by Rina Kent
His eyes warn me not to repeat my mistake from earlier, and he smiles when I use his first name.
"Wonderful." He picks himself up and stares down at me, as if he's trying to devour me with his gaze.
I glance up too, picking up things about him I haven't noticed before. Like how light blond his hair is amid the streaks of gray. How chiseled sharp his jaw is, and how his faint hint of stubble reminds me of one of my foster fathers. It sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine, and I shake my head to get rid of the thought.
"I'll pick you up at your apartment around seven thirty. Does that work for you?"
"Sounds good," I say, hoping he can't hear the uncomfortable edge to my voice. I rattle off my address and phone number, and he saves them both in his phone before flashing me another grin. "I'll see you tonight."
"Cannot wait." He rubs my shoulder for a second before disappearing down the hallway. I only notice I've been holding my breath when he finally leaves, and I exhale a sigh of relief just as Dinah reappears with the now empty box of donuts.
"So, how did it go?" she gushes, and I make a face at her.
"As well as it could have, I suppose. I'm meeting him for dinner tonight."
"How perfect!" She claps her hands together with excitement and I cringe inwardly. I'm really, really not looking forward to this date. Not only because of Dr. Martin... Andrew's expectations, but my friends', too. "You're going to have a great time. Now, for your clothes…"
As Dinah launches into a long monologue about date outfits, I wonder why I accepted the doctor's offer in the first place. I should've just let him down gently; explain I don't date.
Besides, there is a rumor I've heard floating around the hospital, gossip circulating about one of the other nurses, Janine, who got transferred to another hospital in the area – one that's well-known for being badly run, and not a great place to work.
I've heard it whispered that Dr. Martin was the man behind her transfer, and though I never thought to ask why, I have a feeling I wouldn't like the reason.
My mind instantly goes to Rebecca Serrano, another nurse, a head nurse to be specific, who left a few days ago. The staff has been busy gossiping about her reason for leaving.
Some say her husband is in the mafia, others swear they saw her with a known hitman in the city.
Whatever the reason is, Rebecca has gone. Just another unsolved mystery to add to the mix.
I shift my thoughts back to Dr. Martin. I have my doubts about the guy, but my friend seems so excited, I allow myself a glimmer of hope, too.
Maybe it's finally time for me to stop living my life like a recluse.
Maybe it's time for me to live a little.
Besides, there's no doubt Dr. Martin is the perfect date. Charming, kind and a talented doctor, he's everything a woman would want in a partner.
I just need to ignore the nagging voice of doubt in the back of my head, telling me something's going to go terribly wrong tonight.
3
Jasper
My little Petal leads such a boring life it should’ve turned me off — yesterday or the day before that.
Or the day I first saw her less than a week ago.
It hasn’t.
Here I am opposite her shabby building. The walls are badly chipped, as if they haven’t been painted since the place was built.
The security level is next to shit. Anyone can come in and out of that building without any problem. Even the guard is an alcoholic who pours vodka into his juice at ten in the morning.
I know because I watched. Correction. I’ve been watching for the past few days.
Since she smiled at me in that innocent, yet fake way, I haven’t been able to get my little Petal out of my head.
It’s not from the lack of trying.
I would rather be focusing on my next job, tracking Costa’s heir and finishing his miserable life, but no. Every morning, when my night research is done, I find myself here or at the hospital.
Rebecca Serrano took her daughter and left town as I told her to. After that, I had no reason to go back to the hospital or to stand near the parking lot, hovering over an ugly Honda, waiting for the one who drove it.
I followed Petal to her house that first day. Yesterday, I signed for the apartment right across from her apartment’s balcony. Mine is a newer and bigger building.
Finding a new apartment was one of my priorities anyway. I don’t live in one place for more than a few months. Being a creature of habit will only give my enemies a sure way to find and kill me.
Lucio Costa isn’t feared because of his wealth and his power, he’s feared because he kills efficiently and without hesitation.
Or rather, I do.
The reason Lucio’s enemies never catch up with him is because they can never catch up with me.
And not from the lack of trying. The moment they find me, my storage, my weapons, I’ve already moved along.
I’ve been called detached and cold. I would say I’m efficient. I get the job done better than anyone in my field and then move along.
Now, I live in this two-bedroom apartment that I forced the college student who used to live here to evacuate in twenty-four hours. I offered him the apartment downtown that Lucio had given me a few years ago. I never used it and I have no interest to.
Lucio’s shit was never my shit. I’m just paying him back the debt I owe. He pulled me from the clutches of death a long time ago and it’s with death that I repay him.
My apartment is opposite Petal’s but a little above hers so the view from my balcony is straight into her living room — if you can call it that.
Her blinds are open as she crouches and feeds her cat. Two, actually.
Someone is a cat lady.
A cat lady with a fake smile and little to no friends.
There’s something curious about Petal. The way she moves, how she talks to people, how she slips out at the end of her shift. It’s like she’s invisible, and the only way she makes herself visible is by thinning her lips and smiling in that fake way.
Fake smile.
Fake existence.
