"I doubt that," he said, but didn't push it. "Feel better?" he asked as I finished my food and reached for my orange juice.
Something had shifted.
There was something thick and awkward in the air between us, making me shift around uncomfortably.
"Yes. This was really sweet. Thank you. And thanks for telling me your story," I added, figuring it meant something that he had done it since no one else seemed to know his details. "You didn't..."
"Yo! Boss man," Merrick's voice called, making both of us jerk, oddly pulling apart like teenagers caught necking as Merrick moved into the doorway.
"What are you still doing here?"
"I was in the lot when I noticed someone shifting around foot to foot by their car," he said cryptically. "Figured I should come in and tell you," he added.
"Who is it?"
"Someone who is ready to take you up on your offer for help," Merrick told him, and I figured I had no business being in this conversation if they were purposely trying to be vague around me.
"Oh," Preston said, looking over at me, seeming a little lost.
"Go help your friend," I said, giving him a small smile. "I know my way out."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's dark. You can't..."
"I'll walk her out," Merrick offered. And, well, I had never hated him until that moment. I mean, not really hated, but I had this odd feeling that if maybe Preston had walked me out that night, something might have changed, something maybe would have gone in a direction a large part of me had been dying for it to.
But that was ridiculous.
Silly, girlish fancying.
"Thanks," I told him, forcing a smile as I handed Preston his jacket back. "And thanks for the food," I added. "I'll, ah, see you this weekend," I finished, falling into step beside Merrick as he led me out toward the main entrance where someone vaguely familiar was standing, someone who I had seen around the building before. A star, maybe.
And judging by the way he was shifting around almost frantically and the saucers that were his eyes, I had a feeling that the help this man needed was of the recovery sort.
And Preston was who was going to help him with that.
As if I needed more reasons to care for the man.
"Thanks, Mer," I told him, not even bothering to force a smile, knowing it wouldn't be the least bit convincing even if I tried.
"Hey... you alright?" he asked, brows drawing low, looking way too serious for an otherwise carefree man.
"I'm fin..."
"Bullshit," he cut me off, shaking his head. "I told him..."
"Told who what?" I asked, straightening.
"No one. Nothing. I just... this has been a lot for you, I think. If you need a break, don't be afraid to ask for it. The job will be here after you get some much-needed rest," he added.
"Gee, way to make a girl feel good," I said, faking it now because his words threatened to take away something that meant too much to me, meant almost everything to me. "Telling her she looks like crap."
"I didn't mean to say you..."
"It's okay," I cut him off, giving him a smile. "I was messing with you." I wasn't. And I made a mental note to grab some over the counter sleeping pills on the way home so that I could actually get some rest and stop looking so rundown. "Thanks again. I should get going," I finished, opening my door and hopping in before he said anything else.
Sure, his ideas had merit, made sense.
The problem was that nothing in me would listen to reason. I'd tried.
And even though I knew it was going to hurt beyond measure when all this eventually went away - Preston, GAPPR, these virtual strangers who had begun to be so important to me - there was nothing, not a single molecule in my body that wanted me to use a little self-preservation.
So I was just going to have to deal with the pain when it came.
I was getting pretty good at handling it.
Or so I thought.
NINE
Preston
She was late.
And I was firmly footed in the stalker category for noticing something like that.
But it had been two months.
Two months and twelve days to be precise.
But who was counting, right?
And because it had been that long, I had figured out that Rosie was a creature of habit. On the nights when she didn't go into the studio, she got out of work, went to visit her brother, came home, made some food, and signed on, putting her camera on immediately, so used to me being the only person ever to sign on that she didn't even think about it as she clicked off the screen, looking around at things online or watching shows on Netflix, often not hearing the notification when I signed on, giving me a little more insight into her.
Like her obsession with interior design or cooking shows. I wondered that, were money not an issue, if she would implement changes to her apartment, getting it to look like the ones on her shows. Or if she simply watched for reality suppression. She didn't, as far as I could tell, use the cooking shows as inspiration. Most nights, she seemed to eat something premade from work. Whether that was for convenience or because it was cheaper, I didn't know.
But it was well after eight and she was nowhere to be seen.
I squashed a sudden, unfair, irrational surge of jealousy, thinking the inevitable had finally happened. Some guy in her path - a coworker, a customer, some guy who worked at her brother's facility, some good-looking, successful doctor - finally got his head out of his ass, and saw her, saw all she had to offer, asked her out.
I knew it was only a matter of time.
Women like her didn't stay single long.
I had no right to want to deny her of that, of a small slice of happiness in a life that had been clearly wearing on her, robbing her of sleep, weighing her shoulders down.
The only time she seemed even the least bit relaxed was during and shortly after sex, when her mind and body were lax, when the world slipped away.
She deserved some fucking happiness.
And if she found it with some other guy, well, I had to swallow my jealousy, my disappointment, let go a little, leave her alone.
