Stalkers: A Dark Romance Anthology

by Ally Vance

  Lucy loved Moroccan architecture. That’s where she’d gone.

  And that’s where Tally needed to be.

  About Michelle:

  Michelle Pace is an international best-selling, multi-genre author. After studying theater and vocal music, Michelle went on to earn degrees in both liberal arts and nursing. She currently resides in the Lone Star State with her husband, author L.G. Pace III. A mother of three, Michelle enjoys traveling, live music, and is an enthusiastic amateur beer connoisseur.

  Books by Michelle:

  True Gold

  Crazy Love

  Good Wood

  Sinful Addiction

  Kara Dawson

  Prologue

  I want you.

  There’s something about you I can’t ignore. Not anymore, at least.

  The day you walked into my life, I felt a tightness in my chest. Your body called out to me in enticing ways. I answered, even though I shouldn’t have.

  I answered because even if I wanted to resist and walk away. Even if the logical side could convince me that pursuing you was the worst thing I could do, it was impossible not to give into my most basic urges. I was powerless to stop the magnetic pull you had on me.

  Most people wouldn’t approve, and I’m not sure I do either, but you’ve become an addiction. An obsession. The reason I breathe and live this bleak gray existence. They would say that rehab is the best course of action, but there is no rehabilitation for desires of the heart.

  I crave you.

  I need you.

  I want you.

  And in the end, you will be mine.

  Because we were meant to be. We were meant to be, and there’s nothing stopping us from being together.

  Nobody can take you away from me.

  Not even Them.

  Chapter One

  Ian

  You entice me. Enthrall me. Capture me.

  You shouldn’t do these things, yet you do. Do you even realize all that you do and all that you are?

  When you sat there in our first lesson, in your summer dress that rode up your toned sun-kissed leg, my heart pumped a little harder than normal. Your leg bounced up and down to a piece of music none of us were invited to enjoy. The way your gaze locked on me, however, I was not the one stealing your attention. What were you thinking as you stared off blankly in my direction, tapping your pen on the open book of unfilled pages, as other students scrambled to keep up with my lecture? You sat there so audaciously uncaring… no, not uncaring… relaxed.

  As a professor of tertiary learning, I should’ve been irked by your lack of focus and drive in my class. It should’ve angered me for you to have been so blatantly inattentive. To sit there so implicit, yet so loud with your lack of studiousness. I should’ve been all the things I’ve ever been with every other student, but I wasn’t.

  What is it about you that has me feeling and behaving in such a way? Some would say it’s because I’m attracted to you. But you aren’t the first attractive student to cross my path, and no doubt you won’t be the last. So why now? This is sure to go beyond normal physical attractiveness. I should be able to figure this and you out. Why, as I think back on our lecture, can’t I get you out of my head? Why am I opening the lid of my laptop and searching your name on Facebook when I should be preparing a lecture? It’s dangerous territory. I know this. I shouldn’t be looking you up and clicking on your name and scrolling through the pictures. Your profile isn’t private, and that annoys me, and I find myself grinding my teeth together at how blatantly stupid you are being. You don’t come across as a naïve person, but your trust in strangers and the world is incredibly loose, and I want nothing more than to punish you for it.

  How would I punish you? Would I throw you over my lap, pull your panties down and slap your bare ass until it turns a shade of red? Would you scream? Would you cry in pain or beg me to keep on going? Would my cock stand erect at the way you wriggle on top of me as I subject you to punishing slaps? I’m getting hard just thinking of you, and I shake my head because indecent thoughts such as this have no place in a brain such as mine. I’m better than this. I never used to be, but I am now. I scream at myself to stop looking at the way the light catches on your shiny hair, making it glisten in the sunlight in one photo. How sexy you look as you sip an alcoholic drink. The way your plum-colored glossed lips shine in the picture, and all I can do is imagine those same lips wrapped around my cock.

  This is what you do to me, and you must stop. I must stop.

  But I don’t.

  I can’t.

  I won’t.

  It’s been a long time since I gave into my id. A long time since I’ve thrown away every bit of sensibility and used my stupid rationality to spur me on. You have had a hold over me since I first saw you, which only grew worse when you became my teacher’s aide. I was foolish to have picked you, but I couldn’t help it. I can’t help myself when it concerns you, and I, a professor of psychology, can’t seem to solve this complex problem. It’s as if there is no definitive solution.

  We rarely talk when we work, but we did today. We talked and the door that is usually closed between us was opened, and I was given a sliver of an insight into your life. Into who you are and why you are. I wasn’t sure what I had hoped in engaging in casual conversation. Maybe I was so desperate to find something that would turn me off of you because deep down, I know I have to. My feelings for you are unprofessional and highly inappropriate. If you were to ever see the thoughts that rage on in my head at night, you would have me kicked out of the college for sexual harassment.

