Page 15 of Don't Bite the Boy Next Door
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I sit, watching him from a distance, through the multi-paned window as he works in his home, as I have done most nights all through the long winter, the glorious spring, and now into summer.
I may not be doing what Pru ordered, ‘desensitising myself to his scent’ but I am, in my own fashion, desensitising myself to his allure. In some weird way, I am gaining strength and confidence in my ability to resist him by spying on him, although if anyone ever knew what I was doing, I would be mortified.
‘One small step for man – one giant leap for vampire kind.’
Tonight, he is standing on a small stepladder cutting in one of the walls of the room he has almost completely painted. For some reason, he isn’t happy with this wall. As I watch, he comes down from the ladder and rubs his face with his hands, shaking his head, before climbing again.
The brief glimpse of his profile shows me what it always does; concentration on the task, an almost complete immersion, and a vague underlying sadness.
I think this is what draws me back night after night. Sure, I’d like to bite him, I’d like to bed him, but I’d also like to fix whatever it is that is making him so forlorn. Only, I can’t – I can’t do any of those things, because I need to keep my distance.
I watch as he steps back down the ladder again and leans with both hands on the wall. It shows his smooth shoulder muscles to perfection as head down, he sighs loudly and moves on to the next wall.
I wonder what it is that’s taking his mind off his task tonight; he is usually much more focussed.
‘Maybe the weather?’
It is hot out, and I imagine even hotter inside, hence him painting in just a white singlet and jeans. The way he is dressed is literally making me salivate where I sit, one hand on Toto’s head, stroking her, the other imagining stroking her owner in all sorts of ways.
“Yeah, right before I kill him,” I mutter to the dog. “Jeesh, I really need to stop coming here every night, don’t you think? It’s mental.”
She looks up at me with big brown eyes, saying nothing.
Around me, the forest is full of life; crickets, frogs, all manner of summer creatures, which reminds me I have been watching him now for months and months.
I hadn’t spoken to him since the night he delivered the tree, but I’d dropped off a jumper. I couldn’t in all conscience allow him to celebrate Christmas without a knitted, festive sweater. It was dark green, with small snowflake patterns in white on the neck and cuffs, and featured an extra fat Santa, upside down, stuck in a chimney.
I’d seen him wear it most of the silly season, much to my delight.
But only from a distance.
And this makes me feel confident and happy, because so far, although I still lust after his body, crave his blood, I have not given in to that desire, despite not following Pru’s plan by spending more time with him. Distance, and time, and getting used to the idea that there was another Irresistible out there, one that I was managing to resist, is seeming to work for me. I don’t think killing myself is the only option now, although I am still determined that if the worst happens, if I ever do bite this beautiful man, I will end my monstrous existence.
That’s why I have to be so careful.
As if cued by my thinking of her, my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I answer Pru’s call, keeping my voice low.
“No biting?” she asks, without preamble.
Although she says it humorously, I know there is a serious undertone to her question.
This is the first time she’s called in months, although we had been keeping in contact via text and email; the question is always the same, as is the answer.
“Not a nip,” I reply flippantly as I stand up and make my way, fast, back through the woods towards home. I’d watched him long enough tonight anyway. I knew I was creepy, I wish I could stop.
“What about you?” I laugh as I run, “any biting?”
“Yeah,” she laughs, “there’s been biting. I’ve been doing my best to turn the local Swiss into replicas of their famous cheese – you know, full of holes,” she laughs.
I shake my head and giggle. “Only those worthy of being fanged, I hope?”
“Of course,” she snorts. “But listen, Tess, that’s why I’m calling… Tess, Solomon’s business associates,” I shudder at her terminology for the sick psychopaths who utilise Solomon’s many networks for their nefarious predilections, “are less easy to get a hold of and stamp out than we first anticipated.”
“What are you saying?” I hear my voice tremble as I reach my porch and head towards my easel.
Holding the phone against my ear with my shoulder, and listening carefully to every word she says, I mix a new set of paints; burnt umber and grey, in an attempt to faithfully paint the moths as they flutter against the porch light.
