Obsessive Compulsion

by CE Kilgore

  “My apologies,” he clears his throat, but his eyes are looking everywhere but at me. “The framers will be starting today, so we will need to move your sign work. Also, with the noise and dust, you may want to delay further painting.”

  I nod and stand, scratching an itch on my nose. “Alright, not a problem. Can’t wait to see it all start comin’ together.”

  “Yes, well…” his voice trails off and then he snorts.

  That little snort he does when he laughs is cute, too. Damn me, the boy is just plain adorable and I want to eat him up. Not that he’d ever let me. Would he?

  The mixed signals from him have been keeping me out of sorts for three months, now that I think about it. I can admit I’m attracted to him, and I do enjoy his company when he’s not playing hard to get. I’d even considered asking him out, but then he started pulling away.

  He’s looking at me now, though, his gaze locked on my nose with a slight blush coloring his cheeks. It makes me wonder… “Well, what?”

  “You have paint on your nose,” he points, swallowing another snort.

  I cross my eyes to look at my nose, and he loses the battle against his laugh. I scrunch up my nose and try wiping it with my hand again, then realize I’ve got white paint all over my hand. “Dang it!”

  His laughter calms and he pulls out a little foil package from his pocket. It’s one of those wetnaps you get with chicken wings or that moms carry around in their purses. He always seems to have them in his pocket. Tearing open the package, he keeps his gaze focused on my nose.

  “Hold still, please,” he barely whispers.

  He doesn’t touch anything but my nose and cheek, and only with the wetnap. I do my best not to move, but the wetnap tickles and smells of lemons. I like lemons, but the tart scent tickles my nose. I take the time, as he intently focuses on cleaning my face, to examine his features more closely. Especially his eyes.

  They aren’t your normal green and brown hazel. The brown is a fine ring right before the white, and the green that fills in his irises is mixed with blue. The green is faded, like milky jade, and the blue is the color of white-washed denim. They’re strange, his eyes, and I want nothing more than to go find an empty canvases to try and recreate them with watercolors.

  His gaze flicks up to mine, we stare into each other’s pupils for a breath, and then he’s down-casting his gaze as he steps away. “All done.”

  “Thank you,” I say just a bit too cheerily to try and push away the crazy vibrations I’m feeling. His eyes, they do something to me. My fingers itch for a paintbrush.

  He nods, folding the dirty wetnap and stuffing it back into the foil package. “I will have the sign moved away from the work before your return on Friday.”

  “Thank you,” I repeat. Great, I’ve gone into parrot-mode while my brain is focusing on his profile as the sunbeams cast shadows across it. Now I want to capture his face in charcoal, or perhaps oil pastels.

  He seems reluctant to move, which is allowing this odd interlude to linger. “It’s starting to rain,” he says. “You may want to go ahead and leave for your class.”

  My class? Oh, right, the one I teach. At eleven. Shit!

  “Oh, yeah, I probably should. Thanks. People forget how to drive in Dallas when it’s raining in December. I swear, you’d think it was Armageddon every time the weatherman even sneezes at the word sleet.”

  And now I’m rambling about the weather. Really, Charlie? The weather?

  A subtle smirk twitches his lip and I’m back to admiring his features. Before I start asking him to pose, I grab a rag, clean my hands and pickup up my mess. “Guess I’ll see you… Monday?”

  He nods. “I might be here on Friday morning to check on the framework, but I don’t know if it would be before your class.”

  My eyebrow quirks up as I tap the lid back on the paint can. He knows my teaching schedule pretty damn well. I teach two classes and hold studio sessions on Tuesdays and Thursdays, eating up my entire day. On Wednesdays and Fridays I just have the eleven o’clock. When I’m not teaching at the University, I try to come here and help make Emma’s dream a reality.

  I think my thoughtful pause bothers him, because he clears his throat, dips his head and begins heading back out the door. “Good day, Miss… Charlie.”

  “See ya,” I offer back, my casual slang juxtaposing against his formality. I watch the straight path he follows out of the building, the metal door closing behind him with an echoing clang. The urge to grab any medium I can and capture his likeness on canvas or sketchpad continues to tingle over my nerves. I don’t know what it is about Ian Rider, but it calls to my crazy artistic chaos.

