The Anatomy of Perception

by AJ Rose

  The Anatomy of Perception

  AJ Rose

  Published by The Grim Writer Press

  Copyright 2015 by AJ Rose

  All Rights Reserved

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without prior written permission from The Grim Writer Press. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/) Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Editor: Murphy Fennel

  Cover Artist: Elizabeth Mackey Graphic Designs

  ajrosefiction@gmail.com general inquiries

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The laws and medical procedures in this book are products of online research and are not inclusive of all laws and practices in the locales depicted in this e-book, which are subject to the author’s creative license. Any mistakes are purely mine.

  The trademarked products mentioned in this e-book are the property of their respective owners and are recognized as such.

  Warning

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language, and may be considered offensive to some readers. Grim Writer Press’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.

  Please do not try any new sexual practices, especially those that might be found in BDSM/fetish titles, without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither The Grim Writer Press nor its author(s) will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  To Fen, who, as always, is my best friend no matter what. To my betas, the Four Horsewomen of the Apocalypse, Allison, Jennifer, Meredith and Erin. Your badassery is legendary, and your sword skills with my words make me the writer I’ve become with every new adventure. To The Retreat, for accepting me immediately with boob jokes, then providing so much insight into the craft my head spun. Thank you also for putting me in touch with the contacts required to make this book happen when I needed to step outside my safe little box. And lastly, an extra sloppy thanks to Kate, who feeds my heart and soul.

  This one is for Mere, who sees me, and is my friend anyway.

  Present Day

  Even in a crowded room, I’d know that walk anywhere. Craig had always turned heads with the casual roll of his hips, the unhurried confidence he poured into each step. To my Craig-starved eyes, he looked incredible; the kindness in his brown eyes was still there two years later, no thanks to me. He wore my favorite pair of his tattered jeans and a long-sleeved gray t-shirt beneath a bright blue fleece vest, very Boy Next Door. He’d let his chestnut hair grow but held it off his forehead with a beanie, strands peeking out to curl at his nape and ears. He was on his cell phone, laughing, his voice carrying down the hall to my hiding place, soothing nerves inside me that had been screeching and restless all day. He’d always had a calming effect on me, even now when it was him I was nervous about. I slunk back into the shadows of the recessed stairwell doorway, keeping the barest eye on him. Distracted, he made it all the way to his loft before he saw my note taped to the door.

  He sucked in a breath.

  Even from ten feet away, his friend on the phone was loud enough for me to hear.

  “Craig, are you okay? What happened?”

  It took a moment, but he answered. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just have… some mail to go through. Something unexpected. Lemme call you back.” Without waiting for a reply, he disconnected and slipped the phone into his butt pocket, not taking his eyes off his name written by my hand.

  I’m sure it was a shock to see after two years without a word from me. Our final parting hadn’t exactly been amicable, either. I’d thought of him every day. It was his face I pictured when things got bad, his voice whispering that I could handle it. I could make it through anything because he’d told me so. His faith in me was the rock to which I’d clung while my personal hurricane slammed into the shores of Dane.

  That’s me. Dane Perry. Undeserving of one iota of Craig Dahl’s attention, but I crouched in a corner, hoping for it anyway. I watched him. What would he do?

  Please open it. Please read it. Please call the number at the bottom.

  He did none of those things.

  A door down the hall opened and Craig jumped, apparently having gotten lost in his thoughts rather than actually deciding what to do. One of his neighbors—someone I didn’t recognize—walked past with a friendly greeting and a clap to his shoulder. Clearly Craig could still charm the pants off anyone. Even hardened New Yorkers ate out of his hand. At least the guy hadn’t known him well enough to recognize his distress and break the moment more. Instead he disappeared around the corner to the elevators, leaving us alone again.

  But the presence of another soul had done enough damage, and Craig did what I most hoped he wouldn’t do. He snatched my note and wadded it, keys jangling as he tackled the multiple locks on the door, jaw ticking like I remembered it doing when he got mad. He was almost always calm, but he’d constantly taken his anger out on his teeth, clenching them until he had control of his voice and words. He was careful never to say things he didn’t mean, nor did he give in to shouting.

  Except one time, but I’d deserved it.

  His door slammed and I jumped. Lowering my head for a moment, I squeezed my eyes shut. I’d known it wasn’t going to be easy. I had done horrible things, things that seemed so selfish and hateful it would be a wonder if Craig listened to an apology, let alone my clumsy attempt to regain his trust. However, I’d sworn to myself I’d repair the damage, and at least get closure. In coming back here, I’d promised my friend Holly—one of a few I had left—if he spit in my face, I would take that as my closure. I’d promised her I was strong enough for this. And not the false strength to which I’d once clung, but this new tendril I’d learned to cultivate instead of scoffing at facing my demons head-on. No more running. No more hiding and passing it off as being “fine.”

