7 Stalking around

Date = 10 September

Place = San Francisco (Paws and Claws Center)

POV - Damion

“What’s your name?” I ask pushing the frat boy into the tree.

“Ben.”

“Why were you following that girl?” His brows flip up to his hairline.

“Seriously?” he shouts out. “I’m a dude and she’s hot.” I eyeball him, scrutinizing his face for any sign that he might be the D man I’m looking for. He goes bleak and swallows.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to get her phone number,” I let go of the guy’s shirt. He steps away from me. “Fuck. No need to go all psycho crazy, dude.” His tough-boy image cracked, he puffs out his chest a little in the hope of regaining some pride.

“Are you going to beat up every guy on campus that looks at her?” Yeah. No. Maybe. I stuff my hands into my pockets and sigh.

“You’re going to be busy then, ‘cause she’s one sexy chick.” Suddenly I feel like going all neanderthal again, but I don’t. He’s right. He’s the fourth guy in just an hour. And none of them had a D name. There was Tom, Charles, Brady, and now Ben.

Maybe following her secretly around and attacking every guy who looks at her funny is not the way to do it. But with little more than caffeine in my system, and this nagging fucking feeling in my chest region, that feels a hell of a lot like fear, I’m not the best version of myself right now.

Hell, I’m not even the best version of my normal fuck-up version. The best version of me is not easy to find … he’s only appeared in little drips and drabs over the past eleven years.

“What are you doing here?” a familiar voice sounds up behind me. I put my hands on my face and gradually pull them down until they end up with prayer hands right under my chin. Shit. I’m busted.

“You’re boyfriend is fucking crazy, that’s what,” the guy says and leaves with a snort and a very pissed face. I slowly turn around to look into Mel’s judgy eyes.

“Eh … would you believe me if I said I’m thinking of enrolling?” I let loose a slow, badboy smile, that I know is potently sexy and always softens chicks’ hearts.

“Not even a little.” But this is Mel. Of course, it won’t work on her. I scratch a sudden itch at the back of my head. Always tell the truth, I hear Mom’s voice in my mind.

“I’ve been following you around these last couple of days.” She snaps in a breath and crosses her arms over a green, man’s cut, beefy T, and what looks like a black crop top underneath. The glimpse of silky tummy skin peeking through the wide-cut sleeves is making my mouth water for a taste. She always makes my mouth water.

“Okay, I’ll pretend that’s not creepy at all and ask why?” The skin-tight black spandex short looks like it’s painted onto her, highlighting the delicious curves of her hot-as-shit ass. And as part of the male species, I notice there’s no outline of any underwear visible — so I’m sure she’s going commando underneath.

Here she is, standing cross-arms in front of me, looking a little bored and a lot pissed, while all I can think about is getting into those erotic little pants. Where there are no panties. Just warm, wet flesh. I sweep a hand over my eyes. Fucked. I’m so fucking fucked. And stone hard.

I need to steer my perverted mind away from any dirty thoughts. I want her to see me as something more than just a fuck-boy. Multiplication. Eight times five is ….

“Damion,” she hisses when I don’t answer. Look, I’m a great multitasker, but … forty … doing math, standing and breathing, while being hard, and trying to think straight is a great accomplishment for any man. “WHY?”

Yeah, dude, why?

Eight times six is … I think about being brutally honest and telling her that she manages to do what no one else can do — she terrifies the shit out of me … or at least, thinking that something might happen to her scares me half to death. But sometimes a half-truth is better than a whole.

“I’m trying to find that D guy who sends you the messages.” It rolls right off my tongue. She pulls her eyes into a line as if digesting whether to believe me or not. Shit, she’s beautiful when she’s uptight.

Forty-eight. Eight times …

“You know about him?” I guess she doesn’t remember much about that night. What she said, how adorable she was, or how she slept in my arms — I left before she woke up. But I remember every little detail.

“Should I not?” She pulls her mouth tight. I know that pull. She hasn’t told her brothers. Typical — she doesn’t like them interfering. She is the most independent, most gutsy, sexiest woman I’ve ever met. And stubborn as shit.

She switches her weight from one leg to the other, pushing her hip to the side. For the life of me, I can’t pick what part to focus on, so I form a little loop — legs, ass, tits, face, tits, ass, legs — repeat. It’s fucking heavenly torture. Eight times nine is …

“And your great plan is to follow me around and grab every guy in my vicinity and ask if his name starts with a D?” Now that she says it out loud … it seems a little bit over the top. But when it comes to her, my thoughts are never normal.

