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One day, I'll walk out of here and never look back, stepping into a world where I call the shots, where my worth isn't determined by tips or how well I can mix a drink. One day, I'll be someone people remember, not because of how I make them feel for a night, but for what I achieve.
CHAPTER FOUR
Merrick
I lean against the cold brick wall, a shadow among shadows, and watch her. Abby's laughter spills out into the night as she exits the pulsing nightclub, the sound a sweet melody that I'm starved for. Her hair is a wild cascade of curls, glinting under the streetlights, a stark contrast to the dark sky. She's unaware of me, but I'm hyper-aware of her—every move, every breath.
"See you tomorrow, Abby!" someone calls from the doorway.
"Night, Gina!" she responds, her voice vibrant, and it thrums through me, an electric charge.
She starts walking, and my feet move of their own accord, keeping a careful distance. It's become a ritual, this following. It's not about control. It's the pull, the magnetic force drawing me to her presence. I can't resist it any more than I can stop breathing.
The streets are almost deserted at this hour, the only sounds are the distant hum of the city and the click of her heels on the pavement. I slip in and out of the dim pools of light cast by the street lamps, my steps silent, my heart pounding an erratic rhythm. It's like a dance—the way I move with her, always just out of sight.
I've learned the route by heart, know every shortcut and alley she might take. Yet she never deviates, a creature of habit, just like me.
She grips her keys tightly in her hand and glances about her every so often, making sure to stay aware of her surroundings. She's cautious, smart. It's one of the million little things I find endearing about her.
As she slips into her building, I feel the loss immediately, the absence of her like a physical ache. The craving returns, gnawing at my insides, the obsessive need to be close to her, to make sure she's safe.
I stand vigil outside her apartment all night, dreaming of her, obsessing over all the things I’d like to do to her.
And it’s not all sexual, though I’d be lying if I didn’t say much of it is. Sure, I dream of seeing her puffy, pink lips wrapped around my cock, but I also dream of holding her in my arms and just watching her while she sleeps, of brushing a stray lock of hair off her forehead.
Little things I’ve never daydreamed of before.
And when she finally leaves in the morning, I make my move.
The lock clicks, a soft surrender to my practiced hands. I step inside Abby's apartment, a place that breathes her essence even in her absence. The silence wraps around me like a familiar cloak as I move with purpose, the weight of my backpack heavy with its illicit cargo.
My fingers are nimble as I extract the tiny cameras from their protective casing. They're sleek, unassuming—perfect for my little project. A buzz of adrenaline spikes through me, a cocktail of excitement and guilt, as I plant the first camera behind a cluster of books on the shelf. High enough to survey the room, angled just right.
I glance at her worn sofa and imagine her curled up on it, lost in one of her romance novels. Does she ever fantasize about a man like me watching over her? Protecting her?
I install the next camera in the hallway, another in the kitchen. I know her routine like the back of my hand—the early morning coffee, the late-night snacks. Every part of this small, shabby apartment gets a pair of electronic eyes. It feels wrong and right all at once—wrong to invade her privacy, but right to ensure she's always in my line of sight.
I stand in the center of her living room, done with my task. My gaze wanders over the patched-up furniture, the secondhand TV, the pile of bills that threatens to topple over the edge of the counter. This isn't the life she deserves. Hell, it feels like a crime that someone as vibrant as Abby has to come back to this every night.
A surge of frustration tightens my jaw. She hustles in that club, pouring drinks for leering men who will never appreciate her true worth, while I... I'm useless, hiding in the shadows. But not for much longer. I clench my fists, a silent vow etching itself into my bones—I'll lift her out of this, give her the stability and comfort she's been denied.
I slip out as quietly as I came, locking the door behind me with a soft click. The night air hits my face, sobering, as I walk away from her building. Abby's unaware of the guardian angel lining her pockets with miracles, but soon, she'll feel the warmth of my secret embrace, lifting the weight of the world off her delicate shoulders.
* * *
I crack my knuckles and lean into the glow of my laptop screen.
"Okay, Merrick, think," I mutter to myself, tapping a rhythm against the keyboard. "How do we play fairy godmother without the damn glittery wand?"
A quick search pulls up a dozen ways to be someone's financial ninja. Anonymous donations, charity funds, scholarships... My eyes skim the list until they snag on something that resonates with a deep, throbbing hum inside me. Debt relief. That's where I'll start.
"Let's erase those numbers, sweetheart," I whisper, as if she's right here with me, her legs draped over mine, lips curled in that secret smile she saves for the end of a hard shift.
Clicking through her accounts feels like I'm peeling back layers of her life. Each bill is a weight she carries, a shadow under those bright, too-knowing eyes. Medical bills from before I knew her, credit card debt piling up like dirty snow. It's a mountain of 'due by' dates that no one should have to climb alone.
"Time to avalanche this shit away," I say, adrenaline pumping hot through my veins.
The bank asks for confirmation, and my finger hovers over the mouse. There's a thrill in this, a rush of power knowing I can wipe her slate clean with a single click. But it's more than that—it's a promise, an unspoken pact between me and the universe to keep her safe, to lift her up when she doesn't even know she's falling.
