12. Callum
CHAPTER TWELVE
CALLUM
I ’ve always been the patient sort, happy to painstakingly set up a castle of cards and step back to watch it fall when the time comes.
But this girl is seriously trying me.
I watch her now like I watched every day for the last few weeks. There’s no denying the changes; she’s jumpier, suspiciously looking over her shoulder, scanning the faces around her, trying to check if she knows them. If they could have been there that day.
I like it. Frankly, her fear shoots straight to my cock.
What I don’t like is the fact that she’s still not fucking grabbing her damn phone. Why does she even have that thing, to tell the time? Someone should tell her there are watches for that.
She’s worried, feeling backed into a corner, and she’s not calling me. What does a man have to do to get her damn attention?
It should have been the most obvious move. She’s worried about people talking about her, giving her shit; she should come to me. Tell me to leash the dogs. She knows they’re in my circle.
But then again, I also expected her to talk to me after the first night, and she didn’t.
Maybe she’s not that into you, dumbass.
I dismiss that asinine thought as it comes. What’s not to like? Besides, I’ve seen the way she looks at me, then pretends not to look at me, blushing, fidgeting. When she knows I’m around, her eyes inexorably return to me. She’s definitely got a little crush, which is entirely mutual.
Right. Because you stalk everyone you have a crush on.
I know it’s deeper than that. Fascination, maybe. Closer to obsession.
It started because I was intrigued. I wanted to understand how someone could be physically so similar to Grace Haven, yet, get my cock’s attention with little to no effort. I think Grace is about as exciting as a piece of dry gluten-free toast without butter, so it was a bit of a mindfuck. I watch to try to explain it. Maybe it was the clothes, or the fact that she doesn’t hold herself like there’s a broomstick up her arse. And the next thing I knew, following Liv became my favorite hobby. As soon as I have a moment of free time, I hunt her down, and I watch.
It’s not a habit I’ve developed in the past; she’s my first obsession. And I’m pretty certain I’m not too much of a creep, given the fact that I don’t intend to harm her. If I wanted a piece of that, I’d just cross the street, get into the cafe where she’s studying, say hi, back her up into the closest empty room and fill her with my cum. She wouldn’t say no. I’m not trying to prey on her. I’m just watching.
But there’s no denying that it’s growing entirely too frustrating. If she called me, I wouldn’t have to resort to following her like a lost puppy. We could hang out. I could take her to that cafe, to another fancy restaurant—she loved the first—and other places.
I’m not going to ask her out myself. I gave her half a million; she’d feel obliged to indulge me, and I don’t fucking need to get a damn pity date. She has to come to me, dammit.
All right, it’s a matter of pride, and it pisses me the fuck off that she’s seemingly content to keep me out of her life when I want…
I run my hand through my hair in frustration. What I want, exactly, is a pretty good question, but I’m fairly certain the answer isn’t sitting across the street.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I’m irritated before I check the name, as I know it’s not the one I want to see.
Camilla .
Of course it is.
“What?” I bark.
“That’s how you greet me?” She chuckles. “Who pissed in your Cheerios, darling?”
“Whatever you want, spell it out.” I’m in no mood to deal with her brand of manipulation.
“Father wants you for dinner. What’s that gonna cost me?”
I take a moment to think.
She and I have had an understanding based on mutual need for most of the last ten years. As kids, those needs included making her bounce up and down my cock, but I got over it. Women like her and Grace—well-to-do, perfectly poised socialites—are boring fucks.
We both know our agreement will come to an end, and soon, but I’m not above letting her bribe me into delaying the inevitable.
“You’re gonna fuck five guys when I tell you to.”
I don’t have a specific need for her at the moment, but banking future fucks is the standard way I make her pay for my help. I don’t doubt that someday there will be another enamored fool drooling over her, who I might need for one reason or another. Pimping her out has proved profitable in the past.
“Five!” she whines. “Come on, Cal. You’re not being fair.”
“You want dinner with your dad,” I remind her. “Not a public appearance at some charity. You know he’s going to drill me about when I intend to pop the question.” Which is never. “It’s five, or you find yourself another beard.”
She sighs. “Fine. Friday night, five thirty, at La Maison D’Elle.”
I hang up, eyes trailing back across the street.
La Maison’s a great place. Liv would love it. And I can show it to her.
Just as soon as she uses her fucking phone to text me.