I was just about to sign off, go take a run or hit the gym, work off the swirling, uncomfortable feelings coursing through my system when suddenly her name popped up in the available list.
Without thinking, I clicked on, watching as the camera adjusted to the somewhat low light in her bedroom.
Her gaze was downcast, but something was off. Her hands ripped at a band in her hair, letting it loose, her fingers raising to rub her temples as she dropped down into her chair.
"You okay?" I asked, watching as her head popped up, eyes visible for the first time. All it took was one glance to know that, no, everything definitely wasn't.
"No," she typed out, rolling her neck.
"What happened?"
"I went to visit my brother," she told me, closing her eyes for a long moment.
"Is he okay?"
"He had a bad day," she said cryptically. From what she had told me over the past several weeks, her brother was severely schizophrenic, enough so that it wasn't possible for him to live on his own like many others could. The voices would overcome him at times, and he was known for hurting himself. But it sounded like the doctors had him stabilized with meds. While he was still a bit up and down - as anyone with a mental illness usually was - he seemed pretty even most of the time.
"About your parents?" I asked, knowing it was hard for her brother - and clearly for her - and that her brother almost, in a way, resented Rosie being there instead of them.
"About me and his mind," she said, sighing out her breath as she reached to her side, coming back with a wine glass pressed to her lips.
"What happened?" I asked, figuring it wasn't good if she was drinking. In all the nights we'd had conversations, I had never seen her with a drink.
"I don't even know. I showed up, went to hand him the new stack of graphic novels I brought, a
nd something in him just snapped."
"Did he hurt you?" I asked, even though she had already told me that it was a misconception that people with schizophrenia were violent toward others, that they were much more likely only to hurt themselves. Just because it was unlikely didn't mean it was impossible and as I waited for her to type her answer, I scanned her face, her neck, her arms for any signs of trauma.
"No. He just... he started grabbing things, throwing them, hitting himself, screaming about why I wouldn't just leave him alone, no one asked me to come back here for him, that I was making everything worse. And then he turned to run off, but tripped, fell, hit the edge of the coffee table. There was blood everywhere. I thought he'd lost an eye. So he was taken down to medical, sedated, stitched, and kept there for observation."
"Is his eye okay?"
"Just barely missed it."
"It's not your fault, baby. You know that. He wasn't even sure of what he was saying. Or, even if he was, he was saying it because something is wrong in his head."
"He's worse since I started visiting," she objected, raising the glass, draining half of the deep red fluid in one sip.
"It's not worse because of you. It's worse because of grief. Don't take this on your shoulders. It doesn't belong there."
"I don't know how to help him."
"Just be there for him, babe. That's all you can do."
Her gaze fell, her shoulders slumping. "It hurts to be there," she admitted, reaching for her glass again.
"Baby, maybe put the wine down. That's not going to help."
"Something has to," she said, reaching up to wipe her cheeks.
I wanted to go there. I wanted to show up at her door, wrap her up like I only ever got to do a few hours every week, and hold her until she drained it out, or run my hands over her until she forgot about it all.
But I couldn't go there. I couldn't drop that bomb into her life on top of everything else.
"There are better painkillers than alcohol," I carefully suggested, knowing that what I was about to suggest crossed over a line we had both kept a distance from.
I didn't know what she saw me as behind her screen.
A hideous house husband who hadn't gotten fucked right in a decade or two.
A creep living in his mother's basement.
A father figure, lonely widower, just looking for some connection.
And a part of me didn't want to ruin that, didn't want her to view me and our interactions differently.
"I don't do drugs," she objected, eyes looking offended.
"I didn't mean drugs."
"What did you mean, then?" she asked, pushing her wine glass further from her reach like she didn't trust herself to reach for it again, to refill it, to drown her problems.
My hands paused, trying to find a delicate way to ease into it so that if she freaked, I could back right up again.
"Your body creates the best painkiller there is. You just... need to make it happen."
"Make it happen how?" she asked, then her gaze went to the screen, her lips parting. "Oh," I heard her say, understanding.
"You can sign off, maybe run a bath, take care of yourself," I suggested, looking for the usual signs of uncertainty, embarrassment. The pink cheeks, the ducked head, the shy smile.
I didn't expect her gaze to lift, to seek the camera, her eyes piercing, like she was trying to see through it, see me.
"I don't want to be alone," she typed. And I knew her well enough at this point to understand her meaning, know what she was saying.
"Do you want me to talk you through it?" I asked, watching as her head dipped, her cheeks going a little pink. "Or we could watch something together," I suggested, knowing it was an option, one I had personally thought of the year before. Watch parties. It helped the actors make more money because the clients were hanging around, jerking off to some movie they were all watching together.
"I don't think I can watch a movie from here," she said, shaking her head at the idea.
"Why not?"
"Because I know these people," she shot back.
"If you want to pick something from another site, we can still watch it together. Just send me the link."
"Okay," she said, suddenly looking over her shoulder. "One second," she added, getting up, moving across her bedroom, going into her nightstand, coming back with a very familiar box.
