But if I’m going to have that, I’m going to have to tell her the truth about me. Tell her who I really am and that I have come for her. Then I want her to welcome me with open arms. No pushing away.
No fucking pushing away. Ever. She can’t do that to me.
It would kill me. Make me feel like I’m under water again. Drowning. But this time there wouldn’t be no surface. No surface without her. No air. Only a choking stone cold, that would paralyze me from the inside.
I drag a ragged breath and close the drawer before walking over to her desk and sit down in front of her computer. Her desk is spotless but still personable, a yellow, plastic flower, a half-eaten tootsie roll and a small stack of books and I throw a glance at the titles.
Dracula, Frankenstein, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde... They look untouched and no wonder because the books in her bookshelf are all Amish romance and women’s fiction. It makes a smile pull at my lips at her attempt to bring something with more of a bite into her life.
She thinks she has to because she’s insecure. Because some asshole has told her, her music isn’t good enough. I want to crush anyone who’s against her in my fist. Give them what they deserve.
My eyes return to the screen and I search for her website. I’m already familiar with it. I’ve read every one of her blog posts several times. So many times that I’ve almost memorized them.
I know her dream and aspiration is to play abroad. I know her dream is to be signed. I know she gets stressed whenever she’s had a bad concert and that she always comforts herself with a bowl of pistachio ice cream.
But I’ve never had access to her website this way before, never been in this much control. And maybe that was a good thing because I do not fucking like what I see.
Bile rises in my throat when I read her inbox. There are messages from men, asking her to take off her clothes when she’s on stage the next time, asking her to spend a night with them in exchange for money.
Asking her to send them pictures of herc...my fists clench in fury...cunt.
Their words make my heart hammer in my chest, throwing a haze over my eyes. There’s so many of them. Did she read them? She must have. She must have read what they think of her, what they want from her.
Want what’s mine and grabbing one of her pens, I shove the tip into my palm, making it hurt just to make sure that I don’t destroy the computer. I feel that familiar shove in my chest that pushes me to take action and it takes all my willpower to not throw the computer out the window.
I decide to just delete every message coming from a male, cursing every single one of them as every one of their disgusting messages disappear. But it doesn’t end there. There are messages from women too.
Jealous ones. Messages that are green with envy. Wounding.
I can’t have Amber reading them. It’s bad for her and knowing how sensitive she is right now, I couldn’t live with myself if I allowed someone to hurt her like this.
Seeing no other option, I terminate the domain.
When the question “are you sure?” pops up on the screen, a satisfied grin spreads over my face and I click on yes. She’s safe now. Shielded.
The website disappears, a feeling of calm spreading in my body, leveling out some of the raging jealousy I felt when reading those messages.
A jealousy I can’t ever let myself feel again. It’s dangerous. An entity of its own that even I can’t control. Getting up, I search through the rest of her room but I don’t find what I’m looking for and I let out a low curse.
Where the hell did she hide them? I need to find them. Are they even in her house? I need to know...
A low humming travels into the room from the hallway and I go rigid. She’s out of the shower and she’s going to walk in any second and I’m still here.
She can’t find me like this. I wouldn’t be able to give her a good explanation. To my annoyance she doesn’t have a closet where I can hide and having no other choice, I dive under her bed. There’s a fluffy sheet on her mattress, the frill going almost all the way down to the floor and giving me a good cover.
I don’t breathe when I catch her walking in, leaving wet footprints over the floorboard and her ankles look so clean, that I almost brush my knuckles against them. She’s still humming to herself and I bite my tongue when she drops the towel.
Torture. An exquisite pain ripping me up from the inside.
I’d refrain from water for days, just to catch a glimpse of her, satiate the curiosity that’s been plaguing me. Finally knowing whether she is all smooth or fuzzy like a sweet peach between her legs, knowing whether her breasts would feel heavy or light as air in my hands.
My fists clench, my teeth driving so far into my lip that I taste a trace of blood. Want her so damn much. Would kill for her. Ruin myself for her.
Her humming stops as she’s standing by her desk and she lets out a small gasp. It fills the room like a shocked scream and I tense, wondering what’s gotten her so bothered...For a while I think that maybe she hurt herself, stepped on something or pushed against a hard edge and it nearly brings me out of my hiding place.
“Hey G, it’s me,” she says seconds later, sounding perplexed and panting a little. I lift my head to be able to hear her more clearly.
She’s talking on the phone with someone. I’m assuming G is that manager of hers.