“Well, not exactly … I ask them their names, not what it starts with.” She gives me a long look I can’t even begin to interpret. Or maybe I’m just not willing to read the very clear that’s-so-fucking-dumb expression. But it’s she that makes me dumb. Okay, that’s not totally true … I’ve always been prone to do stupid things. I just tend to do it more when she’s around. Seventy-two.

I begin to doubt my rushed plan. I just need her to be safe. I can’t face losing another person … especially not her. Eleven times eight is …

Definitely not her. Most of all, not her.

“You’re not going to ‘curse’ me again, are you?” She wiggles her fingers while emphasizing the word curse with air quotes. Fuck. Out of everything she remembers that.

She lifts her arms, divides her ponytail into two, and pulls. The action tightens the man T over her boobs and I notice the distinct outline of her nipples. Eleven eights …

“How do you know?” I ask … eleven times … She drops her arms, but the shirt stays put, and so do the nipples. I’m sure she has pretty perfect nipples. Eight is …

“Ren.” The snitching fucker. “You ruined my life!” She seems a little angry if I’m not mistaken.

“I had my reasons.” I look down but feel the weight of her gaze.

She sticks a finger between, the elastic material of her shorts and the skin of her right thigh, and tucks it down.

Eleven times eight is eighty-fucking-eight. Fuck math.

“Mel,” I look up and straight into those pick-me-up eyes. Her mouth is grim. “Do you trust me?” Her eyes pop showing an utterly bamboozled face.

“No,” comes the straight answer. I’m not amused and a little hurt. But I guess I earned her mistrust. Something I definitely have to work on.

“Actually,” I hold my breath, “it depends … I trust you will look after me and not let me get physically hurt.” She looks down and eyes her toes. “But I won’t trust you with my heart.”

“Well, you will. And we need to talk when I get back.” She looks at me as if judging my sincerity, that usual inner conflict of hers, back in her eyes.

“Okay,” she says hesitantly after a beat. I can see she’s confused and weary, maybe even a little scared, but also slightly excited. Her nipples harden. Eight times … fuck that.

“Why are you wearing that?” I gulp. I mean, a guy can only do so much multiplication and stay sane at the same time. She looks down at her clothes as if she can’t see the problem.

“I was trying out for the soccer team.” Her face lights up, eyes shining. “And I got in. Center Midfielder.” I grab the hoody hanging around my shoulders and hand it to her.

“Congratulations,” I say sincerely. “Now, put this one.” She takes it hesitantly but holds it with a straight arm far away from her body as if it reeks. And I know it doesn’t. Worst case scenario it will smell like my perfume. I’m pretty much for cloaking her in my scent.

“I promise it doesn’t stink,” I chuckle at the disgusted face.

“Oh, I know that,” she peps, “You always smell pretty great. I’m just wondering if it could maybe impregnate me through osmosis, given who it belongs to.” The meaning behind her words stings a little.

“Ouch, that hurts,” I put my hand on my heart. “I would like to think I’m a little more discerning than that,” I say, trying to go solemn but not quite making it.

“If it helps, there’s a condom in the pocket.” That’s a lie. I haven’t carried a Trojan around for months. “Rule 7. So no possibility of a baby.” Now that part is true.

She pulls a face at the top, trying to hold it even further away. Seriously. Fuck she’s adorable.

“Yeah, prudent is not really a word that comes to mind when I think of you. But my point is … your dick can’t be trusted. That thing has a mind of its own and will fuck anything with brown hair and a coochie.” Does she really think I’m that bad? But I can’t blame her … it’s not that far from the truth. But that’s not me no more.

“Do you need my help putting it on?” Huge baby-blues jerk from eyeing my top to staring at my crotch.

“The condom?!” she squeaks. I try not to laugh but fail. Truly fucking adorable.

“I was actually talking about the sweater.” She’s still looking at the spot where my dick is straining more and more against my zipper, and her looking at it is not helping. Her eyes grow huge and stiff and she licks her lips. Is the little thing having indecent thoughts?

“Oh, good, I see you found us a ride,” Kiara interrupts, stops, and stares. She leans into her friend and whispers. “Is there a problem with the jacket?” Mel blinks and drops her arm, my top now hanging down those gorgeously smooth legs. I will gladly exchange places.

“She thinks it might procreate,” I answer soulfully.

“Serious?” Kiara grunts. “Now that’s new.” She grabs the top and stuffs it against Mel’s chest. “Just put the darn thing on before the man’s nuts crack.” Mel glares at her friend but does as she says.

“Where am I taking you ladies?”

“Paws and Claws,” Mel finds her voice again. I’m surprised and confused — are they adopting?

“The animal center?” Just making sure we’re thinking about the same place.

