Page 5 of Watching Ames
My wish was granteda few days later, when I arrived home to find a wrapped parcel sitting in the same spot on the welcome mat as the basket, crisply packaged in silver wrapping paper and topped with another black satin bow. The same strange feeling I always got with these new gifts emerged but was instantly overwhelmed by excitement as I leaned down to grab the present. I traced the perfectly shaped bow that was tied across the front of the small package with my fingertip, the silver of the paper glinting brightly against the flecks of clay still dusting my fingers and forearms, sticking stubbornly despite my washing up at the studio.
I completed the same balancing act from a few days ago, unlocking my front door with one hand and holding the gift by its bow with the other. I attempted to hurry through unburdening myself of my jacket, bag, keys, and shoes, but my steps were slow from exhaustion after another long night at the studio.
The more time I spent working on the plates, the further my resolve hardened to get my own equipment. Maya had been right: finding time to use the studio equipment outside of business hours without requiring me to work until midnight had been the biggest difficulty so far. Even though I should have been able to throw all fifty dishes by now, I was only about halfway through, finishing another half dozen tonight to add to the dishes currently set aside and bone drying in the back room of the studio. It had taken me hours to complete the dishes, and the long day caused my feet to drag as I finally made my way into the kitchen, setting the small parcel next to its matching companions.
Unable to take my eyes off the package, I felt my way from the kitchen island to the sink, washing the small remnants of dust and clay off my hands and arms, fearful of marring the crisp wrapping paper or the gift inside with dust. The suds were tinged slightly gray as they ran down the drain, and I grabbed the small brush I kept by the sink to scrub under my fingernails until my hands were pristine. It was a habit I fell into easily; Peter usually wore high-end suits to work, and wouldn’t touch me until my hands and clothes were clear of any sort of clay, worried my fingerprints would stain his clothes.
I caught myself yawning as I finished washing my hands, my late nights at the studio getting the best of me. There had been construction next to the studio for the past few days, converting the space next door into some sort of fast-casual eatery. The construction workers did most of their work at night, meaning that while I was blessedly free of any clanging and thumping while teaching classes alongside June, I had been inundated with loud bangs and scrapes throughout my nightly hours working on Maya’s order.
I tried using a speaker to play music, but no level of volume echoing around the space could overwhelm the noise coming through the shared wall. More than once a sudden pop or whir had caused me to flinch while pulling out the rim of a plate, which either required reshaping or - in a few cases - starting from scratch when the plate ended up too oblong or asymmetrical.
My first attempted solution was headphones, but the wires had continually gotten in my way, catching on the spinning wheel or my elbows as I shaped my pieces. I spent the last couple of nights researching cordless headphones while wrapped in a blanket on the couch, throwing handfuls of caramel corn, chocolate, and other goodies from my gift basket into my mouth in hopes the sugar would keep me functioning. I was able to find a few pairs for under a hundred dollars, even going so far as stopping by the mall and testing a pair of the headphones, but my excitement deflated when I realized that even though it was nice not being attached to a cord, the headphones weren’t made with noise canceling in mind, fitting in rather than over the ear. Any designs I found that would fit my needs were hundreds of dollars, an expense I couldn’t justify when I knew I would soon be spending thousands of dollars on my own equipment.
The cordless headphones I cradled in my hand, however, were perfect. I fit the headphones over my ears, the large, cushioned pads blocking out all the small noises in my apartment: the humming of the refrigerator, the footsteps of my upstairs neighbor, so that all I could hear was my own heartbeat, thumping in my head and increasing in rhythm as I picked up the silver envelope that had fluttered to the kitchen counter.
Tearing the envelope open gently, I extracted the card, hearing my heart race even faster as my eyes greedily soaked in the few short words written in the same familiar script, the ink dark against the silver of the card.
Focus, sweetheart.
XO
Despite the note only having two short words, I felt the slightly domineering tone in the short strokes of the pen and the blown period from where he pressed a little too hard on the paper. Hearing the command echo in my ears in the same rough voice that haunted my dreams for days, my stomach tightened as heat flooded my veins, fingers drifting past my belly button as I tried to ease some of the ache with my fingers between my legs.
My breath grew ragged as I closed my eyes, imagining the dark stranger that Bex put in my mind with her question over a week ago,Maybe you have a stalker?I could feel wetness pooling at my core, and I couldn’t even find enough shame to care as I used the moisture to wet my fingers as I circled my clit. My other hand gripped the counter, and I climbed higher and higher, fingers working faster now as the dark voice inside my head told me in a sharp tone tofocus. Just imagining the whisper was enough to send me careening over the edge, shouting hoarsely as I found my release. But even as I came back down from my climax, I felt the need settling back between my legs and tightening my stomach, no longer content with my imagination. It didn’t even filter through my consciousness that the voice I imagined whispering the words on the card sounded nothing like Peter.