  I’d almost entered the hall to leave when Craig’s door opened again and he stepped into sight. He bore a large trash bag and a scowl, and I sucked in a breath and scurried through the industrial stairwell door as he passed, peeking ever so carefully through the little rectangular window. Just before he passed
from my view, he stopped, yanked open the garbage chute, and stuffed the bag into it with more force than necessary. Then he stomped back, the clang of the chute door ringing through the hall.

  I reentered my hiding spot in time to see him storm into his loft and slam the door.

  He’s so beautiful.

  With a great sigh that felt good in my lungs despite the disappointing results of my first effort to contact him, I pulled my hoodie over my head and shoved my hands in my pockets, emerging into the hall and passing his door on the trek to the elevator. Bust or not, it felt good to be doing instead of planning. Acting on my feelings instead of burying them. My father had been wrong. Feelings didn’t make me a sissy. Running from them had.

  I’d try again tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow he’d read the note. Maybe tomorrow I’d have a chance to say I was sorry. And tell him how much I still loved him.

  Day two. I taped my note on the door again and retreated to the stairwell doorway to wait. While I did, I mulled over this second attempt, the words of which I’d memorized.

  Craig,

  I’m pretty sure you never expected to hear from me again. Maybe you hoped you wouldn’t. And maybe I shouldn’t be contacting you. I should let you go on with your life without wounding you any more than I have. No one would fault you, least of all me.

  I’m sorry.

  The second you told me to get out and left me alone to pack my shit, it was clear I’d made an enormous mistake, but I was also in no position to try and fix it. There was too much about me that was broken and needed more immediate attention. Which you knew, from those three days with Holly. I was pretty sure you knew things weren’t quite right before then, at home or at the hospital, but I was terrified if you had the details, you would leave me anyway.

  These sound like excuses, even to my ear. I would like the chance to explain. I promise I will tell you everything, if only so you can understand what happened, why I did what I did, and maybe we can talk about it. You don’t have to see me if you don’t want to, but maybe we could speak on the phone.

  Here’s my number. Call me any time of the day and if I can’t talk, I’ll let you know when I can unless I’m with a patient. But if you choose not to call, if you decide you don’t owe me anything (you don’t), and that I should fuck off, you should know that I’m not going to give up that easily. So, while I have no room to ask anything of you, I’m still asking. I’ll go away, but you have to tell me to. Otherwise, I’ll keep trying until we talk.

  I still love you.

  Dane

  I’d agonized over that last line, but I figured I had absolutely nothing to lose. My shoulders were a bit more hunched than yesterday as I scuttled to the elevator, the slam of Craig’s apartment door still echoing. This was going to take some patience.

  October 2005

  I didn’t stop to watch the hot street artist because I thought he would change my life. I was simply fascinated by his quick hands, his obvious skill, and the swell of his ass—he had a really nice one. He wore paint-splattered jeans that hugged him well and a t-shirt with a pug on it. The fall air was warm enough to make jackets unnecessary, and when I wasn’t staring at his delectable backside, I strangely found myself drawn to his forearms. They flexed with each fluid movement of his brush hand while he quickly painted a profile portrait of a woman who stood closer to him than the rest of the crowd. She watched him work, every few seconds exclaiming at how wonderful he was.

  I agree, I thought, taking another long look at his ass, for once not caring who saw me. That was the beautiful thing about New York City: no one noticed me, so they didn’t have a reason to give a damn if I liked guys. I could easily hide in plain sight, checking guys out to my heart’s content—with some care. If the guy being checked out noticed and was a dick, I could get my ass kicked. But in the four years since leaving home, I’d perfected the discreet eye-fuck. Less risky that way.

  I had to keep moving. I was going to be late for class. I’d worked way too hard to get where I was to chance being late, and failure was not an option. I couldn’t go home. I wasn’t teacher material, and I hadn’t bothered looking into what else my biology degree might allow me to do. It was MD or nothing.

  Apparently my feet didn’t get the memo. I stood there as the artist finished, signing the painting with a flourish as a smattering of applause rippled through the crowd. The woman eagerly paid and took her portrait, staring at it as she walked and forcing other sidewalk patrons out of her path. A few bills landed in an open, battered portfolio case at the foot of the guy’s easel, and I found myself wishing I had even a dollar to spare. But I didn’t. I watched my pennies religiously. There was no way I’d let myself be too broke to pay my third of the rent.

  The artist scanned the dispersing crowd for his next mark, and I quickly looked away when his eyes landed on me. I really had to go anyway. I moved, trying to escape.

