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“You need to clear your head,” he says. “And it’s an easy job.”
The job is a runaway teenage son of a tech millionaire. Obviously, the kid has his father’s brain since no private investigator could locate him.
Well, Miller is our tech guy for a reason. There’s nothing he can’t find. Except Reznik, apparently.
I text Lu.
Me: I’m off to Ohio. I’ll be back after the weekend.
Lu: Hurry!
Me: Miss you already.
A new chapter is uploaded to Story Den.
Every new one is a clue about Lu, what she likes, or perhaps what she expects from me.
John is away on a work trip, which is obviously not accounting, but he still won’t tell me what he does.
The recent attack in our apartment wasn’t random, but he won’t talk about it. Nor will he talk about the night we spent together. He acts like nothing happened.
Without him, the apartment feels empty. I leave the door to his room open, so it feels like he’s home.
Bacon in the morning reminds me of him as I sit and eat my grits alone, with an empty plate on his side of the table. It makes me feel like he might walk in any moment.
Our puppy huffs and puffs as he walks into John’s room and lies down in the middle of the floor, in front of his bed. He misses John too.
Loneliness is tangible. I never quite felt it this profoundly until him. Never understood it until I started picturing my life without him, and it felt dreadful.
Loneliness is on my skin that misses his touch. In my every cell that craves his presence. In my brain that replays the heated moments of us being together.
I try to trick my mind by keeping all the doors in the apartment open, including the one to my bathroom as I take a shower. Music echoes through the place. I close my eyes and try to conjure the sound of his footsteps through the living room.
But they are not there.
Heis not there.
And my craving grows claws, scratching at my heart.
Wrapped in a towel, I walk into my room and halt.
A man’s boxers are on the floor by my bed. John’s.
“Oh, you…” I scold the pup and grin. “You little pervert!”
I pick them up and stare at the dark-blue fabric patterned with little pineapples. My roommate hides a gun under his pillow and wears boxers with pineapples. Cute.
I should take them to his room, but my John-obsessed mind doesn’t let go. This is more than an obsession. I’m messed up. I’m falling hard and fast, about to smash into pieces.
The fabric caresses my thighs as I put John’s boxers on, smiling at how wrong and yet arousing it is to have his underwear and nothing else on.
I press my hand to the fabric, trying to feel closer to him.
I’m losing my mind.
I’m slipping.
But maybe this is therapy.
