by Karen Ferry
Now, don’t get me wrong: even though I struggled, and still do, with my “condition”, I love books, but I have to say that audio books make life a hell of a lot easier for someone like me. People often wonder why I’m choosing to attend university at all -- many seem to be under the assumption that people with dyslexia can’t hold down jobs that deal with the linguistic arts or literature, but I want to prove them all wrong.
Why can’t I choose something that I love, something that gives me great pleasure?
Why must I still be labelled as the kind of guy who won’t be able to amount to much?
No. I refuse to let others choose for me. If I want to become a teacher -- heck, if I get the urge to get a Ph.D. someday -- no one is going to deny me that. Maybe it’ll just take me a bit longer than the rest of them, but I’m fine with it.
Great things are worth fighting for -- and nobody will be able to stop me from going after my dreams.
I just wish I wouldn’t have to do it alone . . .
Chapter 12
I’m standing outside Daniel’s flat, arm raised and ready to knock, but I have yet to actually go through with it. My thoughts continue to wander back to last night when I listened to him pleasuring himself. I was quite shameless, actually, and held my ear to the wall above my headboard when the realization of what he was up to -- no pun intended -- hit me. Hearing his moans, imagining how and where he touched his body felt forbidden somehow. I’m by no means a shy person, sexually, I mean, but I’m not a voyeur; I don’t usually get aroused by watching other people jack off.
I’m quite sure that watching Daniel would change my mind about that, though.
When silence finally descended from his flat, I refrained from doing the same, no matter how turned on I was. In theory, I shouldn’t have held back, but I chickened out: I didn’t want to risk him waking up to the sounds of my moans.
Mentally giving my lady bits a good talking-to, I finally muster up the courage to knock and then wait impatiently for Daniel to open his door.
When I hear his footsteps drawing nearer, I plaster a smile on my face, ready to greet him like I would any other not-so-close friend: politely.
As soon as I see him, however, my brain has a mind of its own.
“Good morning, Daniel. Feeling well rested today?” I ask, and I’m this close to kicking myself in the arse.
Oh, well, too late to do anything about it.
“Quite,” he answers, not smiling back at me in the least. But at least he’s not blushing this time.
Ignoring his stony face, I soldier on, “I thought that, seeing as we’re off to work, we might as well go together. It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other better, which, I might add, is a very vital factor if you are to be my pretend boyfriend.” Pulling on the strap of my purse, I take in his clothes and sigh: another boring button-down shirt, grey slacks and -- yep, you guessed it -- a pair of loafers. “You know, we need to do something about your wardrobe,” I continue, and shake my head.
“What?” Daniels asks me and looks quickly down and back at me. “What’s wrong with it?” He frowns, and that horrid pair of glasses slips down his nose a bit, preventing me from seeing his eyes properly.
“Well, for one thing, Preppy, you dress like your uncle does: as if we’re living in another day and age!” I admonish him, giving him the once-over again. “And for another,” I add, “it’s summer. We’re in the beginning of July, so how can you stand wearing so many clothes in this heat? It’ll stifle you.” I begin to tap my foot slightly, not wanting to be late for work, but, at the same time, not wanting to make Daniel think that I’m rude.
Daniel takes a few steps back, indicating that I should enter his flat, and after hesitating a few seconds, I do as he asks and walk inside. Taking in the flat and finding that it really hasn’t changed since yesterday -- there are still plenty of boxes waiting to be unpacked -- I move across the living room to take a peek out of the window overlooking his balcony. It looks just like mine.
“I’m almost ready to leave,” Daniel says from behind me, and I turn around to see him rummaging through his backpack as if he’s looking for something.
“Not that I really care that much,” he says, still not looking at me, “but why are my clothes so bad?”
Sensing that he’s not altogether happy with my outspoken views on his dress code, I quickly reassure him, “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it as such -- it’s very fancy -- but no boyfriend of mine would wear that.”
He grabs his wallet and, finally, lifts his head. “Why not?” he asks me, and pushes his glasses back. He still looks a bit miffed, but it’s mostly been replaced by curiosity.