“What are you hiding, my little Petal?” I retrieve my binoculars and sit on the chair on my balcony with only the darkness as my companion.
She must be hiding something, or she wouldn’t have been so efficient at faking, at choosing to be invisible.
It’s a little over seven and she just returned from her shift. After she feeds her cats, she’ll prepare herself dinner, watch crime shows on Netflix, then read something or go through her laptop and then sleep.
It’s the first time I’ll get to watch the routine from this perfect position and not through her building’s fire escape, where I barely got any view to her living room.
She says something to her cats as they eat. Hmm. I might have to figure out a way to listen in on her.
Or I might forget the fuck about her and move on with my life. How about that?
I readjust the binoculars as she continues talking to her cats with a small smile on her lips as if they’re humans. She does that, talking to her cats, which means she’s not as lonely as I predicted — it’s way fucking worse.
She has two friends at the hospital, the Russian and the black woman. But even when she’s with them, she’s still a lonely little Petal.
The cats don’t even acknowledge her, one is licking itself and the other is busy eating.
She kisses them both on the head as she shimmies out of her blouse and heads in the direction of the bedroom.
Usually, my observation through the fire escape would finish in the living room, with that little cocktease of her unbuttoning her blouse.
Today, though, I redirect the binoculars toward her bedroom window. She stands in the middle of the room in front of her closet in only black bra and colorful cotton panties.
Her skin appears paler under the white light. The curve of her full tits, creamy and engorged, push against her bra, giving a porn-level view. She has curves that she managed
to hide well with those unflattening scrubs. Sometimes, she wears them from home, as if needing the camouflage.
Well, well, my little Petal. What are you hiding from?
She digs into her closet and I expect her to retrieve those pajamas with cats on them. No kidding, she has multiple kitten pajamas.
Instead of her usual home clothes, she retrieves jeans and blouses, then dresses and sweaters.
Petal never goes out, so this is a break from the norm. She’d usually be curled up with a book or cradling her laptop.
She tries several items of clothes against herself as she stands in front of the mirror but soon throws them away. I wonder how that firm ass would look in jeans.
I readjust my cock as she tries one thing after the other against her half-naked body.
One thing’s for certain. I need to either fuck her or kill her soon, so I can get the release.
Or I can do both.
It all depends on what she’s hiding behind those metal eyes and fake smile.
If she’s been wasting my time this entire week, she’s getting a bullet to her head and someone will have to adopt her ungrateful cats.
She settles on a little black dress, twirling while she holds it to her body. Interesting. She can do that just like any other woman, my fake little Petal.
She digs into a drawer and pulls out a set of white lace lingerie.
White lace.
My cock hardens, but it’s out of the hot red anger going through it rather than the view.
Who the fuck is she wearing lingerie for?
She unclasps her black bra and her breasts fall free with a gentle bounce. The soft pink areolas are tipped with semi-erect nipples, begging to be sucked, pinched, bitten.
Petal hides them all too soon with the white bra, then shimmies out of her cotton panties. Her pussy is smooth with a few hairs disappearing between her thighs. My cock pushes against my pants with the need to plunge inside that pussy, claim it and claim her, then get her out of my fucking system.
She pulls the new panties up way too soon, as if she feels me watching her, which isn’t remotely possible. She’d have to look from her window and have killer sight. I’m sitting in the darkness and she’s in the light.
Darkness never bothered me. If anything, it provided the shadows I needed to go unnoticed.
Petal stares at the mirror again, her brows furrowing as she admires her new lingerie.
White.
Why the fuck is it white? Does she think she’s some sort of angel being unboxed?
She throws the dress over her head. It has a low neckline and it’s tight at her stomach and falls to above her knees. Appearing satisfied with her dress for the night, she releases her hair, letting it fall in black waves to her back.
My little Petal never releases her hair, not even in her house when she’s alone. I didn’t even know it was that long.
She sits in front of her mirror and applies lipstick and mascara and ends the ritual by spraying perfume all around her.
What smell is it?
I don’t ever get close enough to smell her, but she always gave the impression of hospital smell; cold and impersonal. Just like all those fucking fake smiles.
She buzzes someone through to her apartment while my blood boils. I don’t see the son of a bitch, but I can already imagine cutting him up.
I have to know who the fuck she’s wearing that lingerie for.
4
Georgina
I spend a long day at the hospital and get home with twenty minutes to spare before the big date. Rushing through the door, I pet Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Hudson as I put my things down, then get their kibble ready for them. I need a quick shower before Andrew collects me if I have any hope of looking decent.
As I strip my clothes off, I feel as if somebody's watching me. That disconcerting feeling of a pair of eyes following my every move won't stop, even when I've checked every nook and cranny of the apartment. There's no one here, it's just my imagination. I need to stop being paranoid and just focus on my date. It's about time I had some fun.
I take a much too short warm shower and dry myself quickly. I hesitate for a moment before getting dressed, my fingers lingering over the lace in my lingerie drawer before I finally pull out the white set and put it on. I flush as I check out my reflection in the mirror, Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Hudson both watching from my bed with their heads cocked.
