5. Penn

Chapter 5

Penn

I lean against one of the cold stone barricades in the parking lot of St. James College, my eyes locked onto Reagan as she strides across campus. Her leather jacket hugs her curves, and those ripped jeans show off just enough skin to make me want to see more. If I closed my eyes, I know I could imagine I hear the clomp of her bad bitch boots against the pavement. She’s a fucking walking contradiction—hard on the outside, but with an aura that screams vulnerability if you know where to look.

The sun is a paid fucking actor as it catches her black hair, casting a slight crimson hue over it. As if I need anything else to occupy my thoughts when it comes to her. This past week has already proven I don’t need any fucking help. I’m acting like my two brothers, obsessed as fuck.

“Little miss hellfire,” I murmur under my breath, as I take my helmet off and pull my hat out of my back pocket and sliding it on my head, pulling the bill low. I’ve been shadowing her for a week now, learning her habits, her routines. It’s almost a game at this point. The art building swallows her up, and I know she’s in there for at least two hours. Call me a fucking opportunist, but I’m not one to waste a perfectly good opening.

Pushing off the wall and heading toward her apartment at the edge of campus has my pace quickening, excitement thrumming through my veins. By the time I reach her door, I’m practically vibrating with anticipation. I can’t wait to be a nosy ass motherfucker. Pulling out my lock-picking tools, I get to work. One satisfying click and I’m in.

I step inside and close the door softly behind me. The same scent hits me immediately—mint but now there’s something muskier adding to it. It’s intoxicating. I love it and can’t get enough of it. It’s like when I take Molly, makes my skin prickle and my blood race. I take a deep breath, savoring it, before moving deeper into her space.

Her mess is the next thing I notice. Her living room is cluttered but oddly organized in its own chaotic way. All the things I didn’t get a chance to really pay attention to when I snuck in the other night. I run my fingers along the edges of her cheap furniture, feeling the textures, imagining her stomping around every day. The thought makes me grin like a maniac. There’s a chipped Baphomet mug on the coffee table and I can’t help but snort. My little satanist.

I move to the bookshelf next, running my fingers along the spines of her books. Philosophy, art, psychology. Heavy stuff. I pull one out at random, flipping through the pages until something catches my eye. A passage highlighted in neon orange: “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Oscar Wilde. Interesting.

Putting the book back, I move to the stacks of papers. Notes from class, doodles, random thoughts scribbled in the margins. She’s smart and creative. Not to mention fucking hot as fuck.

My gaze shifts to the kitchen. I want to know all about this damn woman.

I stride over, opening cabinets and drawers, inspecting their contents. Cereal boxes, instant noodles, protein bars. I open the fridge, the cold air hitting my face. It’s mostly empty except for some takeout containers and a half-empty bottle of tequila.

Grabbing the bottle, I take a swig straight from it. The cheap gold liquid burns down my throat. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, savoring the taste.

There’s a bowl of fruit on the counter, apples and bananas starting to go soft. I pick up an apple, rolling it between my fingers before biting into it. The crunch echoes in the silence, juice dripping down my chin. Sweet and tart. Just like her.

I open another drawer, discovering a stash of snacks—chocolate bars, chips, candy. At least she’s not eating rabbit food. That would be a goddamn tragedy.

Right above the drawer, I notice the counter littered with pill bottles. The labels read like a fucking pharmacy menu—antidepressants, sleeping pills, and something for anxiety. Looking at the labels, they are all under her name.

I lean against the counter, surveying the room. Every detail, every item, gives me a clearer picture of Reagan. She’s complex, layered, and intriguing. And I want to peel back every layer, uncover every secret. No wonder I’m fucking fascinated by her. Just another thing for me to fucking fixate on.

I saunter back to what you could call the living room, eyes scanning. My gaze lands on a shelf crammed with vinyl records. A smirk tugs at my lips. Music says a lot about a person. I crouch down, flipping through the collection .

Led Zeppelin, nice. The Cure, interesting. Billie Eilish, huh?

The scent of old vinyl and dust fills my nostrils, and the nostalgia of records is timeless. I pull out an old Fleetwood Mac album, running my fingers over the cover before putting it back. My knees crack as I stand, stretching. I plop down on the worn-out couch, feeling something hard poking me in the ass.

“Ow, what the fuck?”

I reach between the cushion and the armrest, fingers brushing against something solid. With a tug, I pull out a sketchbook.

Well, well, what do we have here?

The cover is plain black and battered because, of course it is. But I know better than to judge by appearances. I flip it open, eyes widening at the first page. Intricate sketches, detailed and raw. My breath catches in my throat. These aren’t just drawings; they’re goddamn art and one look at my body proves how much I fucking love art.

Fuck, she’s talented.

I thumb through the pages, each one more captivating than the last. Her art is dark, twisted. Damn near could call it demonic. Just like me. My pulse quickens as I delve deeper, losing myself in her world.

One sketch catches my eye, stopping me cold. The lines are bold and aggressive. It’s me. She’s drawn me, capturing every detail with eerie precision. My hazel eyes, peering out behind the Ghostface mask.