“Well, I’m not exactly the . . . conservative type, in case you hadn’t noticed?” I answer back teasingly and smile at him.
“Oh, I’ve noticed,” he mumbles, and I feel the burn of his eyes as he looks me over. I’m wearing a pair of beige capris today and a black sleeve-less top that’s got some glittering writing on it that says, “So I’m weird . . . Deal With It” right across my boobs.
“Yes, right . . . ” I clear my throat, suddenly feeling a bit flushed myself. “Anyway, the point is that I’m more into the laid-back, doesn’t-give-a-fuck, rocker bad boy, so we clearly need to take you shopping soon.”
He straightens back and crosses his arms. “Over my dead body.” He clenches his jaw, and, to tell the truth, he looks so stubborn.
What, is that . . . ? Is he gritting his teeth now?!
I blink. “Excuse me?” I ask incredulously.
“Under no circumstances whatsoever will I go shopping and buy some clothes that I am quite confident I will never wear again. Nope. No way.”
I blow out a disgruntled breath and mimic his posture. We stare each other down, neither of us willing to stand down, for almost a minute, and then an idea forms in my head.
Slowly uncrossing my arms from under my boobs, I sigh rather dramatically. “Well, if I can’t persuade you, I guess that’s that . . . ”
“Exactly,” he nods, and a smirk begins to form on his face.
Ha! He thinks he’s won!
I put my hands on my hips and sashay towards him. I put a bit more into swaying my hips, as if I was dancing, and I place my hands behind my back, subtly pushing out my breasts. Noticing how his eyes zero in on them, taking in the way they strain against my top, I try to hold back my triumphant smile. As I slowly move closer to him, he swallows, and his cheeks are looking slightly flushed. He uncrosses his arms, letting them fall down, but I can’t help but notice how his fists close tightly, and his knuckles turn white. When I’m standing quite close to him, I look down and say, “I guess, if you don’t really want to, I can always ask someone else to pretend to be my boyfriend.”
I’m staring at his chest, and it’s clear to see how his breathing has picked up: it comes out more quickly now, and I really don’t understand how my little show can seem to turn him on so much. It’s evident that he’s affected by my actions, and, just to see how far I can push him -- because I’m just too bloody curious for my own good -- I place my hands on his biceps and squeeze them a little. Now that I am touching him, I am able to take in that he’s actually not as skinny as I’d thought he was; no, there’s some muscle to this geek. I move my hands up and down a bit up, caressing them, and I take the tiniest peek down to see if I’m turning him on . . . I avert my eyes after a beat. Yep, the flag has risen! And it seems to have a good size on it, too . . .
Setting my plan aside for a minute, I allow myself to take in the firmness of his arms, and I enjoy the silence, interrupted only by his shallow breathing. The warmth from his body feels inviting: it’s as if it is calling for mine to come closer, and for me to put my arms around his waist, but I dare not give in to the temptation. I need to keep my distance, but I can’t ignore the small voice inside my mind, whispering to me, urging me to look up and meet his gaze . . . For once, I’m not listening to this voice, because it has a tendency to get me into troubl
e. My heart was locked away a long time ago and I have no intention of finding the key to unlock it anytime soon.
“Don’t do that . . . ,” Daniel suddenly says, his voice sounding hoarse and slightly out of breath.
“What?” I whisper back, and I berate myself for sounding almost as breathless as he is. I imagine myself throwing caution to the wind . . . to unbutton his shirt to find out what his body looks like underneath it. I wish I had the courage to simply say “Sod it” and allow Daniel to touch me. I have never wanted to feel a man’s touch as much as I do now.
“Don’t ask anyone else . . . ,” he replies, close to a whisper.
I don’t respond for a few moments, but, eventually, I tell myself to release my hold on him, and I take a few steps back.
“I won’t,” I whisper, and, finally, dare to let my eyes meet his. The pure need radiating from his almost makes me stumble. But I do not close the distance between us. I need it now.