"Shut up, guys," I mutter. "It's not like I'm hoping something's going to happen."
Mrs. Hudson meows loudly and I sigh, leaning down to cuddle her close. I dry my hair and apply a quick layer of gloss to my lips, and a coat of black mascara to my eyes.
I spend a lifetime picking out outfits in front of my mirror, before finally settling on a little black dress. I even use some perfume, spraying my wrists and my neck.
I’m done in the nick of time, and the doorbell goes off not a minute past seven thirty. I let Andrew in with the buzzer and throw some stuff in my handbag before opening the front door.
"Good evening," he greets me with his signature grin, and I allow him to kiss my cheek before stepping inside my apartment. "So, this is your place."
"Welcome." I smile shyly and give him the grand tour.
There's not much to see – it's really just one big room with a separate bedroom and a small bathroom. It's cheap, and I don't need much more, anyway. It serves me just fine. But Andrew's expression falls slightly when he sees the inside of my home, and I try to imagine how it must look from his perspective.
The paint is chipping in some places, the kitchen is old, and the cats have pretty much destroyed my sofa. There are blankets and fluffy pillows everywhere, which I thought looked cozy, but it must look like a mess from a doctor's point of view. Of course, Dr. Martin must have a nice place, but then again, his paycheck is probably four times the amount of mine.
"Oh." His nose twitches when Mr. Bingley strolls into the living area and jumps on the dining table. "You have a cat."
"Two, actually." I scratch under Mr. Bingley's jaw and he purrs loudly. "You're not a cat person, I take it."
"Hardly." He gives me a disappointed look, and I can just imagine him adding 'likes cats' to the list of cons he has for me in his head. "Come on now, Georgina. We don't want to miss our reservation."
I nod, grabbing a light jacket and locking the doors behind us as we leave the apartment. I feel the prickle of eyes on the nape of my neck again as I walk with Andrew down the street. As if somebody's watching me. A quick glance over my shoulder doesn't reveal a thing – the street is empty save for a mom pushing a baby carriage a little behind us. It's just my imagination playing tricks on me.
We drive to the restaurant separately at my request. I don’t want to be stuck with him on the way back if things go south. Andrew seems displeased but he says nothing.
His hand finds its way to the small of my back as we walk up to the building. I shift uncomfortably beneath the weight of his touch, but he doesn't move it, and I feel too nervous to ask him to stop touching me. I remind myself he doesn't mean me any harm, but still breathe out in relief when we arrive at the restaurant and are seated across from each other at the tiny table covered with a checkered tablecloth.
The waiter arrives with the menu, but Andrew brushes him off, ordering for the both of us. I knit my brows together when he does it, not liking how he took the liberty to get me food. What if I had an allergy, or didn't eat certain foods? He never checked with me, and it's hard for me to fight off the feeling of annoyance.
He orders our wine too, red, even though I prefer white, and I sulk through the evening as he goes on about his medical achievements. The food is delicious – not something I would've picked for myself, but still yummy, and it's a small reprieve to the evening. Somehow, we manage to go through the entire bottle of red, and I decide to stop with my third glass. I never drink, and the booze has gone straight to my head, fraying my nerves.
The evening is pleasant enough, but I already know I
won't go on a second date with Andrew. There's just no chemistry there, and I don't casually sleep with men, either, so I don't really see a point in us continuing this.
It seems Andrew doesn't feel the same way, though. He keeps reaching for my knee under the table, and I feign ignorance, carefully maneuvering my body so we never touch for longer than a couple of seconds. When the bill arrives, he gallantly offers to pay, though his expectant look only softens when I say I'd like to pay for my share. I don't feel comfortable making him pay for me since I won't go out with him again, and even though it makes me cringe because of the exorbitant price, I count out the bills to cover my half of the dinner and hand them to him.
I only realize just how tipsy I am when we get up to leave. My knees threaten to buckle. That third glass of wine was a step too far, and I'm regretting it as Andrew slips my jacket on my shoulders and we leave the restaurant. We walk through the parking lot and I start to find the whole situation ridiculous, giggling softly when we nearly crash into one another.
There's a moment of camaraderie when a smile passes between us, but Andrew must mistake it for me wanting more, because before I know it, he's caged my body beneath his against a car.
"I knew you wanted me," he mutters against my cheek as I awkwardly twist my head away from him. "It was all over your face."
"I'm sorry, Andrew, I –"
"No more excuses." His tone is demanding, and he starts to feel me up, making me cringe as his hand slips between my legs and fight its way to my crotch. I resist him, trying to make it clear I don't want this, but he disregards the situation completely. "You nurses are all the same. Put a title in front of a man's name, and you're putty in their hands."
I couldn't give two shits about him being a doctor, but I have a feeling telling him as much will only make him angrier. Instead, I grab his hands and try to pry them off my body, but he overpowers me easily, laughing in my face.
"Andrew, please stop."
My voice is firm and collected, though there's a tremble in it, and I do my best to hide it as I slip away from his touch. But he keeps grabbing at me, his hand brushing against my tits, against my crotch. I want to kill him, but he would easily overpower me.