Description:
A TRUE-ly fabricated story about Love & Obsession...
I’m an idiot.
I’m too stupid to be human. Too stupid to live.
I lack common sense.
I used to be a normal human being. Until the guy in the red hoodie. Just a glance, and I was owned. Enslaved.
What’s worst? He didn’t even notice me.
Yep. You guessed right: I’m delusional. I’m obsessed. I’m a stalker. A martyr. A masochist.
I’ve allowed my obsession to lead me down into a deep, dark pit, selfishly hurting everyone around me, and only his requited love can pull me out of it.
But I won’t apologize for it. I won’t apologize for being in love with Jahleel Kingston.
I’ve loved him at first sight. I’ve loved him for five empty years. I’ve loved him through all his bullcrap and asshole-isms.
I love him even now.
My name is Saskia Day. I’m British. I’m famous. I’m stinking rich. And this is my pathetic story.
Read at your own bloody risk.
EXCERPT
“I’ve missed you,” I confessed to my Clarks.
A finger nestled under my chin and elevated it so I was looking at him. “What exactly have you missed, Sassy?”
His expression was one of curiosity, test and confrontation, as though wondering what was there to miss about him when we were nothing to each other and spent little time together creating memories, or moments to miss.
There was nothing to answer with, because I, in truth, didn’t know what I missed. Except that I missed him. All of him. Him being a walking contradiction. His playing, his teasing, his eyes on me…as they were at that moment.
Those unique gold irises studied me. Sandy-brown waves of his silky hair suppressed by his cap, the visor created a light shadow over his face, lending him a brooding bad boy look. I itched to take off his cap and ruffle his hair until it bounced back into free, unsuppressed impeccability.
When he realized I was speech-impeded, unable to answer him, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and asked, “You did Twelfth Night in school, Sassy?”
“‘If music be the food of love, play on’,” I quoted.
Nodding, he asked, “What’s your take on Orsino and Olivia?”
Huh? “Um, I dunno…Orsino was obsessed and madly in love with Olivia. He…spent his time lying around daydreaming and fantasizing, listening to music and spewing poems about love, pining for Olivia. Often he would send Cesario to deliver his proclamations of his love for her…I…I don’t know…”
“And Cesario always failed to get through to Olivia, right?”
“Right.”
“And what did Orsino do about this so-called love and obsession himself?”
Was I in high school or something? “Nothing. Lay around and pine because he was obsessed with love, all things of and about love, and the concept of desire and need.”
“As a highly respected nobleman with a title, ‘Duke’ Orsino, what could he have done?”
“Gone to her himself and demanded her?”
I guess I answered correctly, because he leaned back in his chair and studied me for a moment before asking, “So, tell me, do you think he was really in love/obsessed with her, or did he just like the idea of being in love/obsessed with her?”
Tired of getting drilled, I rubbed my eyes and whined, “I don’t know, JK. I usually got C-D in all things Shakespeare.”
Maybe there was a point somewhere in all of this, something he was trying to tell me, but I was too hungry and knackered to rack my brain further about Shakespeare’s mindfuck of plays.
Leaning forward once more, he whispered with a steady air of confidence, as someone not fascinated with an idea, but with the real deal, “Let me tell you what I miss, Saskia: I miss those wide, passive, all-consuming grey eyes looking at me. I miss that puckered point on those perfect full lips. I miss how your nostrils flare, the way they turn bright red around the rims when you crave having me inside you. I miss those long lashes, how beautifully dark they are, the way they fan your cheeks when you sleep. I miss your silky smooth skin sliding against mine. I miss your raspy voice. I miss watching you dream about me, whispering my name in your sleep. I miss cuddling with you, laughing with you, teasing you, pissing you off. And most of all, I miss watching your heart.”
Holy crap.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I got out, “Watching my heart?”
“Yes,” he said definitively, leaning further over to me.
He pressed two fingers to the base of my neck where my collarbone parted, leaving that soft little dip.
“Right here,” he whispered. “I watch your heart right here. Your skin is so delicate, that whether your heart beats once or twice, skips a beat or pounds erratically, this little dip right here moves in sync. It’s fascinating. You’re a rare treat, Sassy.”
Lost for words, I stared back at him. Who knew he was so attentive to detail? So…aware? Half the time he seemed not to give a crap about anything. Yet now he was telling me he missed watching my heart? How the hell do I respond to that?
I fought to keep my breathing under control so my ‘heart’ wouldn’t rat on me. But it was pointless, because he would know I was trying to ‘hide’ my heart. Maybe I should start wearing scarfs. But then, my nostrils also ratted on me, so should I start wearing gas masks, too?
Jahleel dipped his head and chuckled lightly at his own private joke, then glanced back up at me. “You hungry?”
Oh, how bloody hungry I was. Raw. Rabid. “Yes.”
As he stood up from the chair, his eyes read mine, knowing damn well I wasn’t talking about food. “Gather your bearings, fair lady,” he joked, still with his secret humour. “Meet you outside.”
I watched his retreating form as he navigated through the room and spotted Derek’s assistant arch a brow at him. Right as he was about to pass by her, she scuttled to his side. She grabbed his bicep to stop him, speaking the words of a slut no doubt, fluttering her lashes at him.
Feeling eyes on me, I glanced over to Derek and found him watching me with a smirk. Indeed, I’d pretended I didn’t know Jahleel, then snapped at Derek for harbouring him on the set, next I was hyper-bloody-ventilating with him in a corner. Sure, anyone with half a brain would’ve figured it out.
With a roll of my eyes, I waved off Derek and looked back to Jahleel and the eager hoe.
Once Jahleel started his famous lip biting thing, I shot up from the chair and gathered my motherfucking bearings.
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S. Ann Cole is a passionate writer and reader, and a lover of anything that distracts her from the real world. Reader first and second a writer, S. Ann Cole is an exaggerator, a laugher, sometimes overly chatty, sometimes overly shy. She believes cats are evil, and also detests dogs with a bitter passion, mainly because she’d been bitten over a dozen times on separate occasions by the rambunctious creatures in her formative years (even by her own dogs, and she's got the marks to show!)
Ann is not your typical girl: she hates chocolate, candle-lit dinners and all that hearts and flowers stuff makes her feel awkward, and coffee makes her drowsier than ever.
A lover of all things ‘romance’, Ann has always been a writer of poetries and songs of any kind. All who’s acquainted with Ann can attest to witnessing her write her way through life: through destruction, devastation, hardship, sadness and disappointments, her coping mechanism has always been writing.
Having an obsessive and unquenchable affair with the written word, she’s naturally a recluse who dwells inside her imagination and has to suffer continual bashings from her friends for being a neglectful pal who does nothing but sit around the computer all day, writing.
When she’s not abusing her computer keyboard, you can find her nosing a novel, watching anything on television that makes her laugh out loud, studying the Bible, or nursing any of the three alcoholic beverages: Black Label and Coke, Heineken, or a glass of Merlot.
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