  Your photos aren’t the least bit personal and show you as the life of the party and someone that is fun and free-spirited. This isn’t you; at least not you entirely. This image you send out to the world is what you want to show everyone who lives on the outside. Sure, there are some sporadic moments of realism, a photo of a takeaway coffee with the sun high in the background, and those beautiful legs of yours with a book settled on them. It tells us you are a person, instead of an image, but then, of course, you had to ruin it with your choice of book. A book by Donald Hargrave. Dramatic literature at its best which invites you into a world of fantasy but really is an indictment of the world we live in. The oppressive, racist, homophobic, misogynistic, megalomanic world. It’s one of those books that is widely popular amongst all kinds of readers, however, is more appreciated within the circles of intellectuals and academics. Because only we can decipher the messages that run rampant in the tome of wonderment. Only we can appreciate the irony of certain scenes and how most of the people who will eventually read the book are, in fact, the dangerous faces of the themes it portrays, but will never know the book is about them. Laughing at them. Pointing out their foibles. Because ignorance is bliss, and bliss is blind. You could read it because you truly enjoy it, but the sentimentality and sincerity is lost because you posted it. Because only people who want to show everyone just how intellectual they are post that they’re reading the novel. They refuse to be lumped into the same doltish circle as the rest of the population. The mouth breathers, I’ve heard some students say in reference to the intellectually challenged. It’s because of what you did that you seem less real, and it annoys me.

  Despite my ill feelings toward your choice of social media presence, I appreciate why you would portray yourself this way. Tuck yourself behind the selfies and glamor shots you take of yourself and your life. Your skill behind the lens is rather extraordinary. I wonder if you were caught at the proverbial fork in the road. The crossroads. One full of experience and life to use to your advantage. The other, a mystery set deep in shadows. And if so, what made you choose psychology? Did something happen to steer you in that direction? No matter what it was, I’m grateful. I’m grateful because that choice led you to me.

  You have three smiles. All fake, of course. I can tell because of your eyes. They always give things away. You smile because it is expected of you, but there is something hidden behind it. I want to know
what is behind the facade. I doubt three quarters of the people who have liked and commented on your posts really care who you are on the inside. They just care that you are beautiful. I groan at the comments attached to your photos. All written drivel of vanity. It makes me sick seeing all the boys—boys, because no self-respecting man would ever be so obvious in their desire to fuck you—comment on how sexy you look, and all the girls who convey their desire to look like you.

  I need to remind myself to bring this to your attention if it ever comes up. Your lack of privacy in a highly technical and digital world is paramount, and based on the variety of people you keep in your friends list, I have the impression your privacy settings are looked upon as more of a loose suggestion rather than a vital necessity.

  You don’t appear to have many friends, with only a handful of people contributing some real comments. That excites me. It excites me to know that you limit your friendship circle. It excites me that none of those friends are male, because there are enough of the male gender throwing their attention onto you. The way they flirt with you has my blood boiling and makes me want to hurt them. Because you don’t belong to them, they belong to you. You entertain their advances by flirting back and it draws out the monster inside of me because how dare you reciprocate. How dare you satisfy their wanton need and give them hope that they can have you. Because you’re mine. Even if I can’t have you the way I want you, you are mine.

  You will always be mine. It was decided the moment you stepped foot inside my lecture hall.

  From the consistency in their comments, I pick out the handful of people that appear to be your friends and absentmindedly click on the profile of one of them. Because they may appear a certain way, but I need to make certain that these people are worth your friendship. This one is sweet and she wears a lot of colorful clothing.

  Annoying.

  I can already tell she’s one of those girls who squeals, grinding at your eardrums with her high-pitched voice. The offensive mashing of various colors, like a bag of Skittles vomited on her. Stopping at a video of the two of you, I see that my presumptions about her were correct. She is the boorish girl I had pegged her to be. Despite my distaste for your friend, I continue to watch the video because you’re in it. The way you smile and throw a peace sign to the camera has my dick twitching with want again.

  Stop it.

  I should listen to my brain. Listen to the side of me that clearly is in a more logical frame of mind than the one that is being entertained because of a lack of good sex. They’ve all been mediocre at best, and I’ve done it to take the itch off. I’ve done it to assuage the part of me that shouldn’t exist, but does. When it’s hungry to be unleashed, but I refuse to do so, I feed it a little something. It’s been some time since I last had sex with a random woman. It’s come to that time now where I should. For the sake of you and myself, I should go out and find myself someone to fuck. To take the edge off and stop me from doing what I’m doing. Fighting the battle with myself, I slam the lid of the laptop shut and pick up my mobile phone and open up the dating app I have. Swiping through a bunch of women that are available, I grow frustrated when I can’t find a single one that piques my interest. All I keep seeing is you in your summer dress, smiling at the camera. Your lips lifted into a sweet and sexy smile as your light brown hair sways softly in the light breeze behind you. The sunlight is a halo, giving you this ethereal look, and I realize that I’ve just about given up on my search when I find her. She’s not you and never will be, because there will only ever be one of you. But she has enough of what I need in order to satisfy me and get the job done; with her light brown hair, heart-shaped face and supple lips. She reminds me slightly of you, and I’m hoping it’s enough. Because if you can’t have the real thing, the next best is good enough, right?

