Vadim
I don't believe in fate or serendipity or any of that sappy bullshit, but I can't deny it's one hell of a coincidence, Lev Farkas showing up outside Preston's job the same night I decide to drive by and check out where he works.
It's been over two weeks since Preston randomly approached me and roped me into meeting his parents at The Butterfly Lounge.
I'm not obsessing over him or anything, but my thoughts do keep stubbornly returning to him.
The lengths he went to for his mom. His total inability to lie. Him not knowing who I was from Adam.
Doesn't hurt that he's easy on the eyes either. Those ever-changing hazel eyes seem to have done something to me I can't explain.
Or get out of my head.
Curiosity finally got the better of me tonight, and I decided to swing by at closing time of the Desert Rose and engage in some light stalking.
Farkas was the last person I expected to see.
I didn't clock him at first. I was parked too far away, and the angle from the rearview mirror was wrong. It wasn't until Preston stepped out onto the street that I got a clearer view and recognized Farkas. By then, I was out of my SUV and moving toward him, closing the distance fast.
As it turns out, Preston didn't need my help, macing the fucker and getting himself out of there just fine. I could have taken advantage of Farkas's weakened state and finished what I started in that back alley, but I had a more pressing matter to attend to—making sure Preston was alright.
He's a few blocks away now and has stopped running. But he's still checking over his shoulder every few paces and is unsteady on his feet as he maintains a brisk pace. His head is down, and I catch a glimpse of a brightly lit phone screen in his hand.
Part of me wants to pull up next to him and offer him a ride to make sure he gets home safely. But the logical part of my brain has overridden that instinct.
I'm positive Farkas approached Preston because of me. Which means he, or someone he’s associated with, must've clocked me with Preston at, or outside, The Butterfly Lounge that night.
Who knows what type of surveillance they've got him under? I'm going to have to wait this one out.
Until he gets off the streets, that is.
Roughly fifteen minutes later, Preston turns onto Holcomb, a quiet residential pocket just off the main grid, which sits between the casino strip and the suburbs. Modest single-story houses sit back behind dry lawns and chain-link fences, the distant glow of the casinos visible above the rooflines.
Midway down the street, he turns off the sidewalk toward one of the shabbier houses on the block.
There are missing roof shingles, the exterior paint is peeling, and the porch dips noticeably on one side.
He maneuvers up an uneven, buckling path, catching his foot once on a raised slab but managing to steady himself.
Is this where he lives, or is he visiting someone?
Before he reaches the uneven porch, the front door swings open.
A guy steps out and hugs him. Slight build, maybe five-nine, with what looks like almost white blond hair.
Well-dressed, light colored shirt, slim trousers.
I'm parked a few doors down and on the other side of the street, so I can't make out much more from here.
They step inside, and as soon as the door shuts, I jump out of the car and make my way to the house.
I cut across the lawn and peer inside through the front window.
They're both in there, talking. Preston has dropped his messenger bag on the floor and taken his shoes off.
I creep my way to the next window that's been left ajar and strain my ears to hear the voices carrying faintly through the gap.
"I told you Vadim Piotrowski was bad news," the blond guy says, his tone clipped and raised.
Preston's response is too quiet for me to make out. Inhaling sharply, I bring my nose to the edge of the window to get a better look. It's how they're standing. The other guy is facing the front window, Preston has his back to it. And to me. That's why I can't hear him well.
I study the other guy for a second, trying to recall if I know him, and, when I come up blank, switch to wondering why he seems to have it in for me. But my gaze keeps returning to Preston's back in that worn vintage tee in a washed-out burgundy that fits like it was made especially for him.
He keeps scratching his arm. I don't need to see his face to know that Farkas rattled him. For that, I'll make the fucker pay. From what I saw, he didn't hurt him. Physically, anyway. Not that it makes any difference. I'll still get him for it.
I quickly scan the rest of the room and am surprised by what I observe.
The outside of this house is falling apart, so I was expecting it to be a dive inside.
But it's not. It looks more like a showroom.
Clean lines, warm light, a rug in a deep terracotta and cream geometric pattern that ties the whole room together. Nothing out of place.
The blond guy gestures toward the low-slung mid-century couch, and Preston spins around. I duck my head out of the way and listen, able to hear Preston a bit more clearly now. Not all of their conversation, only snippets, but more than I could before.
"I haven't heard from or seen him since Mom and Dad's last visit and now…"
"…bad news… Believe me, I know… Vadim is wall-to-wall red flags."
I bristle at that. Fuck that judgy bastard.
"What am I supposed… That guy was a creep, and he knows where I work. Should I call…"
"…make any difference? And besides…"
"Yeah, I guess so…" I hear a loud yawn. "I'm so fucking tired."
"Go take a hot shower. I'll make you some tea and leave it in your room."
"Thanks, Ellie."
"What are best friends for?"
Best friends. Roommates. I nod to myself. Mental note taken.
Footsteps retreat deeper into the house. A light flicks on down the side. Kitchen, probably Ellie making Preston that cup of tea.
A minute later, pipes groan from somewhere inside. Bathroom.
I wait until the kitchen light goes out before slipping around to the other side of the house, catching Ellie as he leaves a cup of tea on Preston's bedside table. He turns on two salt lamps then kills the overhead light.
"Your tea is in your room!" he calls out.
"Thank you!" Preston yells back.
"No problem. Let me know if you need anything!"
"I will! Love you!"
“Love you, too!"
I realize Preston's in the bathroom with the door closed, but do they really need to yell that loudly?
A light comes on, spilling out into the backyard, and I hear what I'm guessing is Ellie's bedroom door shut.
I make light work of the lock on Preston's bedroom window and climb in.
The room is nice, but even in the dim light of the two salt lamps, I can see it's a lot more lived in than the front room.
Which is a nice way of saying it's an absolute mess.
The queen bed is unmade, a small wooden desk is jammed against the wall, cluttered with papers and a laptop left open, and a line of shoes are scattered messily near the door.
The bathroom door opens, the hum of the exhaust fan cutting off all at once. Footsteps get louder. A shadow moves under the bedroom door. I leap across the room and fall into a clothes-covered chair in the corner just as the handle turns.
The second Preston turns the overhead light on, he'll spot me. There's nothing I can do about that. I steady my breathing. There's a good chance I'm about to scare the living crap out of him, so it might be helpful if at least one of us remains calm.
Preston steps into the room, but he doesn't turn the light on, content with the golden-pink glow from the salt lamps. He frees his towel from his waist, letting it drop to the ground, and starts rummaging around on the floor for something.
With how he's crouching, I have an unobstructed view of the side of his body.
He's all lean muscle and definition, his calves sharply defined with the muscle standing out in two distinct ridges under the skin, his lats flaring out from his spine in a clean diagonal line down to his hip, thick veins running the length of his arms. I can't see his dick, but his ass is full, round, and I bet would feel incredible cupped in my hands.
He pulls a pair of black shorts from the pile on the carpet and stands to step into them.
Then he moves toward the bed, which keeps me out of his direct line of sight.
But that's not going to last because the second he spins around, he's going to see a dark shadow in the corner of his room.
It makes sense to make my presence known now, before he brings that cup of hot tea anywhere near his face.
I clear my throat and make my move. He startles immediately and spins around, gasping right before I cover his mouth with my hand to prevent him from waking up his roommate and the entire neighborhood.
"Don't be scared," I whisper, staring into his hazel eyes, blown wide with fear. "I'm not going to hurt you."