Taming Pierce

07

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T A T I A
07 | I spy

I had no intention of breaking one of Reece's rules on the first day itself. However, I couldn't help myself.

The penthouse got so lonely — not even a servant to spot post breakfast — that it made me agitated. I tried to watch some shows and ended up browsing through Netflix until my stomach grumbled. There are no snacks in the kitchen, for real. I didn't believe him last night. What kind of bachelor doesn't indulge in snacks and drinks?

I haven't had anything to eat since lunch when Reece had some Chinese delivered for me. It is past dinner time now.

I rummaged through every cupboard and caused a tornado of utensils and flour in the kitchen as I attempted to make spaghetti from scratch.

Reece is going to kill me for sure when he returns.

I hope he brings food before carrying on with my persecution. I am dying of hunger.

Then followed my intense overwhelming thoughts about Casteel. I got so terrified of being trapped with his viciousness in my head that I had to distract myself. One way of doing so, I thought, would be to sneak into the one place I am forbidden to go — well, one of two places — and get a pair of pants to stop walking around like a whore around the penthouse.

That's how I find myself in Reece's room — breaking a rule.

His room is neat, unlike his appearance. Floor-to-ceiling windows, white walls covered in picture frames, awards, and wall decor, a King-sized bed at the center, tiled flooring, a marble bedside counter, an attached desk on one side that faces the bed, and a TV screen on the other side. The place is so clean that every bit of it sparkles.

I roam around in awe, taking in the vivid details, and the picture frames all around which consist of his pictures with a little girl, his mother, and his stepfather — Winston Clarke. I remember reading a news report months ago that mentioned him being dead. I wonder what happened. He looks healthy in all these frames. I stand near one picture which seems to have been cropped in a way, looking out of place with its incomplete shape.

There is him, his mother, Winston, and that little girl who is in every other picture. The missing person is Ryan.

A heaviness weighs my heart at the recall of the strict orders for him. His relationship with Ryan seems irreparable. I wonder how Lizzie copes with their rivalry.

Lizzie is lucky. Everyone loves her. I wish I could say the same for myself.

Absently, I hum to distract myself from the strangeness of his personal space as I continue my expedition. I touch everything — judge me all you want, I don't give a fuck. I need pants. I touch his furniture, his TV set, his bed — the soft pillows, the grey covers, the scent of him, a musky coat lingering on the sheets does something to the heat between my legs. I can almost imagine him sleeping here, like a creep.

Not wanting to lower myself to that level, I remove my hand from his bed, walking around to a set of double doors that appears to be a closet. I pull the doors open, revealing a walk-in space that is magnificent with rows and rows of clothes, shoes, watches, and other things including his perfume. My feet greet the warm velvet rug laid out on the floor as I venture to search for a pair of pants.

I am met with different fabrics and as expected of my insane self, they keep me engrossed, confusing me with the number of choices in front of me. For his sake, I leave out the dress pants, choosing one from his joggers instead.

I am about to pull a grey jogger out when my eyes fall on a sliver of an intricate frame poking out from between some new towels finely stacked together. The strange object picks up my curiosity and my hand leaves the joggers, reaching for that object.