The butterfly hands-free vibrator I had given her weeks before. Never opened.
I watched as she clumsily opened the package, pulling out the butterfly, brows furrowing as she tried to figure out how the straps worked. I couldn't help but smile when she snorted as she finally figured it out a solid five minutes later. Her body bent forward, mostly out of the camera as she tried to discreetly slide off her pants and panties and on the butterfly.
I couldn't see it, but I imagined her slipping the pink straps over her creamy thighs, settling the body of the butterfly against her clit, pressing the tip inside her tight pussy, just barely, just far enough to work her G-spot.
She fiddled to get the batteries in the remote before finally looking at the screen, clicking around, trying to find a movie.
I felt on edge as I waited for the link, as I clicked it, waited for it to load.
I couldn't find words to describe the pleasure blooming through my system when I saw a younger me pop up on the screen.
It shouldn't have been surprising. She had admitted to watching my movies in the past. They were softer, like she liked her scenes.
Her hand reached for the remote as my clothes got discarded.
Alone in my apartment, cock already straining, a full- throaty laugh escaped me as her whole body jolted at the vibration, one of her hands flying out across her desk.
But soon, there was nothing to laugh about.
Rosie was sensitive in general, but when the vibrations went on, her breathing got ragged, her eyes heavy-lidded.
Her hand suddenly moved out, clicking. "I don't want to watch that anymore," she told me, hands flying over the keys, almost desperate. "Talk to me instead."
So I talked to her, watched as she lost more and more control, listened as she got close, as she came.
Then and only then did I let my mind wander, let it wonder why she suddenly didn't want to watch the movie anymore. Because she had enough of me in real life? Because she didn't want me in her personal life, just work?
I had no idea.
But there was a knot in my stomach at all the possibilities as Rosie's hand rose, holding up a finger, asking for a minute. The camera shifted up to the ceiling as, I imagined, she got up, got rid of the butterfly.
When she turned the camera back down, she was in a robe that was familiar to me with nothing beneath, the V in the front dipping low enough between her breasts to reveal that the bra she had been wearing was gone.
"You alright?" I asked, watching as she stared a little blankly at the screen.
"Yeah," she answered, her eyes still unreadable. "Thank you," she added, smile slow but sweet.
"Anything you need, baby," I told her, a little worried about how much I maybe meant those words. "Try to get some sleep. We can talk more tomorrow if you want."
"I always want to talk to you," she told me, then closed her eyes tight, embarrassed by her own admission.
She did, though.
I felt I knew Rosie well enough at this point to say she was not doing it for the money. Of course, I was sure it was helping. She didn't have to worry about how she would get the money to pay for her brother's graphic novels, her groceries, even her bills with the occasional deposits to her PayPal. I'd give more if it weren't for her clear discomfort of accepting cash value. She was more comfortable with the gift cards.
But even if I suddenly stopped giving her anything - save for the fee for talking to her - I was a good ninety-five percent sure that she would continue to talk to me.
She'd been careful at first, a bit awkward at segues, trying not to babble. But the longer we talked, the mo
re detail she gave to situations.
She told me about a homeless vet she had needed to bring lunch to every day for two and a half years before she finally got him to come into the office, get cleaned up, reach out to his worried family.
She'd told me stories about her old friends, about her mishaps at learning the subway system when she'd first moved to the east coast. She'd talked for almost forty minutes about her kookie new neighbor who exclusively wore pink - from her jogging suits to her shoes to her hair ribbons and her eye-shadow and lipstick, and had a little long haired Chihuahua-sheltie mix who she took to get groomed weekly and had her hair tinted pink as well.
Little by little, she gave me everything big. And small. And in between.
I was pretty sure at this point that I knew her better than I knew anyone in my life.
And, perhaps this was the most revolutionary part of it all, the more I had of her, the more I liked.
I mean she had this mildly irritating need to downplay compliments, and she thought Die Hard was a Christmas movie. But no one was perfect.
She was just pretty damn close.
Too close.
Fucking dangerously close.
And I didn't want to think about what was going to happen in another two weeks when - according to Merrick - she would have all the money she needed to pay off this massive debt of hers that I imagined had something to do with her parents' estate or her brother's care.
I liked to think she had been enjoying her time with me in real life. In fact, I knew she was. In a primal, animalistic way. But I meant more than that. I enjoyed the idea of her wanting me in more than a sexual way, wanting to be near me, wanting to hear my voice, feel my touch.
I couldn't help but wonder at times if she maybe thought about seeing me outside of the studio. If she wondered what it might be like to catch lunch, to watch a movie, to go to the beach, to visit her brother, to go shopping for new furniture for her place... with me.
Because - as uncharacteristic as this was of me - I thought about that shit.
I'd never shared my life with someone before. Quite frankly, the idea had never even appealed to me. Someone always in my space, making demands of me, wanting me to spend less time at work, more time with them.
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