8. Theron

8

THERON

WHO IS SHE? - I MONSTER

I saw everything.

Nyssa Oliver writhed on her bed, beautifully naked from the waist down, as she pressed a neon pink vibrator to her clit.

She had no clue she wasn't alone. At one point, it even seemed she glanced right in my direction. Her closet door was cracked open, my eye pressed against the crevice to watch the erotic show firsthand.

It wasn't a situation I planned.

I wasn't even supposed to be inside Nyssa Oliver's apartment. As I approached her door with the key in hand, I swore this would be the only time I allowed myself a peek.

It started the evening of the art festival—Nyssa Oliver lived in the same apartment building Theo managed. I sat behind the wheel of my BMW in the pouring rain and witnessed her bid goodbye to her doucheface boyfriend.

The same oaf who usually had date rape allegations swirling around him and his jock pals.

I couldn't let it carry on. I had to find a way to infiltrate her life and steer her away from him. Sabotage Samson Wicker in any way I could. Ensure he brought her no harm.

In doing so, I also had to put up a solid front. For all intents and purposes, in public I had to show an icy indifference to Nyssa whenever around her.

Arm up in class?

I called on anyone else. Even Justin Hendricks with the sleep lines on his face.

Passing each other in the corridor?

I looked straight ahead as if she were invisible.

And when she finally pressed me on it, I scolded her. I made her feel as small and ridiculous as I possibly could to throw her off my trail.

The same trail that had me compulsively thinking about her, formulating a plan for how to watch over her while also sabotaging Wicker.

That had me memorizing her entire 1L schedule to the letter. Constitutional law Monday, Wednesday, Friday mornings. Tort on Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons. Civil procedure in the afternoon on Monday and Fridays. Thursday's her light day with only legal writing.

And then there was me—criminal law three days a week, late mornings after she's done with constitutional law.

On her free day, Thursday, she still hung around campus. Usually, at the library on the west side of campus, a large table greedily reserved for herself as she spread out her books and then pored over them, doing the required reading. Other times, she combed the library newspaper archives in search of what, I'm still not sure.

I know these things because I was also often at the library.

…by chance .

A funny coincidence.

Between classes, I stopped by the student union for a coffee before strolling over to the library to browse the vast selection.

It was impossible to miss her as I did.

Nyssa stands out among the twenty thousand students on campus.

In class, it was even more glaring—among her peers, she sat with refined posture, eyes sharp and focused, following my every word. I started learning her tells, picking up on the cues she gave that provide insight as to what she was thinking.

An uncertain bite of the lip. Knitted brows. Her fingers drumming against the desktop in silent debate on whether or not she should raise her hand. The parting glance over the shoulder as class ended and she followed the others out the room.

Nyssa Oliver is like a book to be read and studied. Analyzed and interpreted. I certainly made a habit of it as days went by.

Though I did my best to ignore the new bane of my existence in public, there were brief moments where I slipped. My gaze almost drifted toward her in class before I caught myself with a clench of my jaw. As soon as she turned to walk out of the room, I was watching her go.

It was impossible to completely ignore her when she was in my orbit.

Heather Driscoll was thought to be the center of the universe in the traditional sense—her Barbie doll looks and style, the smug demeanor and prestigious family name all worked in her favor—but there's no question it was Nyssa who was really the scene stealer.

Her calm confidence, effortless intelligence and natural beauty outshone the spray tan and designer threads. The reputable family name only worked so much magic. It certainly didn't distract from the fact that Nyssa and her vapid best frenemy belong to two separate categories.

Nyssa Oliver was— is —the rare pearl you find amid a beach of empty seashells.

So when she forgot to log off the library computer and I'm lurking in the background, I couldn't resist the opportunity that arose. I gave it a beat or two, ensuring she was gone, before I casually strolled over and sat down at the computer desk.

That easily, I had access to her login information, including her iCloud.

An overreach? Perhaps.

Necessary? Absolutely.

A British philosopher by the name of Edmund Burke once said the only thing necessary for evil to triumph is when good men stand by and do nothing.

This was what had to be done. This was what I had to do in order to make sure Nyssa went unharmed and evil wouldn't prevail. Some would claim it's character assassination to categorize Wicker as evil, but given everything I know, I'd say it's perfectly justified.

I logged onto her iCloud and skimmed through many of her files. I grew curious and found her social media accounts.

It was a deep rabbit hole to fall down. So deep, at home I hardly noticed Atticus whining for his morning kibble.

It was Saturday and I had gotten so distracted, I forgot to refill his bowl.

"Alright, alright, Atty. Here you go."

I set the bowl down for him and then returned to my investigation .

