’d sent though.Fuck!
Alright, alright. Not a problem. Plan B then. I quickly changed the Google form for the signup. One misspelled letter in the link and all those inquiries were just lost to the ether.
Oh, what a shame.
I then used one of my nondescript email addresses dedicated to all things Scottie, and signed up. Except I filled it out to request all 12 spots that she advertised as available.
She was doing a retreat. So was I.
And only me.