Awkwardly, I clap my hands together, feeling rather foolish, but I ignore my red cheeks. “Good. We’ll go shopping next weekend, then.” I give him my most fake smile, and walk past him.
“You’re quite dangerous, Emma. You know that, don’t you?” Daniel asks, and I stop at the entrance to his kitchen and look back at him. A small smile graces his mouth, and he has a twinkle in his eyes that I haven’t seen before.
I lean against the doorway and look up at the ceiling, pretending to be lost in thought. “Oh, I don’t know . . . ,” I ponder loudly before moving my eyes to his. “I prefer the word “devious”, you know.”
He grins and mutters, “Yes, that, too.” He sighs, and I know he’s relented. “Fine, I’ll buy some new clothes. But . . . ” he holds up his index finger, looking so severe and grown-up that I almost giggle. “ . . . no one says I have to wear them until the day we go see your brother. Is that understood?”
I raise my hand and give him a mock-salute. “Yes Sir. Understood.”
Daniel sighs, and, scratching the back of his head with his right hand, he mumbles, “What have I gotten myself into?”
I push out a breath and answer, “Into a world of fun. Now, Daniel, I think you need to start thinking about something else, because your . . . err . . . manhood appears to not settle down, and we really need to get a move on.”
Daniel quickly turns around so that I can’t see him, and now I really can’t suppress a snort. This guy is too strange. I hear mumbling come from his direction, though, and I strain my ears so that I can hear him better.
“Is that . . . ? Are you . . . counting?” I ask him, my voice disbelieving, because I’m sure I must have misheard him.
“Shh, you’re distracting me,” he mutters, and, sure enough, he continues to count. I’m standing there, staring at his back, gaping, and my curiosity about this geeky virgin is almost begging for me to ask him a ton of questions. I manage to contain myself, though.
Finally, I hear the number twenty, and I shut my mouth and pretend to be examining my nails when I hear him say, “Right. Let’s go.”
Still not looking at him, I turn towards the doorway, pretending not to hear the heavy sigh behind me. Rather pleased with myself, just before opening the door I say, “You know, Daniel, you really should get used to girls standing so close to you. We’d best practice some more later.”
“Shit,” he mutters, and I turn around to wink at him before opening the door. The expression on his face surprises me, though, because, despite his outburst, he has a huge smile plastered on his face. It is infectious, and I don’t quite manage to stop my lips from smiling back.
Chapter 13
We walk down the stairs in silence and out into the beautiful summer’s day. I briefly look up to take in the blue sky and breathe deeply before turning left to walk in the direction of the bus stop. Daniel walks beside me, not speaking, but the silence does not feel awkward at all. In fact, it is quite comforting. As much as I prefer to listen to music when I’m walking, Daniel’s presence seems to quiet my usually rambling thoughts instead of enhancing them.
My good mood takes a plummet, though, when he asks, “So . . . what did you do last night?”
“Oh, this and that,” I hedge. There is no way I am going to tell him that I spent most of my evening scouring the internet for psychologists. That would only lead him to ask me a load of questions I have no intention of answering.
I see the bus coming to a standstill at the stop and lengthen my stride. “I just watched some TV for a while. But I also took a look at your syllabus, by the way. I can see you’re starting off with all the classics…”The Canterbury Tale”, “Wuthering Heights”, “Pride & Prejudice”. . . I chance a peek at him, and seeing him so much more relaxed from what I have come to expect from him calms me.
As we enter the bus, I ask him, “Have you read -- or tried to read -- any of these books?” I politely nod at the bus driver and move to the end to take a seat.
Daniel doesn’t answer me until he is seated beside me. He sighs. “Well, I have tried on my own, of course, but I really need some help.” He laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Obviously,” he mutters. He pushes his glasses up his nose and crosses his arms, looking straight ahead.
I puff, a bit irritated, and lean closer to loosen his tight grip. “You need to relax, Daniel.” Damn, his hold is almost unbreakable. “Being dyslexic is not something to be ashamed of! Honestly.” At last, he relents, and I grumble, “For a skinny guy, you do have a lot of strength packed away.” I scoot back in my seat again and look out the window.