My heart leaped inside my chest when I came across her Instagram profile.

She was beaming at the camera, mouth open in a laugh, brown skin luminescent under the shimmering sunshine. The photo had to be from summer break.

There was sand in the background and ocean waves crashing against the shoreline.

Was she on vacation?

Bikini top. Giant sunglasses. Her usual curls were gone for twisty braids that accentuated her face.

The same heart-pounding thrill that had pushed me to drive in the rain to look for her returned in spades.

Over eight hundred posts. Five thousand followers. A witty blurb for her bio that read, ‘Living life on the sunny side up', punctuated by a sun and paintbrush emoji.

Her entire life was captured in photographic form.

My biggest peek into her world yet.

Parties. Birthday dinners. Outfits of the day. Vacations to Montbec Island and Las Vegas. Throwback photos of her freshman year at a different college. Photos of her artwork that she proudly—and somewhat shyly, in some cases—posted.

I scrolled down to the beach photo that's her profile picture, enlarging it on my screen. It was one of an entire collection. A slight grin twitched at the corner of my mouth as I swiped through the photos.

She built a sandcastle. She wore a ridiculously huge, floppy sun hat that blew away in the wind and the photographer of the photo snapped her chasing after it. At some point, she gave up, collapsed in the wet sand, her head thrown back in wild laughter.

Then I made the mistake of swiping to the very last photo, where I discovered who must've taken all the other pictures.

It was a two-person selfie of her and Wicker. He had pointed the camera toward himself as she squeezed in from the side to kiss him on the cheek.

An irrational hatred unlike anything I've ever felt flooded me. It came on strong, cascading over me like a tsunami wave that washed out all reasonable thought.

By the time ten p.m. hit, I had practically pored over every photo on her account. I had read entire comment sections and gone to posts where she had been tagged on.

It eventually led me to Wicker's profile, where my worst nightmare had been confirmed.

He had photos of her on his profile.

I was no expert on the etiquette of college-aged people and social media, but posting photos of each other felt… serious.

It felt like ownership. Some form of claiming.

And then my descent grew even worse. The rabbit hole continued until I was on Lucas Cumming's Instagram and I read an exchange between him and Wicker in the comment section for a throwback post about last Halloween.

Some massive costume party the fraternity threw that I vaguely recall hearing about due to the police being called. Rumors about drugs, brawls, alcohol poisoning, and date rape spread like wildfire about the occasion. Dean Rothenberg fought like hell to contain the flames.

good times!!! Can' t wait to do it again

this year. dates already set. u coming or u taken?

taken n still coming! me n ms priss will be there

nice!! i'll have the goodies ready to go. we about to throw down!

My stomach muscles clenched. My eyes narrowed rereading the message three, four more times. Eventually, I screenshotted it, saving the image to my camera roll.

Goodies. What goodies?

Is that code for drugs? Alcohol? Some other dangerous element?

…and did Nyssa know her boyfriend was calling her ms priss ?

My runaway thoughts were so loud, I couldn't quiet them enough to go to sleep. After flicking off the lights, I laid awake in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, considering the million different possibilities.

I had never been more certain than in that moment.

Nyssa had no clue what kind of fire she was playing with dating Wicker. She clearly didn't grasp how much trouble he could bring her.

Don't worry, Miss Oliver. If you can't see the trouble he is, I'll show you myself.

"You never show up here," Theo laughed. "I think I've been managing these apartments for, what, two or three years? You've turned up exactly once. That time I accidentally had your laptop."

I raised both brows at her. "Accidentally? What you call an accident, I call theft, sister."

"Theft? Okay, drama queen."

"That's usually what it's called when someone takes something without permission."

"Whatever. Still weird you've come by to see me at work."

…what you call weird, I call opportunity.

I set down the large cinnamon dolce latte I had grabbed her from Java King. "Consider it returning the favor. You bring me coffee quite often. Now I'm bringing you some."

Theo plopped down behind her desk in her cramped little office where the heater blasted lukewarm air and she had a view of the freeway from the window. She snatched the cup and took a long sip, then almost spit it out.

"They made this all wrong! Where's the cinnamon and whipped cream? Lucky I have some in my mini fridge."

Theo grabbed the latte and turned her back to fuss with fixing her drink.

I had drifted over toward the corkboard on the wall where the spare sets of keys hung for every apartment in the building.

Once she was making throaty sounds of satisfaction at the extra whip and cinnamon she'd added, I was ready to go.

"See you later," she said, scooping up her phone to scroll through. "I've got a Zoom meeting in ten. The damn board of trustees want info about the building conditions."

"Sounds very important."

I walked out of Theo's office confident she hadn't noticed the missing key and I'd have plenty of time to explore.

