The Suspect

chapter 27

Tatum's pov:

Four days.

It's been four days and I've heard nothing from Willow. It shouldn't bother me as much as it does but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't weird going a day without even a single word from her.

I'm at my little apartment I've rented out in LA for the time being, and I'm contemplating whether or not I should go and pay her a little visit. I can officially say she has fucked with my head and my body. I don't know if it's a good or bad thing but I just can't seem to get her out of my head. I still don't know where we stand but fuck if I don't want to taste her again. I've jerked off to the thought of her riding my face, and my tongue lapping her sweet pussy at least twice every day since that morning at the hotel.

It's currently ten in the morning and I'm sitting in my living room, sipping on a cup of steaming hot coffee, wracking my fucking brain whether or not I should send a text to a girl. A girl. Fuck, I don't even remember the last time I was so in a twist about a girl. If I were ever wearing panties, I believe the appropriate phrase would be my panties are in a fucking twist right now.

However, that's the thing, Willow isn't just some girl. She seems to be the only thing mildly making this arrangement better for me and I would like to hold onto that as long as I can.

Two sips of coffee and a whole lot of overthinking later, I finally cave and shoot her a text.

Me: Did I eat you out into a coma? Is that why I haven't heard from you since?

Way to lay it the fuck out man. Wonderful start.

Great, now I'm overthinking about texts too. The next thing you know, I'll be overthinking what to wear when I go to see her. God, I need to fuck her soon. All the fantasizing will shoot right out my body—probably into hers—and I'll be good. That's it, just once and it'll be out of my system in no time.

I start to get annoyed when she doesn't respond within the next few minutes. I keep checking my phone like a thirteen-year-old texting his first crush. I keep myself busy for the next few hours, and when the clock hits twelve, I give up. I change into a fresh pair of clothes, grab my keys and get the fuck out of the door.

I'm going to her apartment. Fuck it, I can't stand it anymore. The more I'm alone, the more I think about that morning and my dick shoots up like a rocket. It deserves a break, and honestly so does my brain.

I pull up to her building and sprint up the stairs, not bothering to wait for the slow-ass elevator. Once I'm at her door, I pause when a thought hits me.

It's a workday. What if she's at work? Maybe that's why she didn't text me back. Well, I'm here already so I may as well see for myself. I ring the doorbell and wait in anticipation.

No one opens the door. I ring it again and wait a little longer, but there's no answer again.

I knock once, "Willow, it's Tatum. You in there?"

Again, no fucking answer. I become restless and a little worried so I open the door, expecting it to be locked when it opens in one go. The first thing that hits me is the smell of coffee. It's so strong; like a wave crashing into me. I'm guessing her little side piece isn't here, so thank fuck for that. I close the door behind me and go to the kitchen first.

It's a mess. A big fucking mess. Jesus, did they have a party here. Is that why she's been so busy. Didn't think to invite me?

Dishes are stacked up like a mountain in the sink, the refrigerator is still open, the coffee seems to have overflowed from the carafe, and is now painting a beautiful brown picture over the counter and floor. The trash is full too and I am full of confusion.