Chapter5
Him
I managedto last almost a week before I sent her another gift. If I was honest with myself, I knew I would be sending her more gifts the moment I ordered those flowers. The rush I felt finally staking a claim on my woman - even from a distance - was too powerful to ignore. It didn’t hurt seeing her reaction to the flowers either: watching her carry around the card that was sent with the bouquet was enough to keep my cock half-hard for days, imagining that a piece of me was already burrowing into her soul like she had been into mine for some time now.
By the time I caved and decided to send her another gift, a few days had passed since her pitch. It didn’t take much research to gather that it was successful; if I hadn’t seen her all-caps texts to her sister sent in quick succession after her meeting atMorel, her late nights at the studio would’ve been enough to clue me in. I knew her sister was planning a surprise trip to visit, and I’m sure her boss at the studio had wished her congratulations, but her first real success wasn’t met with the sort of fanfare she deserved. I had checked the asshole’s bank accounts and waited for deliveries containing any sort of well-wishes or congratulations to arrive at her door in the arms of another college-aged, unpaid assistant. A few clicks of my mouse confirmed that the asshole was still unaware that she had even pitchedMorel, much less been offered a deal.
By the time a week went by with nothing to help congratulate my girl, I took matters into my own hands. While tracking the asshole’s banking accounts was easy, it was slightly tougher nailing down the variety of snacks and gifts to send her in the basket. Luckily, she had a loyalty account with her favorite grocery store, which cataloged all her purchases, including the snacks she usually purchased when her sister was in town and more recently, since the asshole had left.
The cupcake required a deep dive into her social media, looking at her past celebrations; before the asshole, before her parents died. She had uploaded dozens of nostalgic photos when her parents had died, and once I found them, the common denominator was obvious: white boxes tied with twine so pervasive in every family birthday celebration, from when her and her sister were in pigtails and missing their front teeth to when they were both young women, similar in features but with eyes less haunted by grief and loss. After that, it didn’t take long to look for local cupcake shops that had similar packaging.
I was so fucking gone for this girl that I had even reached out to the owner of the flower shop to figure out where they bought their little silver cards; unfortunately, the paper company only sold those particular cards in bulk. Not needing a hundred fucking silver notecards scattered around my space, I had politely thanked the vendor and hung up the phone, researching a few similar options online.
But the only image that ran through my mind was my card clenched in her small fist, slipped into her back pocket, dropped into her purse. I couldn’t stop thinking about how that envelope was marked by me; not that asshole or one of his short-lived assistants,me.How she might not recognize a different card or maybe she would dislike the particular heft of a new one. Within half an hour, I was back on the phone and within a couple of days a small box of matching notecards and envelopes were delivered to the front door, alongside the rest of the items I’d ordered to congratulate her.
Apparently, the woman who owned the flower shop received a nice referral discount after I bought the note cards from her reference. She had called me shortly after the cards arrived on my doorstep, my phone ringing as I stared at the pre-packaged cupcake along with snacks and a sketchbook I had bought on a whim after watching her doodle on scraps of paper around her apartment, my frustration over the grouping of items that I had no idea how to package boiling over, causing me to snap at her.
“What?” I yelled into the phone as I pinched the snacks and attempted to arrange them in a semi-pleasing manner into the basket I had bought, failing spectacularly.
“Oh! Sorry, have I caught you at a bad time?” I tuned her out for a moment, focusing again on the pieces of wrapped food in front of me, but luckily heard the end of her sentence, “...from the flower shop.” The woman’s voice was high and sweet, but I caught an undercurrent of attitude, almost as if she were moments away from cursing me out through the phone.
Realizing it wasn't one of my associates but instead the young woman who had dug through her billing receipts to find her stationery supplier, I swiftly backtracked, unwilling to scare the poor girl due to my bad mood but further unwilling to lose the tenuous connection I had forged to the only florist in the area who created the types of bouquets my girl wanted.
“Sorry,” I tried to infuse my tone with warmth as I pushed through my frustration, asking, “What was it you were calling for?”
“Yes! I just wanted to say thank you for using my name as a referral when you ordered the notecards. I own a small business and they say every dollar counts right? And that’s not even to mention the large, customized bouquet you ordered last week. Sorry, I don’t mean to ramble. I just wanted to reach out and say thank you and offer you a discount on your next order of flowers or even a gift basket…if you decide to order through me again, I mean.”
I nodded along as she rambled; it took me more than a few moments to realize she had stopped speaking, my mind processing her words slowly until a couple stuck in my mind.
“You do gift baskets?” I asked, already throwing the items into the basket as I waited for her affirmation. When it came, I grabbed the basket full of gifts in one hand and my keys in the other, already striding toward the door as I told her, “I’ll be at the shop in twenty minutes. You can pay your debt in a favor.”
I hadn’t waited for her to respond before I hung up, but when I arrived at the shop, she had taken one look at my arms full of gifts and another at my face before nodding determinedly and demanding, “Bring it here.”
