𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 | 18+

Chapter 11

Lifting my head, I faintly make out the lit bud of the end of a cigarette and a pair of eyes focused on me.

And I just know it's him.

It's like I can feel it.

"I hope you're not expecting me to applaud you," comes his deep voice and then the faint light of the cigarette disappears.

Fallen onto the ground where he crushes it underneath his shoes.

Snuffing out a light.

He steps into the dim light of the moon, casting shadows over his sharp features that are contorted in indifference.

I glare at him. "No, I don't want anything to do with you. Now, if you'd please leave."

"Why would I do that?" he asks and tilts his head to the side, "what if I want to be right here?"

Before I can say anything else, he nods at my guitar, "Feel free to continue. It's nice to be able to witness a free concert."

"I wasn't playing for you."

"You might as well now. Should I get a guitar case for you where I can drop some five dollars?"

I part my lips to make a comeback but realize he's not worth any of my time. He can go fuck himself, for all I care.

So instead, I put all my attention on my guitar and play the melody again. But now, I feel conscious underneath his stare.

How long was he standing there? Did he hear everything?

However, I'm distracted when he retrieves another cigarette.

"Those things can kill you," I remark, focusing back on my guitar.

"So do smartphones, but no one is complaining about that."

Leaning back in my chair, I feel a bit more at ease with my guitar in my hands. It's like an armor I can use against him, something I can distract myself with.

Humming a tune, I start playing a random melody while maintaining eye contact with him.

"You're..." I begin, letting my voice trail off and fade out, "are sooooooooo," I continue and praise my voice for not wavering or cracking, "fucking annoying."

"And I wonder," I continue, "what the hell got stuck up in your ass."

"Real mature," he deadpans, but I only level with him another glare.

"And I had a dream," he sings without hesitation, picking up the tune and almost catching me off guard with the sound of his beautiful voice, "in which you shut the fuck up."

His voice is soft and gentle. He could say anything to anyone and they'd swoon.

I'd swoon, too. But his words register and make me grip the guitar a little tighter.

Instead, I raise my middle finger and send him a sweet smile. All he does is wink at me and place the cigarette between his lips, lighting it and taking a hit.

My eyes follow him when he squats down in front of me, and our eyes meet.

Green clashes with blue, and the heat creeps up my neck at the intensity of his eyes.

Reaching out his hand, his long and slender fingers take mine and readjust them on the guitar.

"For your song," he says and glances down, placing my fingers on some strings, "it'll sound better with some lower tunes."

I don't thank him, I just keep my eyes on him.

"Play it," he says, and as if on their own accord, my fingers do just that and the chords fill any silence between us.