Obsessed much. A grin spreads across my face at the thought of this bitch obsessed with me. It’s the least she could do after making me chase her.

I flip through the sketchbook again, fingers tracing over the rough paper. There’s a rawness to her lines, like she’s driven by some desperate need. Page after page, it’s me. Me in all my fucked-up glory. Unless she knows some other fucker in a mask, with my eyes, all black clothes and hella rings.

My lips curl up because she’s got a thing for psychos and imagine that, psycho is my specialty.

One drawing stands out. There I am, Ghostface mask on, knife dripping with blood. And there she is, naked and writhing beneath me. It’s so vivid, I can almost feel the heat of her body, the slickness of her skin. She’s captured every detail—the tension in my muscles, the intensity in my eyes.

I can’t take my eyes off the sketch. The way she’s drawn herself, legs spread wide, back arched. She wants this—wants me. Wants the danger, the darkness. My dick hardens at the thought. I can almost hear her moans, the way she’d scream my name as I take her, masked and merciless.

Yea, you’d love it you dirty little bitch.

The sketches are explicit, but they don’t do justice to what I’m picturing. Her hands clawing at my shoulders, nails biting into my skin. Her breath hot against my ear as she whispers filthy things.

I wish I could take this fucking book with me but rein myself in and snap a few pics of the most explicit pages with my phone before grabbing a few pages from the middle. She won’t notice these gone.

Thank you for the fucking meat beater material for later.

The pages are seared into my brain as I shove the sketchbook back down in the cushions of the couch.

It’s like she’s got some invisible leash wrapped around my throat, pulling me tighter.

What the fuck am I doing? Obsessing like this? Acting like Lincoln and Jeremiah with their unhinged obsessions? Those two ever since they locked onto their targets have been off the rails. And now here I am, acting no better than them. What the fuck is it about this chick?

Her bathroom’s the only place left untouched by me as I get up and walk toward it. I am nothing if not thorough.

Makeup, hair products, and God-knows-what-else are scattered across the counter.

How the fuck does she even find anything in this chaos?

You’re one messy girl, Reagan St. Pierre. I grin as I imagine her reaction if she knew I was here, rifling through her life.

I turn and yank open the shower curtain. Bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash line the ledge. Mint and eucalyptus. Making a mental note of the brands she uses. Maybe I’ll grab some myself to keep in the shower for a little rub and tug session.

I’m not even a mint lover, but fuck I might be converted because of her.

Stepping back to the counter, I catch sight of something black on the counter. Black glitter lip gloss. Because of course she would have something like this. I pick it up, twisting the cap off and pulling out the wand. The glitter sparkles under the harsh bathroom light. A wicked grin spreads across my face.

With one hand, I tug down my pants, freeing my cock. The wand hovers over the head of my dick before I slide it around, feeling the cold, slick gloss coat my sensitive skin.

“Fuck,” I groan out loud, the sensation of the fuzzy tip sending a jolt through me. I dip the wand into my slit, shivering at the contact. The thought of her using this same lip gloss later, unknowingly rubbing my dick across her lips, sends a thrill down my spine.

Next time she paints those pretty pouty lips, she’ll be tasting me. My breath hitches at the thought as I slide the wand back into the tube, satisfied but still hungry for more. Always fucking more.

Standing in front of the mirror, I adjust myself, but I’m still hard as fuck. No way am I riding my bike back home with this raging boner. Nah, I need relief now, and fast.

I move back into her bedroom, eyes darting over that messy, rickety ass fucking bed she calls her own. Sheets tangled, pillow half off the mattress.

I stand over her bed as I grip myself, hand moving quick and roughly. The cool metal of my rings glide across my shaft and I grip myself tighter than I should. My breaths come out harsh, ragged. Each stroke brings images of her beneath me, crying out, helpless and wanting.

“Fuck, Reagan,” I groan, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. The tang of it just makes me harder. The bed creaks beneath my weight as I lean forward, bracing myself against the wall.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I hiss, “this is what you do to me. Every fucking second, you haunt me.”

The tension builds, choking me and my dick. I can almost hear her voice, feel her skin, taste her on my tongue. My orgasm hits like a freight train, ripping through me, leaving me breathless and shaking.

“Jesus,” I pant, leaning heavily against the wall. Slowly, reality seeps back in. The room, the bed, everything comes into focus. I straighten up, a crooked smile on my face.

My chest heaves as I come down from the high. Leaning over the bed, I pull back the pillowcase. The sticky warmth between my fingers is almost poetic—my mark on her territory. I let it drip inside, spreading my seed against the cool fabric before smoothing the case back down like nothing happened. A sinister grin spreads across my face .

“Enjoy your sweet dreams, hellfire,” I mutter to the empty room, my voice low and mocking.

I take a step back, surveying my handiwork. The thought of her unknowingly resting her head on my cum-stained pillow sends a thrill through me. It’s fucked up, sure, but that’s what makes it so goddamn exhilarating.

I’m one twisted son of a bitch. I run a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. Not the one just covered in cum. This isn’t fucking Something About Mary.

Jesus fuck, have I gone too far?

Nah, the limit does not exist for me.