  Chapter Two

  Viola

  I look down at the papers in front of me. The first written assessment that was given to the Introduction to Psychology class. I’m only on my third assessment and already I’m mentally exhausted. Part of me appreciates that these students are new to the university life, however, the other more judgmental side tells me to shut up and that I shouldn’t make excuses for the abhorrent work some of the students are handing in. I’m not entirely sure how professors did this before, without the use of TAs, it’s mind-numbing and somewhat painful work. Probably why they started using them.

  “Are you okay?” I look up into the eyes of Professor Matthews.

  I’ve been his TA for a few weeks now. Ever since his previous one, Jeanine, was involved in a pretty serious car accident, I’ve been acting as his temporary TA. A stand in for when he finds someone else. I’m not holding out on the hope that he will find someone, because he’s an incredibly fastidious man. He has his ways and his ways must be abided by, otherwise he’ll kick you out so fast, you will be standing on the other side of the door with no knowledge of how you got there.

  The creases in his forehead tell me that this is hard for him to ask. In the brief moment I’ve been his TA, we’ve had one conversation that had nothing to do with work, where I got a glimpse of the man he was behind the suits he wore every day. As awkward as things were in the beginning, I can’t deny how nice it was to get to know him a little more. While it wasn’t a whole lot, it was more than the dating profile details of him I’d been given.

  Hair: Black

  Eyes: Blue

  Body: Athletic

  Height: 6’ 2”

  Profession: Professor of Psychology at Brighton University

  Favorite Drink: Coffee: Americano, half a sugar

  Likes: Excellent time management skills, intellectuals, hard workers

  Dislikes: People who talk politics, people who think they’re smarter than you, lazy people

  I got to know that he prefers cats to dogs. That he lives alone and doesn’t drink, and it’s not because of a previous alcohol problem, but he always wants to have his wits in every situation and knows that alcohol has a negative impact on your senses.

  “I’m fine,” I respond with a chill that could freeze a person. Ever since that day, he’s been distant. I can practically see the sky high double brick wall that has been erected. So sturdy, I don’t think even a wrecking ball could bring it down. Normally, I would be fine with this, because I’ve always been of the opinion that professional relationships should remain strictly business. When the lines blur between professional and personal, that’s when things can get messy. That’s when you perceive things to be a certain way which is far from reality. Somehow, with Professor Matthews, I want to know a little more about him. I’m not sure what it is, but he has sprung this feeling inside of me.

  I shake it all out of my head.

  “You’re tired. Do you need a coffee?” he asks.

  “I should make one. I might actually stand a chance at making it through the grading.” I stand up and walk over to the little station he has in his office with a small coffee machine. “Would you like one?”

  “No, thank you.”

  I make my coffee, closing my eyes and taking in the delicious aroma that swirls around in the air. Bringing the fresh brew to my lips, I inhale lightly before blowing at it and taking a small sip. Warmth instantly spreads through me, and I’m filled with a sense of serenity and vitality. I sit back down at my desk and set my mug on the corner, picking up a red marker. It’s a strange kind of writing implement, and not one I’ve ever seen around. It has a clear end where you can see the ink that flows around inside of it. It can be unscrewed, and he has a drawer full of replaceable ink ends. It’s a nice marker though, and I love using it. The color, which is a shade off being red, is beautiful. The way it writes is even better. I asked him where he purchased them from and apparently he has them shipped in from Australia. Wanting to know where I could buy them, I had asked if there was a website I could get from him and he said no. Another thing I discovered about him. He doesn’t like to share. I’m convinced that were it not for him requiring consiste
ncy, he wouldn’t allow me to use the holy pen he holds so dear.

  It’s been four long hours later since I started reading, marking, and mentally punishing the students in my head for wasting my time with the drivel they presented in their assessments. There is a specific set of guidelines one must use. Guidelines which have been set out by the American Psychological Association, and too many students haven’t even bothered to adhere to them. The only reason I have made it this far is because of the scattering of students who did do a good job. Who had me thinking about the topic of the assessment and seeing their point of view. That is how you differentiate between the shit ones and the good ones. The poor students who are doing this because they think they know they want to become a psychologist, and the ones that are made for a life as one. They don’t need to change my mind. They simply need to have me ponder their argument and see it as a valid point and thought.

  I’m up to my third cup of coffee and hitting dangerously close to that zone where I’ll be up all night, bouncing off the walls and tired for my lecture tomorrow. An eight a.m. start to the day.

  “You should slow down,” Professor Matthews states monotonal, not looking up from his own work.

  “I’ll be all right,” I argue. I’m not entirely sure why. He has a point, and it’s something I know, but I feel as if I need to disagree with him.

  “Too much caffeine is not good for you. Excess consumption of it can cause anxiety, insomnia, and increase your heart rate; so unless you want to be up all night or be taken to the hospital, I implore you to cease drinking it.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve had a lot more in a lot shorter space of time, before.” It was as if his pontification released some kind of negative energy out into the world, because as soon as I finish, a violent shake erupts through me and I drop the mug I’m holding, allowing the warm contents to fall down my top, staining it. I jump in the air from the heat of the liquid. The mug lands with a thunk on the floor.