THIEF [S.M.]

thirteen

What the fuck kind of name is Arlo?

That's a question I cannot answer, but besides his unusual name, he was basically perfect.

Chiseled body shape. His large, muscly form suited the size of his big-ass head perfectly. Good bone structure, high cheekbones, hollowed cheeks and everything. Stupid smooth skin, minus a small scar that slit the small bridge between his eyebrows. Skinny, really skinny. Taller than me. Big black eyes that fit well with his complexion. He wore a lot of cologne, though. The sharp, rugged scent lingered in the hallway twenty-four seven after he started showing up, I couldn't even leave my apartment without acquiring a headache.

Anyway, I guess he's handsome. Probably more good-looking than I am. I can't actually be the judge of that. I've never had to judge another guys' looks before.

Nobody can be that perfect. Maybe he's an ass. Venus doesn't deserve an ass for a boyfriend.

But then there's the possibility that he's not an ass, and he is literally perfect. Better than me. He's got to be better than me, because she chose him before even noticing me. However, I do think that nobody could be as good to her as I could.

I haven't really met Arlo, though. Besides a few run-in's in the hallway, we haven't had a conversation. He looks a little rough when he's not apologizing for trampling you over when he's running to Venus' apartment.

I try my best to be polite at times like those. "Oh, I'm sorry!" I'd say. "Oh, no, it's my fault, man." he'd reply, with his low, menacing voice, patting me on the shoulder and producing a semi-warm grin before proceeding with his day.

I don't know how I feel about him, though. I'm jealous of him, yes, and I refuse to trust him. I believe there has got to be something wrong with him. So in order to prove this theory of mine, I found myself sitting on the roof of the building next door with a pair of cheap binoculars and a newly lit cigarette, staring in the window of her apartment. It wasn't difficult to find; the top last few windows on the right side of the building belonged to her.

I was propped on a rusty beach chair, clothed in my black leather jacket to keep warm. This building was smaller than the apartments, but only by a few feet. The perimeter of the flat, square roof was protected by a two-foot wall, which made as good coverage for me as I peeked above the top, waiting for any action whatsoever.

It was slow for a few hours, Venus left for work at the library and Arlo was yelling at somebody on the phone.

Uninteresting. Besides the fact that he just about punched a hole in the wall, which definitely got me up out of my seat. What could he be negotiating that would be so frustrating?

Of course, right when arrived back home, they moved to the bedroom. Then things got a little more interesting. And painful.

It's like they were staging this out for me to see specifically. In the doorway of her bedroom, they talked for a few minutes. Then, his big sausage fingers began to trace her jawline. Those should be my hands. Why am I doing this to myself?

Her lips gently nudged against his, and it's like you could see the heat rise between them before it was a full-blown make out session.

I thought I was going to be sick to my stomach.

I moved the binoculars from my face to take a drag of my cigarette. It was rough to watch.

His hands began tugging at his shirt, pulling it over his head, breaking their kiss temporarily. Then it was her turn, and he roughly pawed at her breast as she wrapped her legs around his waist. As his lips left marks down her neck, they disappeared from my sight as he dropped her on the bed.

Oh my god. Why am I watching this? Does this make me a pervert? I'm not enjoying this, no. Oh, my heart hurts. My hands are shaking. I can't think about anything other than the fact that that should be me. It should, shouldn't it?

I ducked down hastily as Arlo moved to the window, grabbing onto each of the curtains, and noticing me. His eyes squinted at my face, unable to make out who I was. Heaving, I pressed down flat against the concrete. I couldn't let him see me. After a moment, I peeked back over the wall and the curtains were shut, still waving from recent movement. I'm going to be sick.

-

Running.

I was barreling down the stairs to the bottom of the building, thinking,"At any moment I'm going to vomit."

Skipping three stairs at a time, my shoes galloped against the tile, paying no attention to my surroundings.

My stomach tossed, sweat bleeding through my pores. Once my foot hit the ground outside and I stood beneath the radiating sun, I was doubled over.

Tears blurred my sight as I stumbled over the mess I'd left behind, nearly stepping into it as I hurried up to my apartment, crashing into my bed and letting lose.

I don't have the capacity for this constant ache. I don't want to do this anymore.

But I can't help it, I'm in love.

*Note: Arlo Nixon is a completely made up character, anybody with the name is in no way affiliated with the person in this book, nor does anybody's appearance.