  “Hey, hold up.”

  A hand on my elbow slowed me and I turned to face the warmest brown eyes I’d ever seen.

  “Let me paint you.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t. I have class and I’m already late.” At least it was true. Lack of money wasn’t my only excuse.

  “If you’re already late, you should skip and let me paint you. I didn’t know eyes that color existed outside a computer. Are those contacts?”

  I rolled the eyes in question, but something about his ease while talking to strangers kept me from walking off. I got compliments on my eyes all the time. They were such a light blue they were almost silver. Many a girl had used my eye color as a platform for flirting, not realizing I was and always would be immune to their feminine charms. But the guy before me, he was right up my alley. So, while I rolled my eyes at his obvious line, I also smiled regretfully.

  “I’m sorry. I really can’t. Maybe I’ll see you around though.”

  “Me or my ass?” he asked, dropping his volume and giving me a wink. So he had seen me checking out the goods.

  Heat surged into my cheeks, but instead of stammering and running away, I gave him a very obvious and thorough once-over.

  “Both.” It was the best parting line I’d ever had, so I took advantage, chuckling as I walked away.

  “Wait!” he called. “What’s your name? How do I find you again?”

  I waved over my shoulder, mortification creeping in. Had I really flirted so openly with a guy I wasn’t positive was also gay? In public? Jesus. I had never done that before. I had only ever been involved with guys at gay clubs who wouldn’t be there if they weren’t just like me.

  “Please?” he yelled after me. I ignored him as I descended into the bowels of the subway system. Nice ass or not, at that point I hoped I’d never see him again. How could I have been so dumb?

  Safely on the train speeding me the last several blocks to my class, I allowed myself a grin, which was swallowed by a grimace. Random art wasn’t the only thing I couldn’t afford. Calling attention to myself was another. Distractions could also cost me way more than money. I needed to keep my focus on my goal, not get sidetracked by tanned forearms and dimples beneath molten brown eyes. I tried to put him out of my head and think about the lymph system, recalling the salient points of my reading homework. I had thought that would be my one and only encounter with the hot, charming street artist.

  I was wrong.

  The next morning, I deliberately took the same way to class, hoping to see the sexy artist and berating myself for it. I kept an eye out for a disturbance in foot traffic, or a crowd, or a voice hawking paintings again. Nada. Disappointment sat in my gut like the glob of cinnamon raisin oatmeal I’d had for breakfast. I hated oatmeal, but it was cheap. And entirely too lumpy. All the street commotion was regular, everyday commuters—who were sidestepping a few people stopped on the sidewalk up ahead. I heard grumbles, something about those fucking tourists. Then the click of camera shutters. When I finally realized what people were stopping to photograph, I gasped.

  It was me.


  Well, graffiti of me. My face, billboard sized on the side of a concrete building, done in chalk like so many gang symbols covered over with urban murals. My silver-blue eyes stared out at the crowd, mysterious and beguiling. My hair swept with nonchalant grace across my forehead, nothing at all like the unruly mess I dealt with for real. My lips pouted at me, enormous and bow shaped and far more kissable than any mirror had ever reflected.

  “Wow, those eyes,” the woman beside me said, stopping to stare. “They can’t be real.”

  Before I considered the wisdom, I replied, “I get that a lot, but they are.” She snorted and glanced at me, clearly thinking I’d made a joke, only to do a wide-eyed double take.

  “Oh my god, you’re the face! Can I take your picture?” She didn’t wait for an answer, already raising her phone.

  I ducked my chin, uncomfortable. “Sorry, I have to go.” I pushed between bodies, throwing a glare over my shoulder when the woman hollered that I was the subject of the art. Other people whipped their phones in my direction and snapped away, and I hunched further, saying rude “excuse mes” as I shoved toward the subway platform.

  It wasn’t until I was on the train that my breathing slowed and my heart went from a gallop to a trot. The depiction of my face had been flattering, and when I realized I’d made such an impression on the artist, a frisson of heat zinged down my spine, blossoming in my pelvis with a twitch of my dick. He’d drawn my face from memory, which was impressive in itself, but he also had to have done it overnight. Like a message to me. The sidewalk was too crowded in the day for him to have held up foot traffic while he worked. I’d also had a pharma lab the previous evening, and when I’d gone home, the wall had been blank, no handsome artist in sight.

  But as gratifying as the attention was, it was also dangerous and made me distinctly uncomfortable. I loved New York mainly for the anonymity her crowds provided, the ability to get lost and never be found. I didn’t think my dad would find me again, but I certainly hoped not. Calling that kind of attention to myself was ill advised. I needed to get rid of the drawing. It was a billboard announcing Dane Perry existed here. I couldn’t have that.