Nyssa was still at the school. I was sure of it. On Thursdays, she didn't usually come back to her apartment until three or four in the afternoon.

Less than five minutes later, I was outside apartment 412, Nyssa's apartment. The key slid right into the keyhole and untwisted the lock. The door swung open like I'd been granted special entry to a secret world most had no idea about.

The only time I'd let myself do this— explore Nyssa Oliver's private sanctuary .

I gently shut the door behind me and surveyed the cozy six hundred square foot space. The walls were painted a soft lavender and the plank flooring beneath my feet was various shades of muted gray.

On my right was a row of coat hooks with some of Nyssa's jackets and woolly scarves slung over the brass curvatures. On the left, hung a gold-gilded mirror that looked older than Nyssa was.

Vintage.

That seemed to be a running theme as I explored the apartment. Her kitchen was small, clean, and boxed in with a vase of assorted fresh flowers resting on the front counter.

A few more footsteps, and I was already in the living room space, flooded by natural light from the large bay window at the back wall.

" Meow ."

I glanced down to find a curious little orange cat peering up at me. Her feline way of asking "who the hell are you?"

I almost grinned, crouching low to reach out a hand and let her smell me. I'd never been a cat person, but Nyssa Oliver's cat was no regular cat—just like she was no regular student of mine. As inappropriate as it was that I was in her apartment, I knew with absolute certainty this was different.

This was an exception.

"Hello," I said to the ginger. "And what's your name?"

She gave a shrill hiss, then dashed off before the palm of my hand could even brush her spine.

I stood up straight again. "That's alright. Cats aren't as trusting as dogs. I get it. I wouldn't be either if I were you."

I moved deeper into the living room and admired how Nyssa had managed to keep her space tasteful but filled it with character and personality. A quilted leather sofa with curled armrests sat against the wall and a little coffee table stood a few feet in front of it, covered with various items like candles, a TV remote, more flowers.

The corner closest to the window served as Nyssa's makeshift art studio—shelves bore past sculptures she'd created and a large easel was propped up in direct sunlight along with a stool and pottery wheel she used to mold clay.

I was fascinated by her art. I stepped closer like I had at the festival and admired the expert sculpting of each piece.

My head filled with imaginings of Nyssa perched on her stool, wearing nothing but a shirt of mine, her hands steeped in clay, as morning light haloed her. She'd look up and smile at me. I'd approach with two mugs of coffee and deliver hers with a kiss…

The image faded before my eyes and left an ache of longing in its wake .

Not entirely unfamiliar—I had once bought my home with the same type of vivid hopes. I'd look at the backyard and picture her pushing our child on a swing or relaxing on a lounge chair with a good book.

None of those things ever came close to coming true.

I moved onto Nyssa's bedroom, where a bed with wrought-iron bars was pushed against the wall and covered in a variety of different sized and shaped throw pillows. Her bedding was plain and off-white, but the rest of the room popped with color, from the artwork she'd hung on the walls to the melted candles and flowers spread throughout.

I smiled at the bookcase near the window that was crammed with well-loved books, spines cracked and worn. A few I owned in my collection, like The Alchemist .

Her cat whined from the other side of the room as though irritated I was still here.

"I'll be gone soon, alright?" I asked, halfway amused by the feline's impatience.

I'm ashamed to admit I opened drawers. I checked cabinets. I uncapped her shampoo and conditioner and inhaled the scents she used in her hair.

What was supposed to be a quick exploration of her place to gather intel on her relationship turned into a lengthy, overindulgent visit where I let myself become even more obsessed.

Leave now.

You said you would be quick.

This is not quick.

My thoughts pushed back at every turn, reminding me of my original intention. But I pressed on anyway, operating on a fanatical beat that had me blocking out these thoughts. At least for the moment .

I was browsing Nyssa's underwear drawer when her ginger feline made her loudest objection yet. She hissed and then leaped toward me as if to pounce. Her paw slapped and swatted at my loafers and produced a laugh out of me.

"Alright, alright, you don't want me here," I said, clutching a soft cotton pair of Nyssa's panties.

I was growing hard just from holding them. Imagining the fabric clinging to her pussy .

I stomped that thought out immediately, scolding myself for how inappropriate and unprofessional it was.

…isn't everything you're doing right now inappropriate and unprofessional?

Scowling at myself, I shoved the panties back in the drawer. Nyssa's cat was right.

It was time to go. Before I spiraled any more out of control.

"Next time, I'll bring you tuna," I promised the cat, then ran a hand through my hair.

Next time? There won't be a next time!

…right?

I was halfway down the hall, caught up in an argument with myself, when the lock in the front door jiggled.

