Chasing Her (Dark Love 3)

Like a shot of morphine, it spreads through me, igniting my senses, my greed, and my lust—all of the things I promised myself I wouldn’t allow myself to feel. Tonight, I’ll sneak into her place again, just to watch her one more time.

He’s in London.

I’ll be safe.

I can protect her.

Just one more night, then I promise to stop.

One more night.

But I’m wrong.

The loud banging on the door wakes me from my deep slumber. I turn over to look at my watch—seven o’clock.

Who the fuck?

I rub my eyes vigorously, the memory of last night flashing before me, reminding me why I’m beyond exhausted.

A faint glow filtered through the room. Her silhouette teased me, and my heart thumped so loud I was certain it would pop out of my chest. She lifted her blouse over her shoulders. Fuck, this was it. This was what I had been waiting for. Her hands reached for the bottom of her tank top, gliding it just above her stomach until she stopped. She focused on something else. Walking over to the nightstand, a smile widened across her face as she placed the cell to her ear.

An hour later, I sat still behind the bushes, irritated by the length of the conversation. No doubt she was talking to him. Fucking asshole, can’t even leave her alone for an hour. Considering he was in London for an annual conference, you would think he’d be all business.

Her movements changed, and my boredom shifted. I positioned my binoculars, hoping to continue what I had come here for. Instead, I saw the slow drop of the blinds covering my view, and she was out of sight.

Fucking hell!

I kicked the rock beside me in frustration, a stupid move as the pain ricocheted throughout me. God, you’re a fucking loser, Julian. Just like every other time I had done this, the lust was soon overcome by guilt. I was a sick bastard, and I knew the only reason I allowed myself to do it was because it replaced my addiction to cocaine.

Surely, stalking Charlie was healthier, right?

It was my perverse way of justifying what I knew deep inside was just plain wrong.

I hear the voice from outside the hall, and it sounds vaguely familiar. I stumble to the door wearing only my boxers and a wife-beater. As I peek through the peephole, I see the face. Scrawny looking with an odd blemish here and there. I rub my eyes—no way, this can’t be who I think it is.

“C’mon, Uncle Jools, open the frickin’ door!”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Reluctantly, I open the door to Tristan, my nephew.

“Tristan? Why and what the hell are you doing here?”

He barges in, throwing his duffle bag on the floor and placing a small bag that was draped over his shoulder gently on the coffee table. Oh, fuck n

o, duffel bags are never a good sign. They are the sign of a drifter looking for a place to stay. He can’t stay with me. I’m a nomad born to wander the earth alone. I enjoy peace and quiet. I can’t have a kid living here.

“Mom said you’ve gone off ya nut and need some company.”

He makes himself at home, sitting on the couch, placing his feet on the table with his hands behind his head.

I run my fingers through my hair to calm myself down, but, of course, it doesn’t work. “Tristan, you can’t stay here.”

“Why not? Place is big enough for both of us.” He lifts a magazine from the table and cringes. I’m not wrong in thinking finance literature isn’t his taste.

My place isn’t huge. It’s a one-bedroom apartment on top of some seedy massage place downstairs but it’s all I can afford right now. I’ve blown so much money on coke forcing me to downgrade luxuries like a secure apartment. It isn’t such a bad place, fairly modern inside but really cramped.

He’ll have to sleep on the couch.