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Shit, now I’m getting hard. I grit my teeth and rub my eyes, forcing myself to focus.I’m working. Pay attention to work.Once I finish the job, I’ll find someone to sate my desires with.
It takes longer than I’d like to admit to will my cock to soften. I’m wasting time sitting out here while Lydia’s in the bar, but going inside a small town bar with a raging boner isn’t a great way to stay under the radar. When I’m no longer at risk of embarrassing myself, I slip a baseball cap over my unruly hair and head inside.
No one looks up as I enter the dim, moody bar. Nightlight must be a paranormal hangout, because I sense multiple non-humans here, not including Lydia. I mask my monstrous lineage from other non-humans with a potent charm, but it appears no one else here bothers with such concealment. The bartender reeks of cryptid blood, a cluster of young women at a booth near the front all sparkle with invisible magic, and a vampire in a dark back corner sips on blood spelled to look like red wine. Lydia’s own fae energy tingles in the air from where she sits at the bar, chatting with two humans who are unaware of the monsters surrounding them.
Not that most paranormal creatures give a shit about bothering humans these days. Most of us “monsters” have integrated with humans. The monsters who don’t behave end up getting “taken care of” by the paranormal community. Better that than risk a literal witch hunt by exposing our existence. We’d rather stay hidden and safe from the humans who’d demonize us. Though, I suppose Iampart-demon, so they’d be right on my account.
When Lydia’s attention focuses away from my direction, I grab a draft beer from the bartender and settle into an empty booth with her in my eyeline. I watch her off and on while scrolling through my phone. Snapping a few surreptitious photos to show her wife in case she knows any of the humans Lydia’s drinking with and can confirm they’re coworkers. Snippets of their conversation waft over to me, but it’s mostly the two humans complaining about their jobs. Lydia only speaks to add sympathetic exclamations. Even from a distance, I can still feel the guilt and anticipation lurking under the surface of her placid expression. Maybe she’s going to meet with her lover after drinks?
* * *
An hour and a pint later,I’m relaxed in my booth, letting my mind wander while I wait to see how the night plays out. Nightlight has a welcoming, calm energy that sinks into my muscles like a warm bath after a stressful day. It wouldn’t surprise me if there’s a calming enchantment on the building. Lydia’s intense energy dampened in the time she’s been here, and I doubt that’s from the wine she’s nursing. My own miasma of regret and sadness feel similarly dampened. It’s nice to get a break. To feel almost normal again.
My focus sharpens when I overhear her tell her friends she should head home. As much as I’m loath to leave the first moment of respite I’ve found since moving to Moonvale, I pay my tab and head to my car so she doesn’t catch me following her. I weave my way past a cluster of women who must’ve just finished a class at the fitness studio I’m parked in front of. As I pass the studio entrance, I narrowly avoid getting knocked over as someone exits. Their hand brushes against my side and the touch shocks through me like a bolt of lightning.
“Oh, sorry!” a rich, sensual voice calls out as I stumble away.
I open my mouth to tell her not to worry, but when I turn to look at her, the words vanish.
It’sher. The woman from the window. Excitement and desire crackle in my veins, urging me to get closer. My eyes lock onto hers, searching their dark depths for some explanation of what she’s doing to me. Her eyes widen in alarm, and I tear my gaze away and nod at her.
Gods. Whoisthat woman?
I scramble into my car, forcing myself to not look back at her. My resolve lasts for about thirty seconds, and then I’m watching her as she heads toward her car with the blonde woman from earlier. They’re both smiling and laughing, oblivious to my stares. She gets in her car and messes around on her phone. My heart leaps when she stops and looks up in my direction.
I startle and look away from her and turn back toward the entrance to Nightlight. Where I see that Lydia’s SUV is gone. Shit.
Great work.She’s gone, and I’ve wasted a whole day of surveillance. I turn back to the black-haired siren with a sigh. She’s pulling out of her parking space, and as if compelled by an unseen force, I start up my car and head down the road behind her.