My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. I stopped dead in my tracks at the horrifying realization.

Nyssa was home!

"Shit," I muttered under my breath. My head snapped left, then right, as I desperately scanned the area for a place to hide.

The front door was flying open as I was slipping behind a different door.

Nyssa's closet.

Her cat still wasn't satisfied, meowing even louder to alert her.

"No," I whispered, cracking the closet door open. "Bad kitty. Shhh. Don't— damn it !"

The ginger cat fled from her bedroom to greet her at the other side of the apartment. I waited with a coursing pulse, holding my breath for the moment I'd be caught. Nyssa would wonder why her cat was behaving so erratically and she'd inevitably make her way into her bedroom.

How could she possibly come home and not eventually check the closet? Particularly if she begins to suspect someone was here while she was gone.

Genius, Theron. Simply fucking genius.

You just had to sneak into the girl's apartment.

So smart, you're as dumb as Wicker sometimes.

I gritted my teeth and listened for every sound playing out from the other side of the apartment.

"Sorry, Peaches. Give me a moment, okay?"

Nyssa's rushed movements grew closer and closer. She was in a hurry. Her bedroom door was shoved open and she scurried into the room already pantsless.

Interest immediately piqued, I cocked my brow higher and pressed my eye to the crack in the closet door.

She collapsed onto her bed and dug a vibrator out of her nightstand drawer.

The moment went from doom and panic, where I was convinced I was caught, to erotic and shocking.

Everything felt surreal.

Nyssa Oliver laid back against her pillows and propped her thighs open just wide enough to fit her vibrator. The room filled with the fast buzz of the toy as it stimulated her clit and she moaned along.

Her eyes rolled shut. She quaked and ground her hips against the little hot pink toy. Lost to the intense feelings taking over her, she was tuned out of the present .

It was all fantasy.

I husked out a deep breath watching her and prayed it wasn't loud enough for her to pick up. As she lay pleasuring herself on the bed, I was erect and ravenous behind the closet door. Blood had rushed to my cock, pushing against the constraints of my pants.

Her body was perfection.

Lush curves wrapped in smooth brown skin. Ample breasts jutted out as she arched her back and her blouse rode up enough to expose her flat stomach. Her thighs, the thickest part of her, were spread wide open. Though I couldn't directly see her pussy, I could see how her hand pressed the vibrator to the intimate area, riding the waves that crashed over her.

The fluid way her body moved was a form of art in itself. She writhed in bed, uninhibited and free, in the throes of pleasure I desperately wanted to give her myself.

"Fuck yes, Miss Oliver… touch that little pussy. Soon it'll be me," I panted quietly. I rubbed my groin area so hard I had to clench down on my jaw to keep from coming.

For a wild moment, I was certain she heard me—her eyes popped open and she looked right at the closet door.

But then her orgasm struck at that exact moment, and all rationale was lost. Her head fell back against the pillows and she gave a throaty cry.

She was a masterpiece as she came undone.

I reached the same peak as she did. As she orgasmed in bed, I reached my fill inside my pants.

For a few seconds, we were lost together but separately at the same time, overwhelmed by the orgasms that seized us.

Nyssa stroked her orange cat and said, "I had to get that out of my system, Peaches. He's been in my head all day. "

…he who? Samson Wicker? Or someone else?

I'm so distracted by the mysterious man she's referenced that I forget to be concerned she could still open the closet and discover me.

Luckily, she gets up out of bed, grabs the pair of jeans she'd shimmied off in the doorway, and then tells her cat she'll be back. She has a few more errands she needs to run.

Peaches purrs as if in objection—probably still aware I'm here—but Nyssa simply grabs her bag and walks out.

Relief sweeps through me listening to the door thud shut.

Time to make my escape.

No less than ten minutes later, I'm able to slip out of Nyssa Oliver's apartment building, sight unseen. I get inside my car and look up at the far left window that's hers.

A window I've stared at more times than appropriate in recent weeks.

"Why were you watching me, Theron?" Josalyn asked, pushing past me. "I know it was you. I saw you on the street corner."

"Jos, that's not what was happening."

"It was exactly what was happening!" she snapped. "You think I don't know what you've been doing?"

"I could say the same to you! I'm just trying to look out for you."

She scoffed, her full mouth twisted into a dismissive smirk. "You really think I need you to? You have to stop."

You have to stop.

"I have to stop…" I mutter under my breath, almost catatonic. Then my fingers clench tighter on the steering wheel. At my side, my phone buzzes with an alert for Nyssa's iCloud. She's received a text from Wicker. My glare darkens as the beat of my pulse pounds harder. " After I get rid of him."