  I want to get under his skin, deviate his straight lines and loosen up his formal tone. It’s like this itch I need to scratch, and it’s been driving me slowly insane since he first knelt down in front of me to dry my tears three months ago. I know, though, that before I’ll ever be able to reach that nagging itch, I’ll have to step away from my own comforts a little bit and step further into his.

  Ian

  Friday. I’ve made it almost two whole days without thinking about Charlie.

  Dammit.

  Well, I was close. After our brief meeting in the factory, I’d refocused all my efforts into managing the framers at Shoe Village and then on getting The Stables ready for another Friday night. Another long, lonely Friday night.

  Standing in my safety zone behind the bar, which has become my unquestioned refuge over the years, I look out over the gathering members. It’s a quarter to seven in the evening. Everyone is simply waiting for Brandon and Emma to make an appearance before the usual community mingling and training displays begin. The Stable Master and his Baby Doll. I wonder what adorable little outfit Emma will be wearing tonight.

  Last week, she was in a pink corset with huge silk bows that had more than one person drooling at her all night. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look. She’s so damn cute, and I know Brandon doesn’t mind the stares. Everyone knows and respects that Emma is his, not only as his wife but also as his Submissive. Emma really has all the control, though. If she suddenly wanted to include someone else in their fun, I know Brandon would suck up his sharing-issues and give her what she wants.

  I don’t think she ever will. Emma is one hundred percent devoted to Brandon, and it’s a beautiful thing to watch. My eyes cast back over the crowd. Watching is what I do here, mostly. I’ve tried to participate a few times, but it’s hard. People seem to get that, whether they understand why or not, and they respect my chosen place of observation behind the bar.

  I’m still offered invitations to join in from time to time, but they never hold it against me when I decline. Sometimes, I get looks of sympathy, but I try not to let that bother me. Right now, I know I’ve got zero interest in participating, even as an Assist. The very thought of touching a man or woman who isn’t a particular redhead makes me twitch.

  I’ve got an obsessive compulsive itch for Charlie McLeod, and I’ve got it bad. I think my friends know it, even Kyle. Hasn’t stopped the prick from making passes at my Charlie.

  Rider…

  I know, I know. Not my Charlie.

  Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t run through fire to keep her from becoming a victim of Kyle’s childish game. I’d fall on my knees in front of her on razors and beg her to see reason if I thought she’d been taking any of his advances seriously. So far, it seems she’s just happy he’s feeding her café mocha addiction. My Charlie is way too smart to fall for Kyle Masterson.

  Rider!

  Fuck, I can’t help it! I intake a sharp breath and set down the rag I’ve been using to clean the same spot on the bar top for the past ten minutes. I’m surprised I haven’t rubbed off the lacquer from the wood.

  Distance. That’s what I need. I need to stop running into her at Shoe Village… for like a month. Or three.

  I need to give my mind time to latch on to something else. Something more attainable. Something more realistic than a fiery
redhead who makes my whole body twitch.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Brandon’s voice echoes into the club room and I snap to attention. When did he and Emma arrive? Wait, where’s Emma?

  “Good evening, Stable Master,” the club members say in unison to greet him.

  It’s a good crowd here tonight. Close to fifty people. It’s almost the holidays, but that combined with the shitty weather hasn’t seemed to stop people from coming out. I’ve noticed our attendance numbers have been higher since Emma came along.

  Because of the Shoe Village publicity, the other club members now know who she and Brandon really are. Most club members try to keep a low profile to separate their Friday night BDSM lifestyle from their everyday persona. I understand and respect that, but it seems they respect and appreciate what Brandon and Emma are doing.

  “Tonight, we have a debut,” Brandon continues, causing my brow to raise.

  I haven’t heard anything about a debut, which is odd. Usually, I handle the contracts we make new members sign. What the hell is going on?

