Status: Ongoing
Counting Stars
Prologue
September 2014
Chicago, Illinois
She knows she shouldn’t be there. Every fiber of her being is screaming at her to turn around and run another direction. “Any other direction,” She thinks desperately.
But the thought of where she came from propels her forward, ducking her head as one of his doormen opens the door to the high-rise building. He holds it open for her, looking at her strangely.
She knows she looks funny. Her blonde hair, normally impeccable, is straggly and wet, and she has make-up running down her face. Both could have been taken normally; it’s a wet and rainy night. The rain doesn’t explain the red, puffy cheeks.
The doorman looks curiously at her as she passes by him, carrying her strappy silver heels in her right hand and a silver clutch in her left. Her beautiful red dress is now ruined, thanks to the rain and she’s sure he can probably detect the alcohol from dinner. Nevertheless, he says nothing as she murmurs her thanks, passing by him gracefully.
She makes her way quickly through the building to his condo and knocks. He opens the door, after just a moment or two, and after taking one look at her, steps back to allow her to enter.
As she does, she throws her shoes and bag on the ground. He just barely locks the door before he’s pushing her up against it, mouth meeting hers, fingers tangling in her hair.
She can already hear their mutual friends lecturing her, in her head. About how it isn’t good for her. About how it isn’t healthy. About how she deserves more. But as he lifts her up and she wraps her long legs around his waist, all thoughts of any other friends leave her mind.
Yes, she knows she shouldn’t be there. But now all thoughts regarding directions are directing her to the bedroom.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
He knows he shouldn’t have done that. Every single thought in his head now revolves around her and he knows this isn’t what he should be thinking of.
It’s early, too early; as in still dark out early. Her hair is fanned out on his bare chest and her breathing is soft against his skin. Eyes closed, trying to get back to sleep, he runs his hand repeatedly up and down the side of her hip, feeling the soft curve, circling the small, ovular scar remnant from her chicken pox as a child.
He knows every curve, every scar, every mark, every freckle. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this. It’s part of their pattern.
With a small sigh, he gently kisses her hairline. In a few hours, she’ll be gone, also part of their pattern.
He briefly wonders if maybe, someday, they’ll break out of this pattern.
Chicago, Illinois
She knows she shouldn’t be there. Every fiber of her being is screaming at her to turn around and run another direction. “Any other direction,” She thinks desperately.
But the thought of where she came from propels her forward, ducking her head as one of his doormen opens the door to the high-rise building. He holds it open for her, looking at her strangely.
She knows she looks funny. Her blonde hair, normally impeccable, is straggly and wet, and she has make-up running down her face. Both could have been taken normally; it’s a wet and rainy night. The rain doesn’t explain the red, puffy cheeks.
The doorman looks curiously at her as she passes by him, carrying her strappy silver heels in her right hand and a silver clutch in her left. Her beautiful red dress is now ruined, thanks to the rain and she’s sure he can probably detect the alcohol from dinner. Nevertheless, he says nothing as she murmurs her thanks, passing by him gracefully.
She makes her way quickly through the building to his condo and knocks. He opens the door, after just a moment or two, and after taking one look at her, steps back to allow her to enter.
As she does, she throws her shoes and bag on the ground. He just barely locks the door before he’s pushing her up against it, mouth meeting hers, fingers tangling in her hair.
She can already hear their mutual friends lecturing her, in her head. About how it isn’t good for her. About how it isn’t healthy. About how she deserves more. But as he lifts her up and she wraps her long legs around his waist, all thoughts of any other friends leave her mind.
Yes, she knows she shouldn’t be there. But now all thoughts regarding directions are directing her to the bedroom.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
He knows he shouldn’t have done that. Every single thought in his head now revolves around her and he knows this isn’t what he should be thinking of.
It’s early, too early; as in still dark out early. Her hair is fanned out on his bare chest and her breathing is soft against his skin. Eyes closed, trying to get back to sleep, he runs his hand repeatedly up and down the side of her hip, feeling the soft curve, circling the small, ovular scar remnant from her chicken pox as a child.
He knows every curve, every scar, every mark, every freckle. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this. It’s part of their pattern.
With a small sigh, he gently kisses her hairline. In a few hours, she’ll be gone, also part of their pattern.
He briefly wonders if maybe, someday, they’ll break out of this pattern.
♠ ♠ ♠
A short, very vague prologue. Hopefully you all enjoy anyway. Let me know what you think!