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He knows I’ve fucked Lyra; he knows I’m involved with her in some capacity.
His frostiness makes sense.
Though I give nothing away. My face a blank canvas of composure, I drain the last of my Old Fashioned and push my chair back. “It’s in progress,” I answer vaguely. “You’d do better to worry about your appendage problems.”
I leave them gaping after me. The heavy wooden door of the Mint Room swings shut behind me, and I’m steeped in the late evening roar of the big city.
Honked horns and screeching brakes. The white-noise rush of traffic speeding by. Lively chatter firing off from all cylinders around me. People going places and streetlights twinkling on.
I set off down the busy street and pull my phone out.
Lyra answers with a distracted tone. It doesn’t impede me from what’s on my mind.
“How about I come by the Velvet and fuck you in the bathroom?”
Though said half in jest, I can hear her frown. “Kaden, I’m up in five minutes. And I told you I’m exhausted. I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m going straight to bed when I get home.”
“That’s what we call a joke, Lyra. However, if I can’t be inside you, then I’ll settle for watching you perform.”
“Weren’t you having drinks with friends?”
I scowl. “Yes. Is that what you’d prefer I’d do?”
“I didn’t say that. I was asking—”
“Something’s come up. Goodbye.”
I hang up before she can make sense of my sudden bad mood. Some might say my reaction was juvenile. Frankly, if it were Klein or Nolan reacting the same way to a woman who didn’t want to see them, I’d say it was.
This is different.
As irrational as that sounds, it simply is. I grit my teeth and storm down the rest of the block.
Lyra didn’t want to see me as desperately as I wanted to see her. At my suggestion I drop by the bar, she sounded borderline reluctant. The nature of our relationship overwhelms her—I often overwhelm her with the intensity of the games we play when I fuck her.
She’s spent much of her life ignored. Disowned by family with a small number of friends. Losers like Grady who couldn’t even fuck her properly. Her special gift unnurtured and unnoticed.
No wonder she’s running scared from the intensity of what my obsession entails.
I pocket my phone and calm determination settles over me. I’ll simply have to get… creative.
* * *
I lurk in wait for when Lyra’s off work and returns home. She won’t know that’s the case. My workaround would likely upset her. However, what Lyra Hendrix doesn’t know won’t hurt her—and if it pleasures me in the process, even better.
In the hours she’s been at the Velvet Piano, I’ve snuck into her room. I couldn’t resist tidying up (unlikely she’ll notice). I stopped at the bedside table where she keeps her pill case for her medications and I swapped out her melatonin for a 15 mg dose of Proxamil, a sleeping aid only available by prescription. It’s often given to chronic insomniacs. The pill resembles her melatonin to the letter.
She won’t be able to tell the difference.
Although I haven’t been able to determine what medications she’s currently taking, it’s unlikely any of them would trigger an adverse reaction if Proxamil was added to her system. I simply used my unmonitored access as a medical professional to sign them out of the pharmacy at the local hospital.
My plan is seamless—Lyra and I will both get what we want. She’ll have one of the best night sleeps she’s had in a very long time, and I’ll get to be with her like my insatiable urges demand.
Lyra trudges through her bedroom door with an exhausted sigh and droop of her shoulders. Her crossbody purse flops to the floor and she kicks off her ankle boots. She goes straight into undressing. Her arms twist behind her back to unhook her bra and she steps out of the miniskirt she’s wearing.
This is the riskiest part—the moment in which she changes.
I’m tucked away into the farthest recesses of her closet, hidden by deep shadows and an old rack of clothes and boxes. My most daring move yet in terms of stalking and surveilling her.