  One of the large double doors behind Brandon opens and Emma steps in, bringing smiles to everyone’s lips. She’s in the outfit she wore three months ago for her own debut – white leather, frilly bloomers and tiny pink bows. I smile, too, because it’s adorable, and she smiles right back at me.

  Actually, she’s grinning at me like I’ve got something written on my face. So is Brandon.

  What. The. Hell.

  Then she walks in and everything stops. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no…

  My jaw twitches rapidly while my eyes follow her confident strides into the room to stand next to Emma. I squeeze the glass in my leather-gloved hand so hard it cracks. This was supposed to be my refuge. This was supposed to be my obsession’s safety net. This was supposed to be my reprieve from Charlie.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Emma says in her tiny voice, responding with her little giggle and a bounce of her caramel curls when the members respond in unison. She takes Charlie’s hand. “Tonight, I’m debuting my best friend. Please welcome Scarlet.”

  My hand tightens and the cracked glass breaks.

  Scarlet. The name fits her and runs through my veins like fire. If I wasn’t completely hooked on her already, that would’ve been the last piece to pull me under. As it is, I’m sporting a nasty cut through my leather glove, completely ignoring it as I try to remember to breathe.

  The shattering glass is covered by the unified response from the members, welcoming Scarlet to our club. All eyes are on my Charlie, my Scarlet, and I don’t blame a single one of them. She’s downright gorgeous.

  Victoria walks in behind her and Emma, looking smug, and I’m guessing Vic helped get Charlie ready. Charlie’s flaming red hair has been pulled into a tight, commanding ponytail at the crown of her head that descends down her back in a whipping braid. It draws attention to her height, which has been added to by a pair of black leather, heeled boots that lace all the way up the backs of her legs to her mid-thigh. Above that sits a matching miniskirt and back-lacing corset. The corset has a dark red, silk ribbon that’s been tied at the bottom with big loops and long strands that trail against the back of her thighs.

  I’m hyperventilating through my nose because my jaw continues to twitch, locked tight as my lungs fight for air. I’d been picking up on little clues from Charlie, here and there, since she stormed into Brandon’s conference room like she owned it to rain the fires of Hell down on his head. Seeing it all confirmed, right in front of my eyes – having my fantasies brought to life – takes my obsessions to a whole new, dangerous level.

  She’s a Dominant. There’s no way anyone in this club could ever misunderstand that and expect a woman like her to submit. It’s obvious she’s nervous, but even through her debut jitters, every single detail about her commands the room.

  Fuck. I think she might even give Victoria a run for her money once she gets properly trained as a Mistress.

  If I still had any doubts about Kyle not having a chance with her, seeing her in full domination leathers obliterates them. Glancing at his shocked face, I snort. I can’t help it. Despite the cut on my hand and my continued breathing issues, seeing Kyle dumbstruck like that is the funniest shit I’ve seen in a long time.

  He needs a Submissive, and there is no way in hell that’s Charlie. There’s also not even the slightest possibility Kyle will ever submit to a woman, except maybe Sarah, but I don’t see that happening, either. This, I admit, is a favorable turn of events, even if just to see Kyle taken down a peg or two. I’m no fool. I know I’m not worthy of Charlie, either.

  The meet and greet is over and Charlie is suddenly being ushered to the bar. I don’t have a café mocha to offer her, but I can make her an iced coffee with some Bailys. As I reach for a tall glass, I remember the cut on my hand and flounder as my brain obsesses over the fact that I’ve dripped 7 splotches of blood all over Brandon’s bar.

  Yes, I count them all. Twice. Then I let one last drop go so it’s even.

  God, why am I so messed up?

  “Twitch!” Charlie gasps, and the sound of my club nickname on her lips gives me involuntary shivers. “What happened to your hand?”

  Yeah, no way I’ll be able to keep my voice steady, so I just show my hand to her because she asked. She comes around the bar, Emma and Brandon watching with obvious interest. I shoot a glare at Brandon, because it’s all the anger I can muster right now. He just gives me that cocky, goofy ‘I got you good’ grin. Jerk.

  Charlie tugs off my glove by the fingers, but she doesn’t touch my skin. Instead, she puts a napkin in her palm, cups the back of my hand with it and then bends down to examine the cut. I inhale sharply at the gesture, looking back at Brandon. This time, my eyes are full of questions.