“I’m not skinny,” he tells me, affronted. “If you must know, I keep in shape by swimming several times each week.”
I shudder. “I hate the water. It’s too . . . unpredictable,” I say quietly. Trying to lighten the mood, I turn back to meet his gaze. “Anyway, I was just teasing you. From what I felt back at the flat, you’ve got some muscles hiding away in that . . . err . . . ” I give him the once-over again. “Well, those preppy clothes you like to wear.”
He chuckles, and the warmth in his green eyes makes my stomach flip. “I’ve already agreed to go shopping with you, Emma, so there’s no need for you to mince your words.”
Unable to hold his gaze any longer, I force myself to turn away, and I end up staring straight ahead. Noticing the train station in the distance, I say, “This is our stop.”
“I know,” Daniel says, and the amusement in his voice does not go unnoticed.
Deciding to ignore that last bit, I stand up, and shoo at him. “Well, get up, Preppy.”
He holds up his hand and gives me that stern Professor look I have already seen once today, and an explosion of butterflies begins to flutter in my stomach. Oh m . . . who’d have thought I’d fancy that?
“On one condition,” his voice interrupts my wayward thoughts, and I blink and focus on his mouth instead.
“What?” I ask, distracted and slightly turned on at the same time.
“That you never call me Preppy again,” he tells me, trying to hide a smirk.
I roll my eyes and snap, “Fine! Now, Daniel, will you please get up?” Placing a hand on my hip, I tap my foot; the universal sign of a woman impatient with a man.
“But of course,” Daniel relents and quickly grabs his backpack.
I glare at it, and as soon as we move to leave the bus, I mutter, “You need a new bag, too.”
I’m pretty sure he heard what I just said, but he pretends to ignore me; silently, we hurry up the stairs to get to our train.
I’m finding it increasingly difficult to keep my eyes from lingering on Emma’s lips whenever she talks. This girl is making my head spin, and I can’t fathom why that is. Yes, she’s beautiful, and yes, last night will definitely not be the last time I fantasise about what I’d like to do to her -- and I have plenty of ideas -- but she’s so confusing.
I am surprised that I feel so at ease in her company. My tongue doesn’t tie itself into knots whenever I speak, and that’s definitely a first for me. Her voice
calms me somehow. She hasn’t said a word since we got on the train, though, and I wonder what made her clam up like that. One minute we’re talking, and the next . . . nothing. Zilch. Except this strange silence. I can’t keep my curiosity in check; this girl fascinates me to no end, and I want to get to know her better.
And I don’t just mean in the biblical sense -- though I’d gladly give up my virginity to Emma if she asked me -- but, somehow, I get the feeling that sex won’t be enough for me. I want to know who the real Emma is . . . the one I know is there, hiding behind all that heavy makeup and the piercings.
Who is this girl?
When she gripped my arms like that back at the flat, I had to force my body to keep still. My cock was more than up for the wicked idea that popped into my head, but acting on it would most likely have ended up with me being kneed in the balls. No, instead of pulling her to me and kissing her senseless, I remained stock-still; my will power was the only thing that kept me from doing just that.
Just now, thinking back on her warm touch makes my cock twitch and I quickly remove my gaze from those perfectly full lips -- Stop thinking about them! -- and I look at the other passengers. There aren’t that many on the train, but a man sitting on the dirty floor a ways from us with a cardboard sign in his hand distracts me from my dirty thoughts. I can’t read the sign from this distance, but it’s pretty easy to see that he’s homeless: clothes wrinkled, worn, and a bit dusty; hair and beard seem unkempt, too. And then there’s the general manner of him which appears hopeless. It exudes exhaustion. This is a man who has given up.
I know this may not exactly help, but that doesn’t stop me from walking towards him. As I draw nearer, he looks up at me, the hopelessness catching me off-guard and it reminds me of such a dark time in my life. I crouch down in front of him, probably garnering a lot of attention, but I ignore the hostility I can feel surrounding me.