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I tear myself away from Dove's bed. But it's getting late – or rather, early.
She'll be groggy and confused when she wakes up. I wish I could be here to make everything better, but I shouldn't. I need to get the fuck out of Dove's house.
I consider taking the plug out, but on second thought, I decide to leave it to fuck with Dove's head more. Smirking at her restless figure, I snap a quick photo with my phone before leaving the room.
I let myself out and remember the bag of sweet buns I got for Sam. I grab it from my bike's storage and head into the alley he calls home.
My new friend is leaning against the brick wall of the building behind him and seems excited when he sees me.
"Brought me something good?"
"They're a little stale, but they should still be fine." I pass him the bag and sit cross-legged opposite of him. "Hope you're hungry."
He nods to acknowledge me and digs into the food. He doesn't need to express his gratitude – his warm eyes speak volumes by themselves.
We sit together in amicable silence as he makes his way through the food. I like Sam, I realize. He's the first person I've met who I want to be around, who I want to be my friend. He doesn't pressure me, doesn't call me out. He just accepts me with all my flaws.
"See you soon?" I ask as I pick myself up, and Sam's eyes meet mine. I wonder whether he knows how I feel. How much this simple moment means to me.
"Very soon," he grins in return. "Thanks for the grub."
I raise my hand in a silent greeting and leave him there. My heart doesn't feel as cold tonight.
***
The next morning, I wake up early and decide to resist my relentless desire to follow Dove around. Instead, I decide to check up on the slimy photographer, Raphael. I need to know more about him. I need to know if he's serious about Dove, or if he's fucking around with a bunch of other bitches behind her back.
I follow him from his apartment to the office building where he works. I go up to the bakery, buying food I won't eat so I can keep an eye on the guy. I watch him interacting with a group of gorgeous models through the glass walls that enclose his office. The guy may look sleazy, but he's the perfect gentleman. He doesn't touch one of them inappropriately, doesn't flirt, doesn't let the girls' looks distract him from doing his job. He's a class act.
I grit my teeth together, waiting for him to finish in a side alley. He meets up with a woman later on, but it seems like a business meeting – they greet each other with a firm handshake. I'm starting to realize this guy is serious about Dove. He wants her. He's not going to do anything to fuck up his chances, and that pisses me off, because I want my little bird for myself.
Later on, I park in the side alley close to Dove's place. I watch Robin, her brother, come over, and decide to use the app I planted on Dove's phone to listen in to their conversation. I hear her brother's stupid fucking idea of inviting Elise over, then the follow-up of Raphael coming over, too. By then I'm grinning wide. This'll be fucking perfect. It's time for the secrets to come out.
Raphael arrives first, and the brother-sister duo greet him with excitement. Elise pulls up fashionably late, and I'm intently listening to the conversation on my phone as they all meet in Dove's house.
"This is Elise," Robin introduces his girlfriend. "Elise, this is Raphael, a friend of Dove's."
"You look familiar," Elise purrs suggestively. God, to be a fucking fly on the wall in that room. I'd love to see the smug bastard's expression right about now.
"Yes, I believe we did a shoot together a couple months back," Raphael replies. Why does he sound so fucking calm? He shouldn't be calm. He should be shaking in his fucking boots. "I remember you. Elise Howard, is it?"
"Yes," the bitch replies. "I remember you too."
I bet you fucking do, I think to myself. You've been trying to get into his pants for fucking months. Too bad he only has eyes for my girl. There's no way he's giving you what you fucking want.
I listen to their awkward conversation as the evening goes on, mindlessly scrolling through Dove's Instagram as I do so. Finally, I can't resist anymore. My account is a throwaway anyway – there's no way Dove will figure out it's me.
I comment something generic on one of the moody photos of the city, and listen to her phone going off on the audio transmission.
"Oh, Miss Popular," Robin teases her. "Who's that?"