  Did they tell her? Does she know how terribly fucked up I am? Brandon nods towards Emma who’s looking at me with gentle understanding in her eyes.

  “Well, it isn’t too deep,” Charlie sighs. “Should be bandaged, though. Medkit?”

  “In the storeroom,” Brandon offers then takes Emma and abandons me with a, ‘you’re welcome’ mouthed silently behind Charlie’s back. Oh, I am so going to enjoy obsessing over ways to get him back for this.

  “C’mon,” Charlie commands my attention again and all thoughts about revenge on Brandon fade. “Show me the way so we can get you cleaned up.”

  “Yes, Miss Scarlet,” I swallow, thankful my voice is at least somewhat steady as I lead her away from the bar. Kyle slips in to take my spot, his blue eyes wide and disbelieving as he gazes at Charlie. Charlie doesn’t even acknowledge his presence. It’s like all she can see is me and my injured hand.

  I guide her through a door, down a short hall and into the storeroom. Thank God. The light is already on so Charlie doesn’t have to stand there and watch me flick it on and off like a nutjob.

  You are a nutjob, Rider. Don’t forget that.

  I bite back an audible self-reproach and search for the medkit. It isn’t where I put it last, and that irks me. I find it sitting on a spare restraint bench, and that fills me with unattainable desires.

  The bench was pulled off the floor because we haven’t gotten around to patching a small tear in the leather back rest. Charlie follows me to the bench, her eyes full of curiosity. I pick up the medkit, handing it to her, and she points at the bench.

  “Sit down and put your hand in my lap,” she commands as she sits.

  “Yes, Miss Scarlet,” I respond naturally, before I can stop it. Sitting down, our knees angled and centimeters from touching, I set the back of my shaking hand against her skirt. My hand is cradled by her thighs, so close and yet still so very out of reach.

  Opening the large, red medkit, the first thing she does it put on a pair of medical gloves. As the opaque latex snaps tight, my eyes go wide and I choke. She knows. God, she has to know. When she looks up into my eyes, I see the truth of it.

  “I’m just gonna clean the wound a bit and then wrap it in a ba
ndage,” her voice soothes my nerves, her eyes never leaving mine as she talks. “I don’t think it’ll need stitches, but you check on it tomorrow. If it still bleeds, you go to a hospital, okay?”

  “Yes, Miss Scarlet,” I nod once. I hate hospitals, but there is no way I can argue against her request. Not when she’s looking me square in the eyes and commanding my soul’s full attention.

  As she gently cleans the wound with hydrogen-peroxide, all the disjointed wires in my brain finally meet. She adds some gauze padding to my palm and wraps it in a bandage while I come to terms with what I realized the very first time I saw her. When she has my attention like this, everything else is quiet.

  I’m not counting. My mind isn’t worried about my apartment door or that my toaster is still plugged in. I may be staring at her red hair, but I’m not trying to see each individual strand so I make sure she has an even number. I’m not obsessing, because Charlie is the one compulsion that focuses my whole being.

  Holy. Shit.

  “You doin’ okay, Twitch?” her voice calmly asks, her head still bent over my hand as she wraps the bandage over and over.

  I don’t know. Am I? I’m having a fucking epiphany right now in a dimly lit storeroom, sitting next to a girl who gives me something I’ve never had before.

  Peace.

  Charlie

  Ian, er… Twitch, is deathly still and it worries me a little. I’ve suspected for a while now that he has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but I didn’t understand just how severe it actually is until Brandon and Emma sat me down for a talk over dinner last night. After I agreed to the debut, Emma had been ecstatic but Brandon had wanted to know what had finally made up my mind. I’d sat there, barely touching Austin’s kick-ass homemade sopapillas, trying to figure it all out myself.

  Sure, I wanted to make Emma happy and to learn more about this new part of her. I wanted to feel more like part of the group than the distant cousin. I was curious. All that was true, but it wasn’t the reason that had kept nagging at me as I drizzled honey over my sopapillas.