Out Of Sight, Out Of Mind

Mara

I bury the book beneath a pile of dirty clothes I need to take to the laundromat. At this point, I’ll try anything to make me forget that book exists.

Ignoring it seems to be the way to go.

That night I dream of absolutely nothing. It’s a dark, black hole. An abyss. It’s eerie, like I’m way too aware of the fact that I’m not dreaming. Like I’m literally standing in the darkness.

But then, two red eyes appear.

I wake up with a start, my heart hammering and sweat clinging to my brow.

I look over at the pile of clothes in the corner of my room, the buzzing already starting, the hair on my neck already standing.

“Nope!” I shake my head as I throw the sheets off my body. “That book isn’t real. It’s not underneath my clothes. It’s not there.”

With that determined phrase in my head, I get off the bed and shove the pile of clothes into my closet, slamming the door shut.

I take a step away and trip right over a stack of hardcovers, nearly face planting into a pot with a dead plant in it.

What the fuck? I forgot I tried to be a plant lady. I promised to never buy another plant again.

“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my shin and scowling at the mess around me.

Books, magazines, a half-finished macrame project I abandoned six months ago, dried flowers hanging from pots Tom hung from the ceiling. It’s a damn flea market in here.

Or, somehow, worse than that.

Crissa is supposed to come over tonight. She loves me and has been attached to my hip since my parents died, but even she wouldn’t be able to ignore the mess in here.

Not to mention I need to work off this energy.

I’m already wet between my legs, my clit so hard that it rubs against my panties. I look at my bed. Maybe I could lay down and rub a few out to ease the pain, but something tells me that’s not going to be enough. I’ve never felt like this before.

I groan, eyeing the door to my closet with a snarl.

Out of sight, out of mind. Right?

Wrong.

As I move through the apartment, vacuuming up dust bunnies the size of small rodents and rearranging frames on the wall for symmetry that only I care about, I keep glancing back at that damn closet.

Every time, heat pulses low in my stomach. A throb, a flicker, a whisper.

Stop. It’s all mental. It’s just adrenaline, hormones, an overactive imagination. It’s a book. When is my period coming?

I’m a week away so that must be it. I’m going insane becasuse my hormones are out of wack.

Still, I avoid looking directly at it.

Instead, I scrub counters, light candles that smell like pine, and water the dead plants with a silent apology and a beg to please come back to life.

The heat is getting to me and I decide I need to get out of the apartment.

I throw on a pair of jeans and nearly buckle, the seam of the denim pressing against my throbbing clit and making me gasp. I grab the arm of the couch for balance.

Fuck.

I need something, anything.

I grab my phone, thumb hovering over Tom’s name. He’d come if I asked. No questions. We’ve never been intimate, but I have a feeling he wouldn’t object. I could just…use him?

He’d show up, kiss me and…

My body reacts like I’m going to be sick, my stomach revolting.

A one night stand with Tom can’t fix this. I drop the phone like it burns and back away from it. I need out.

Sneakers on, I bolt out the door. No music. No destination. Just the pavement slapping under my feet and the thunder in my chest. I run like I’m being chased by something I can’t see. Maybe I am being chased.

The buzzing in my head intensifies the longer

But it doesn’t help. I get home sweaty, aching, and even more raw than before.

I shower. Scrub myself until my skin stings. Slip into a black t-shirt dress. My body is much to sensitive for anything else.

I wear no bra. No panties. Too much friction.

Glass of wine in hand, I pace the apartment. Twitchy. Restless.

I glance at the closet again, and my brows furrow like I’m staring down a nemesis.

“I am angry at a book,” I mutter aloud. “I might need to check myself into a mental facility.”

I grab a random paperback off the shelf. Something easy, something familiar. A romance I’ve read six times. I sink into the couch and try to focus.

But the words slide right off my brain. I reread the same page four times. Nothing sticks. I throw the book across the room and scream.

The sound finishes echoing off the walls and then silence.

The buzz behgins again. Deep, low, curling in my belly.

The closet hums in the corner of my eye.

I squeeze my thighs together, furious and undone. I have nothing left to throw at this feeling. No distraction. No logic. Just the heat, the ache, and the knowledge that the book is still there.

Waiting.

Watching.

Calling.

I throw my head back on the couch and set down my glass of wine. I pull my bottom lip into my mouth and part my legs, dropping my hand between them. I hiss when I make contact with my clit.

I’m so wet, the sound of my hand moving against my skin filling the apartment. Heat rises up my cheeks until my legs are trembling from how good it feels. I moan into the cushion of my couch, abou to come, about to feel the relief of release when a knock echoes through the living room.