It's Like Rain (Orlando Bloom/OC)

Chapter 1: The Beginning

“I love the good times that you wreck.”

Thursday, 6:15 am and he’s here again. It's the third time this week. He's so good at this, charming the pants off my feet when he wants something from me. Recently, it has been about a place to crash.

     He says I’m good for his soul, which is comical to me since I’m not good for my own soul.

     Did you see him there on the couch? He’s got that naturally unkempt look that is so chic, yet he does absolutely nothing to achieve it. Some are just lucky, I guess. He’s wearing a pair of black PJ bottoms and a white undershirt. I’m so glad he has the decency to carry an overnight bag in his car - else he’d be butt-naked. And my poor heart definitely couldn’t handle that, without having a massive coronary.

     God! Why does he do this? Why does he crawl here, when the rest of the world beats him down in some ridiculous way in the gossip columns?! Doesn't he know what kind of an effect he has on me?

     Of course he does, else he wouldn't be here. He’d be teasing some other girl half to death. Well, aren’t I the lucky one?

     I think that's part of what keeps him coming back – that unspoken desire that burns in my eyes. I'll never act on it, and I think that's what matters to him. Rest of the bloody world thinks of him as a piece of meat, and I'm the only one loosing my night's sleep over that. And here I was thinking that torturing was prohibited under the Geneva Act…

     If he could see me now: drooling after him, while sitting on my coffee table of my living room, staring at him sleep over there on my couch, hugging my knees and praying that he won’t wake up and see me do this.

     I’m such a hypocrite.

     Who am I to kid myself? I do think him as a piece of meat. A meat popsicle, so good to lick…

     Okay, ick.

     Do you hear that? Snoring.

     Yes, the Great Orlando Bloom snores, like a bloody chainsaw, folks. It's probably just another ploy of his to ensure that I don't get any real sleep while he's here.

     Maybe I should tape that damn noise and sell it on eBay to the highest bidder. See what he’d think of me after that.

     His shirt has ridden up again. Just enough to show off his tattoo on his belly. Even in his sleep, in that funky position he’s right now, arms folded over his eyes, left leg thrown on the couch’s back and right one bent under the left in a ninety degree angle from the knee; he looks just edible. And I can’t help but stare at the tattoo, and fight with myself that I will not reach out and touch it, and him, and do things we’ve been doing steadily for the past two months now.

     Gah! What the hell?! Get a grip, you silly git! Who in their right state of mind thinks about slaving all over someone’s tattoos?? Well, me, apparently. I must be dizzy from all the non-sleep.

     I can’t even imagine what my father would think if he’d find out about Bloom. Probably sent hitmen after him. Actually, he would do just that, I’m sure. ‘Nobody is good enough for my baby girl’ and other similar stupidities. When thinking back, and considering all the crap he’s managed to do in his life, he’s not really a fatherly type, so he should not have any say in this matter. But me, the forever good girl, tend to listen to my parents, never mind how much I try to rebel against them.

     He, Bloom, was drunk again when he showed up.

     This is a new trend, by the way. Don’t know the reason, though. It had been going on for quite sometime. There was a familiar air about this and I figured it must have something to do with the model he had been dating previously. He’s made me as a substitute, which I didn’t really object, but on the other hand I wasn’t absolutely thrilled about it either.