Night Owl

NIGHT OWL

_____

m. pierce

Text copyright © 2013 M. Pierce
All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The nonexistent is whatever we
have not sufficiently desired.

FRANZ KAFKA

For Anna, of course

TABLE
of
CONTENTS

_____

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Dear Reader

CHAPTER 1

Matt

_____

I LIED TO
Hannah about the picture.

I lied to her about a lot of things.

No relationship should be built on lies, but I was in no relationship—at least not with Hannah. She was a girl I met on the internet. Bethany was my girlfriend, who shared my apartment, my bed, and my life.

Hannah got the scraps.

"No pictures," I told Hannah on Skype. "No specifics, no last name, no phone number. Nothing. I don't want to know you, and I don't want you to know me. We write together online, that's it. I'm not looking for a new friend. I'm looking for a writing partner."

"Got it," she replied.

I remember staring at the text on my laptop and wondering if she was hurt. It was impossible to tell, the words hanging there with no tone.

Hannah broke two of my rules within a month when she sent me an email from her personal address, [email protected]. Beside the email was her account picture. A picture of her.

I glared at the tiny square image, then at her last name, then back at the picture. I should have gotten on Skype and chewed her out then and there, but I didn't. I clicked on the picture, which took me to her Google+ page and a larger version of the image.

She was wearing a strapless cream-colored top with a fringe of black lace along the neckline. Deep cleavage disappeared into the lace. Her skin was incredibly pale, flawless, and her hair fell in thick black-brown curls around her face. She wore dark-rimmed rectangular glasses with little gems on each side. She was blowing an air kiss at the camera.
At me
.

I should have closed the window immediately.

Instead, I stared at Hannah's picture—and stared at it—until I felt my cock getting hard in my slacks. I tried to ignore it, but the longer I looked at Hannah's picture the harder I got. She was beautiful. And I was furious with her, for foisting her picture and last name on me.

I slid my hand between my legs and closed my eyes.

That was the second time I got off thinking about Hannah.

The first time was a week before. Bethany had just left on a tour of Brazil. I could have joined her, but I had no desire to sightsee in South America with Bethany's parents in tow.

I found myself chatting with Hannah every day.

It was late—about 2:00 a.m. Hannah's boyfriend had gone to bed. That meant Hannah was alone in their basement office. As for me, I was on my laptop in the guest bedroom of my Denver apartment.

"I sent you a few paragraphs," I typed, "but don't worry about replying tonight. Aren't you tired?"

Little.Bird
:  Not yet. I haven't been sleeping well.

Little.Bird was Hannah's Skype name. Mine was Night.Owl.

Night.Owl
:  You could take something. I don't know, melatonin?

Little.Bird
:  Never works for me.

Night.Owl
:  Well damn.

We were in unknown territory with this conversation. As a rule, we dialogued about our collaborative story and nothing else.

Our story was an ongoing fantasy. We emailed pieces back and forth. That was how we met, and why: on a fiction writers' forum, seeking writing partners.

Hannah's character was a human with supernatural powers and mine was a demon.

She was Lana. I was Cal.

Little.Bird
: Sometimes I smoke a little bit of Mick's weed to help me sleep.

Night.Owl
:  Is that right.

Little.Bird
:  Yeah. *Shrugs* Mick smokes 24/7 and drinks every day too. I'm not like that. Anyway it's legal here.

My stomach clenched. Colorado had recently legalized marijuana for recreational use. So had Washington. God, did Hannah live in my state? Why did that possibility have my stomach flip-flopping?

Night.Owl
:  Yeah, it's legal here too. I'm in Colorado.

Little.Bird
:  Okay Mr. Secret Agent No Specifics.

I smirked. Oh, so Hannah wasn't going to volunteer her whereabouts. I deserved that.

Night.Owl
:  I'm allowed to break my own rules.

Little.Bird
:  Just ask.

Night.Owl
:  What? Ask what?

Little.Bird
:  Oh please Matt. You're waiting for me to tell you where I live.

Night.Owl
:  Then tell me.

Little.Bird
:  Seattle.

I felt a funny twist in my gut. Washington, not Colorado.

Night.Owl
:  Ah. I've never been out that way.

Little.Bird
:  You should visit some time. Great food, great atmosphere.

Night.Owl
:  Your boyfriend sounds like a real charmer.

Little.Bird
:  Lol. Sure. Doesn't matter, I won't be with him much longer. Brb.

Hannah was gone for ten minutes. Fuck, had I upset her?

Little.Bird
:  Back.

Night.Owl
:  Wb. Are you okay?

Little.Bird
:  Yeah, I'm fine. I wanted to change into something more comfy.

I stared at the screen for a full minute before forcing my fingers to type what my brain was screaming. After I typed it, I stared at the words for another minute before hitting enter.

I must have been losing my mind. Or turning into a creep. Or both.

Night.Owl
:  So what are you wearing?

Little.Bird
:  Lol! All the walls are coming down tonight...

Night.Owl
:  Haha. God, sorry. I have no idea why I just typed that. Ignore that. Such a creeper right now.

Little.Bird
:  No, it was funny, that's all. You're not a creeper, trust me. I'm a girl who used to play online games. I know what creepers are.

Night.Owl
:  Well, whatever.

I felt my face heating. Hannah and I were having our first actual conversation and I asked what she was wearing.

I, a successful and very taken twenty-eight-year-old man, had become the equivalent of a horny fourteen-year-old. Real smooth.

Little.Bird
:  Matt, I said trust me. You are -not- a creeper. You're like the anti-creeper. That's why I laughed. It's like suddenly Mr. "I'm not looking for friends so don't piss me off with details about your life" wants to know what I'm wearing. Do you still want to know?

My blush of embarrassment was rapidly turning into a flush of anger.

Night.Owl
:  Yes, I still fucking want to know. That's why I asked, so either tell me or drop it. I don't need you to make me feel like a dipshit for asking.

Little.Bird
:  Okay! I'm sorry. Don't get angry. I'm wearing a blue bathrobe.

Night.Owl
:  A bathrobe...?

Little.Bird
:  Yes. It's a soft fuzzy blue bathrobe. Hits me about mid-thigh.

Night.Owl
:  Is that all?

Little.Bird
:  Yes.

I felt a throb between my legs. At the time, I had no idea what Hannah looked like, but that fact didn't seem to matter to my dick. I slid the laptop off my thighs and onto the mattress. I pressed a hand to my sex. And I waited. Where was this going?

Little.Bird
:  Do I... get to ask what you're wearing?

Night.Owl
:  Lounge pants.

Little.Bird
:  Is that all?

Night.Owl
:  Yes.

Little.Bird
: Yummy...

Night.Owl
:  Hannah. You should let your robe hang open.

Little.Bird
:  Alright.

My mouth gaped. My erection pushed against my palm.
Alright
? She took my order so calmly and without hesitation. Was she really doing it?

I conjured up an image of a young woman seated at a computer desk, her small robe hanging open and her full breasts bared to the screen. I shoved my pants around my hips and freed my shaft. My whole body was tingling.

I needed to tell Hannah to stop and that I wasn't single and that we were going to ruin our pleasant anonymous online friendship.

Night.Owl
:  Describe your body. Spread your legs. God, my heart is pounding.

Little.Bird
:  Mine too. I spread them. Telling you this stuff is making me wet.

Night.Owl
:  God, Hannah.

I began to pump my cock with one hand, pausing to swirl my thumb over the head. I could feel the lean muscles along my thighs and arms locking up—tensing in excitement or else willing me to stop. I needed to stop.