“Yeah,” Kiara answers. “Mel signed us up as volunteers for this therapy pets program. It’s part of her new experience-everything list.” I stare at her in shock. Kiara is way too sophisticated to be an animal lover. And I’m thinking that dog hair all over her fancy clothes will not go down well. And I also would not mind a peek at that list.

“YOU are going to work with dogs?” I say this slowly eyeballing Kiara. “That shed hair.”

“Oh, close your mouth badboy,” she shoves me with the ease of familiarity. “Mel can do the dogs. I’m going for the men. Apparently, the trainers are hot-as-hell hunks and all single to mingle.” She points a stern finger at Mel.

“They’re mine … you have Ren.” Then she grabs Mel’s arm and wiggles hers through it. “But if you think of making a chance, I’m willing to share.” She faces me. I swallow down the burning sensation in my throat not liking any of those scenarios.

“Where’s your car?” I point in the direction of the parking area, still trying to process the single hot-as-hell trainers part.

“Let’s go,” I say with an attitude that matches my sudden mood. I need to see those fuckers for myself.

I follow, staring at the part of her legs that sticks out under my hoodie. As if her dating Ren is not bad enough, now we’re throwing some hot animal lovers into the pot too. Not to mention the D dude. Maybe I should take her with me.

“So,” Mel asks after Kiara shoved her into the front seat, “When are you leaving for Spain?” I’m rather surprised that she even knows where I’m heading.

“In about two hours. I’ll be back again in October.”

“For your birthday.” She remembers. That’s a start I guess.

“So are you gonna announce your engagement then?” Kiara snaps from the back, and I suddenly feel winded.

“Engagement?”

“To that Chloe chick,” she says in her bitchy voice. I try to find my bearings. Seems she also doesn’t remember that night.

“Chloe?” Why do they keep on thinking that I’m going to do anything with that bitch?

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say like a frickin moron? Mel overheard you confessing to your mom how much you love Chloe.” She’s never been one for holding back.

And holy fucking fuck. I look at Mel but she’s abidingly staring through the window.

“Well, she heard wrong,” I try to set the picture straight. Kiara hits her on the shoulder.

“Tsk, see, I told you.” Mel swings around with fiery eyes.

“I did not. His mom said Chloe and then he said he loved her!” she shouts as if I’m not right there. I snicker.

“My mom just said she saw Chloe. She was worried because Chloe is a damn crazy-ass stalker.” I need her to know that Chloe means nothing to me.

“So you don’t love her,” Kiara asks, “and you’re not planning to get married?”

“Fuck no.” I look at Mel but she’s doing the window-looking thing again.

“So who were you talking about then?” Kiara asks the question I don’t really want to answer … not right now.

“Eh … it’s complicated, but you’ll find out soon enough.” Kiara pouts her mouth but doesn’t push further.

After a beat of silence, I ask about their little around-the-world trip to break the sudden tension, and Kiara spends the whole drive talking about buildings and food and trees and boats and trains and people. Mel keeps staring through that darn window.

Finally, my ears ringing, we reach the center.

“This is not that far from the haunted house,” Mel speaks for the first time again. It’s actually also not that far from our place — not that they would know since neither of them has ever been to my house or my parents.

The reception of Paws and Claws is striking, a huge wood and glass structure with a butterfly roof, that screams joyful warmth in a big way even before you go through the swivel doors. I can just imagine that any stray will feel rather safe here.

Connected to it on the left is another building, bigger, and in the same architectural style. It must be the veterinary hospital … cause the sign says ‘Hospital’.

“Are you a new trainer?” A nippy girl with two brown ponytails and a huge smile asks, looking right at me. In one hand she carries a scruffy-looking stuck-up cat. She’s dressed in overalls and boots, and not entirely bad-looking.

The girl fumbles her nose, probably because we’re staring and none of us are responding.

“I’m asking because you’re hot … like the trainers,” she explains quickly, and then a slight pink blush colors her cheeks, probably realizing too late what she said.

“We’re here for the therapy dog course,” Mel says a little snotty. The girl points a finger in the direction of some grassy pens and paddocks, and more buildings that look like barns and stables.

“They’re grouping in camp 3, but you need to sign in at reception first.” She stomps off, looking back over her shoulder and because she was so friendly, I give her a big smile. She stumbles over a bucket, swears, and almost drops the snobby cat, while I get the exact same contemptuous look from both Mel and Kiara.

“Just can’t take you anywhere,” Mel snips.

“What? She was friendly.”

Kiara rolls her eyes. “Okay, bitch … you go sign in and we will check out the goodies.” She pushes her friend towards the building.

