Chapter 11
Lincoln
Eleven Years Ago
I’ve never known a woman to be so infuriatingly attractive as Quinnly Adams. She’s frustrating and irreverent at the same time. Charming and elusive on her better days, and stubborn to a fault.
She’s pulled something out in me. Ever since I’ve known about her, she’s tugged at something deep within me. I’ve watched her for so long now that I know her. Like I could open her up, crawl into her skin, wear it, and no one would notice.
Cicero’s phone rings, the one he uses for business, and when it rings, it’s never a good sign. Only a handful of people are brave enough to dial the number. He doesn’t answer like most people, instead he accepts and holds it up to his ear, waiting for the person to talk.
“It’s Quinnly,” the voice shakes, I can hear it even though it’s muffled. “She’s been taken…” the person continues, but my stomach turns to lead in my body and my blood starts to boil. Whoever’s taken her will regret their mistake, for hours, they’ll beg–
“I’ve got to go,” he says sharply. He doesn’t rush, not like you’d expect from someone who’s emotionally charged. He simply strides toward the door of the house, and walks out. Not long after, the engine to his truck roars and he’s gone.
I’ve never been alone in Cicero’s house. In Quinnly’s space. It's dangerous, letting me spend unchecked time here. Her parents are gone, dead like her Gran. My own father’s been gone for a while now, but Cicero, he stepped up and helped shape me into the man I am today.
His house sits in a regular New York suburb, a nice sized brick house painted white with black shutters, and a black front door.
The bushes in the front conceal a lot of the house, but I’ve slipped my way through the cracks.
I doubt he taught me everything he knows expecting me to use it to watch them, but I can’t help myself.
They’re my family, even if they don’t know it.
Cicero’s like her, unable to develop emotional feelings or attachments. But this type of love doesn’t need to be shared, it’s given in little lessons. In the way that a father loves a son. Leading by example and allowing me to mess up, teaching me how to fix any possible scenario I’ve come across.
I love Cicero, in the way a son loves a father, even though I know he can never return that love.
I know I shouldn’t, but I have to see her room. I’ve only caught glimpses of it from outside, and I’ve never been allowed upstairs. Possibly because Cicero doesn’t think I can remain hidden in the shadows with her so close.
He might be right.
Her room’s on the second floor, the room on the left. There’s a bathroom straight ahead, and Naomi’s room is to the right.
Her door’s shut. There's nothing on it that tells me it’s her room, not like Naomi’s door with stickers and her name in glitter.
The knob twists under my palm, and I take a second to rethink my choice. If Cicero finds me in here… I might be his next victim. Though, the sound of his truck engine pulling into the drive will be enough to give me the time I need to get back down the stairs and into his room.
Pushing the door in, I inhale her scent, the femininity of it contradicts what I know of her, what I’ve seen her do. The threshold of her door sits between her room and my boots. I can see more than I ever have before, and if this is what it’s like to live inside of her brain…
There’s no clear reasoning for anything in her room. Everything is a hodgepodge of colors, patterns, fabrics and furniture. It’s like she went to a thrift store and found something from every era.
Her bed’s brass, the headboard’s smashed into one wall with sheets and pillow cases that don’t match. The quilt on top looks like it belongs in a barn somewhere, and one of the brass knobs is missing on the front right hand corner.
Clothes are everywhere, I can’t avoid stepping on them, so I toe off my boots and step inside. Her walls are four different colors, one’s slanted to accommodate the roof line. Everything’s in disarray, as if she tore through everything in her drawers and closet before she left.
Plucking a silk piece of fabric hanging from her ceiling fan, I observe the clothing. It’s one of those nightgowns, the kind women wear for looks, not comfort. The thought of her wearing this makes my cock tingle.
It’s the only piece of clothing in the room that’s not bright, but a deep purple with black lace.
I’d do very unholy things to see her porcelain skin in this.
Lifting the fabric to my nose, I inhale, filling my lungs with her and savoring the way it feels.
Closing my eyes, I let the feeling linger until Cicero’s truck comes squealing into the driveway.
Quickly placing the nighty back on her ceiling fan, I slip back into my boots, shut her door, and head to the downstairs bathroom.
Splashing cold water on my heated skin, I beg my brain to forget about Quinnly.
At least until Cicero says we’re done for the day, and I can go home where I can properly tend to my… needs.
The front door opens, and I listen through the water falling into the sink for another set of footsteps. But Cicero’s heavy footfalls are the only ones I hear.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I find Cicero furiously typing on his phone, his face hard as stone. He doesn’t acknowledge me, or attempt to say anything, only continues what he’s doing, and I force myself to sit on the couch and wait.
His calmness is unnerving. I’m not sure what he wants me to do, or if there’s anything I can do. His eyes find mine in a brief moment when he’s not looking at his phone, and he nods toward the door.
I recognize the action, so I grab my things and walk out into the setting sun. I should have let Cicero catch me, so he could put a stop to my fixation. Now, without Quinnly in tow, I’ve got some investigating to do.
I shouldn’t continue, and yet I’m not willing to give up the thrill of watching.
Her, unknowing.
Me, obsessing.
The shadows are my home now, but I can’t quite shake the feeling that Quinnly Sage Adams might be my everything.