Sunshine and The Stalker

“How old are you?” I demand, my voice cold and harsh, just like me. When I’m not participating in my hunting games and playing a part to get what I want, I’m kind of an asshole. So I’ve been told.

She arches a brow and smirks. “Eighteen going on old cat lady. Black cats are my thing. Told you I wasn’t superstitious. What is the magical number before you’re officially a cat lady anyway? I have four. Four is still normal, right? Like I’m not going to turn off potential love interests when Beavis, Butt-Head, Snoopy, and Hank come circling his ankles the moment he steps into my apartment, right? Right?”

I stare at her. Her mouth keeps moving, but I don’t hear any of the words. Just the sultry, seductive way she says them. My cock has taken an interest in this bizarre woman much sooner than my brain has. My brain thinks she’s a ridiculous, talkative, horribly dressed child.

So why am I following her?

The elevator doors open, and she walks through them, not at all frightened that some six-foot-three angry asshole in a power suit is prowling behind her, desperate for some unknown fucking reason to yank her hat off and touch her silky red-and-black hair.

“You’re officially the creepiest man I have ever met,” she chirps as though she meets creepy people all the time and befriends them. She digs into her deep coat pockets and pulls out an obnoxious mess of key chains. All for two keys. Insanity. Utter insanity.

“James,” I grunt. “James Darden.”

“As in the Darden Hotel across the street?” She turns and regards me. Her head cocks to the side as she inspects me.

“I know where you live now,” I blurt out. This is another reason why I don’t date the normal way. Normal isn’t even in my vocabulary. Structured and planned and rehearsed is because I say inappropriate shit sometimes.

She laughs and shakes her head. “And the cat lady is officially not the weirdest person on this block anymore. Congratulations, Darden, you’re the winner.”

Her wink is the last thing I’m gifted of her before she pushes into her apartment and shuts the door behind her.

What the fuck have I just gotten myself into?

2

Cerys

The apartment is empty when I step inside, my body still affected by the stalker who followed me to the door. There was something about him. A hint of need. Hunger that he didn’t hide very well. Even though he regarded me with an inkling of desire in his eyes, I wasn’t scared. In fact, I wanted to see what he would do.

Most men are controlled, and I thought he was, but as soon as he laid those dark eyes on me, all I could see was how badly he wanted to touch me. Perhaps even lean in and sniff me.

Chuckling, I head into my bedroom and pull off my combat boots. The pink tights I’m wearing find a place on the floor quickly along with my dress. Sitting on my double bed with purple polka-dot bedding, I glance at my pale skin and wonder if I’ll ever get a tan. Living in this city, I think not. Winters here are long and icy, which only makes me want to hide away.

I wonder if the stranger would’ve noticed me if I didn’t speak to him first. Would he approach me? I glance at my full-length mirror and shake my head. No. Why would he look at me when Olivia is beautiful and perfect?

My phone rings then, and I find Daddy’s name on the screen flashing at me with a warning. I know why he’s calling. It’s the same thing every time.

“Hey, Dad,” I answer with a smile, holding out hope he’s going to tell me he’s coming home for dinner.

“Hey, pumpkin, listen. I’m stuck at the office tonight. I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, the same way he does every night. At least, since Mom died, he’s been staying at the office more often than not. When he met Olivia, I thought things would change, but no. There’s nothing that would make my father be the man he used to be.

He’s long gone, and I know I have to get over it. I have to grow up, but I miss him.

“That’s fine, Dad. I’m heading out with Kia, is that okay?” I don’t know why I ask him. He doesn’t care. He wouldn’t even notice if I spent the night out. I go to sleep, and he’s not home; I wake up, and he’s never here.

“Yes, honey. I’m sorry,” he repeats. I know he is. He’s always sorry, but that doesn’t help. I nod, blinking back the tears threatening to fall. I don’t cry. I never even cried when Mom died. I stood by and watched her coffin lower, and I walked away.

Perhaps I’m broken. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.