“Come on handsome, let’s go check out your competition,” she giggles and grabs my arm, leading me in the direction the girl pointed. A stone pathway parts the neatly camped-off grassy pens on both sides. At every end is a gate with a number. When we reach 3 Kiara stops.

“Okay,” she whispers, “I’m taking dips on the blondie on the right.” As if I have any interest in any of the four blokes and a girl, all dressed in khaki cargo pants and navy blue Ts with a logo on the right sleeve. I’m not even interested in the group of around 15 girls circled around them. And that’s saying something.

“You can have him, he’s not my type,” I say as sternly as I can. Kiara grunts.

“That nugget on the far left is also rather yummy,” she continues as if I have a clue what that means.

I stare but say nothing. They’re all about my size, with faces. And judging by the drooling women around them, I guess they’re not bad-looking.

I open the gate.

“Are you going to join the class too?” Kiara asks in a soft husky whisper.

“Nope, just going to ask them their names in case it starts with a D,” I wink at her. She rolls her eyes. That’s her thing. Kiara is very straightforward, very realistic, and slightly bitchy. A total contrast to her absent-minded, ADHD, head-in-the-clouds counterpart. I sometimes wonder if they would have become friends if they weren’t thrown together.

“Hi, guys,” I greet as friendly as possible, because if I push another guy against a tree Mel might just kill me.

Kiara’s blondie is the first to hold out his hand. Next to him is a Golden Retriever with friendly brown eyes and a wagging tail.

“Adam,” the man says and I shake his hand. The next guy, a black dude with dreadlocks and a perfect smile, is called Ken. He has a black Lab. Then there is Shawn, another blond with an Alsatian, and the girl, Serena with her Collie mix.

Lastly, I hold out my hand to the ‘nugget on the right’ which he grabs into a serious stiff grip. Our eyes meet, and there’s a look in his icy-blue stare I can’t place, but don’t like. He seems familiar as if I’ve seen him somewhere before.

His face is rigid, a small vein beating in his neck. A chill runs down my spine and gets stuck in my gut. Rule 9. But I keep my cool.

“Damion,” I say in a way too smug voice.

“Wuff.” Of course, his dog looks just as stern as him. It’s one of those Magnum PI dogs … whatchamacallit … Doberman, but this one is still a pup. The guy gives the animal a stern stare and the dog immediately sits and huffs its muzzle. Impressive.

The freezing eyes lift back to mine. The dude has the same don’t-fuck-with-me vibe as Jackson. But unlike Jackson, I don’t trust him.

“Alejandro.” Even his voice is tight or he forgot to take his Midol. Damn, I sort of wanted him to be a D. He lets go of my hand and runs his fingers through his messy black hair that curls low in his neck.

Mel comes walking into the pen and all the guys suddenly stand up straight and notice. Fuck. It irritates the hell out of me when men look at her, especially if they look at her as if she’s the hottest thing since Miley Cyrus’s wrecking ball video.

“Awh, what a cute puppy,” she beams behind me. Hot and bothered and not in a good way, I turn around to eye the subject of my insanity. And then it happens.

I pull her into a tight hug and kiss her on the cheek. Moving my nose slowly to her ear, I whisper against the silky skin of her neck: “Don’t miss me too much, little angel.”

She makes a soft sound of sultry hotness that goes right through me. Her hands slide from my chest to my hips and it takes every little bit of control I have to pull away.

The little hiss she makes as we pry apart hits me right in the balls. Rather reluctantly, I let her go and nod my head at the trainers. They’re staring droopy-eyed at Mel, except for Icy-nugget … he’s glaring at me. My rules run around in my head.

I wave at the giggling group of bright-eyed fansies as I strut off, trying to keep control. At the gate, my lips pout a kiss towards a stunned Kiara, and I get the hell out of there. I feel like running, but I walk the walk of a calm self-confident man, not feeling very calm or confident.

I can’t explain even to myself why I did it. Temporary insanity due to a lack of food. That, or a case of severe unfulfilled and out-of-practice hormones. Maybe a little bit of an Alpha ego staking a claim.

I’m blaming the stiff dude with the hot dog. Or those obnoxious fuck-me peacock-blue eyes belonging to an irritating girl.

Fine. Maybe she doesn’t irritate me. I’m not exactly sure what she does, though it feels rather close to me wanting to bash my head against a wall … repeatedly.

I get in my car and drive home, hoping for heaven that she would be safe. I would love to stay and keep an eye on her, but I can’t miss the next few races. I need to take back at least our team championship after last year’s disaster or else Monster Energy might decide to back someone else. Not that we need backing. It’s just good to have.

Then I think of a plan B.

“Hey Siri, phone Jackson.”