I’m not following her. It just makes sense to go back to Mr. Johnson’s place in case that’s where Lydia heads next. I’m not going there to watch her. If her blinds are open again tonight, and I happen to be watching apartment 613, so be it. I’m just doing my job.
Flimsy justifications for my behavior run through my mind the entire drive back to the cozy apartment building on Poppy Lane. But when I see no sign of Lydia’s SUV, that doesn’t stop me from parking in front of building 600 and watching with bated breath for the lights in 623 to come on. Or prevent the thrill of excitement I feel when I realize her blinds are open as she goes inside.
She hangs up her hoodie and purse on a set of hooks, pulling out her phone and checking it with a few swipes. Apparently not finding anything of interest, she sets it down and heads into her kitchen and fills up a glass of water. I watch with an absurd amount of focus as her lips touch the rim. Water dribbles down her chin and onto her loose tank top and she laughs at herself before wiping it away. My siren’s clumsiness endears her to me even more. I wonder what her laugh sounds like.
She looks down at her wet top and yanks it off over her head unceremoniously, treating me to a view of her tight sports bra. I know I should look away, but I don’t. Ican’t. My mouth practically waters at the sight of her soft stomach and full breasts. She sips from her glass again, managing not to spill it this time.
There shouldn’t be anything compelling about watching a woman drink water and look at her phone. So why am I still sitting here?
You know why.The demon side of me has decided it wants her. I’d hoped it’d be quiet after the recent fiasco when I let myself slip and see what would happen if I let myself give in to its desires. But apparently not. No, it wants this woman with a hunger I’ve never felt before. Not even withthem.
My phone buzzes with a message notification, drawing my focus away from the woman in the window with a start.Fuck, what’s wrong with me?Shame flares in my chest. I check the message and see that it’s Kelly, Lydia’s wife. She’s texting to let me know that Lydia just got home, in case I’m still keeping watch at Mr. Johnson’s apartment. Which I am, but not for any professional reasons.
I thank Kelly and send her the photos from the bar, in case that helps her solve the puzzle of what her wife’s been up to. But she messages back a minute later to let me know they’re work friends. Lydia didn’t lie about what she was doing tonight. So whatisshe lying about?
I text my sister, Maggie—Pearce Investigation’s digital investigator—asking for her help. If anyone can find hidden details about Lydia on the internet, it’s her. I just hope that Maggie doesn’t make me promise her a favor in return. The last one saw me with a broken nose after joining an underground monster fight club so that she could have an excuse to flirt with the organizer. They’re married now, though, so I guess it was worth it. To Maggie, at least.
With the pretense of needing to stick around tonight gone, I give apartment 623 one last glance before driving home. The siren’s silhouette fills her bedroom window, where I’m both disappointed and relieved to see that she has her curtains closed.
5
Operation “Stop Being a Recluse” started off shockingly well this week. On Monday, I had lunch with Rachel for the first time in months. She works less than five minutes away from my place, so it feels silly we didn’t do it sooner. Then—against all odds—we had game night on Wednesday. If I manage to get my butt out of the door for burlesque class tonight, that’ll bethreenights. Take that, depression and isolation!
Jokes aside, it may not sound like much to most people, but it’s an achievement for me. Especially when my pesky brain tries to convince me to cancel every plan I make. So I’m taking this week as a win.
I’m finishing up my lunch break when Grace texts to let me know she’s going to class tonight. Nerves roil in my gut for a moment, knowing that I don’t have an excuse to back out of going since she’ll be there. Last week’s class was intimidating. Despite being listed as a performance crash course, Grace and I were the only newbies in the class. Everyone else had taken burlesque classes before and most had performance experience.
At the beginning of the class, the instructor, Cherry—a curvy redhead who looked ripped from a 50s pinup magazine—made us all introduce ourselves and talk about our experience and performance goals. By the time she got to me, I wanted to die from embarrassment at being so out of my depth, so I mumbled something about dancing in the past. Meanwhile, Grace happily admitted she had no clue what she was doing. Everyone in the class said that they were excited for her to try it and that she looks like a natural.
