She says something to her cats as they eat. Hmm. I might have to figure out a way to listen in on her.

Or I might forget the fuck about her and move on with my life. How about that?

I readjust the binoculars as she continues talking to her cats with a small smile on her lips as if they’re humans. She does that, talking to her cats, which means she’s not as lonely as I predicted — it’s way fucking worse.

She has two friends at the hospital, the Russian and the black woman. But even when she’s with them, she’s still a lonely little Petal.

The cats don’t even acknowledge her, one is licking itself and the other is busy eating.

She kisses them both on the head as she shimmies out of her blouse and heads in the direction of the bedroom.

Usually, my observation through the fire escape would finish in the living room, with that little cocktease of her unbuttoning her blouse.

Today, though, I redirect the binoculars toward her bedroom window. She stands in the middle of the room in front of her closet in only black bra and colorful cotton panties.

Her skin appears paler under the white light. The curve of her full tits, creamy and engorged, push against her bra, giving a porn-level view. She has curves that she managed to hide well with those unflattening scrubs. Sometimes, she wears them from home, as if needing the camouflage.

Well, well, my little Petal. What are you hiding from?

She digs into her closet and I expect her to retrieve those pajamas with cats on them. No kidding, she has multiple kitten pajamas.

Instead of her usual home clothes, she retrieves jeans and blouses, then dresses and sweaters.

Petal never goes out, so this is a break from the norm. She’d usually be curled up with a book or cradling her laptop.

She tries several items of clothes against herself as she stands in front of the mirror but soon throws them away. I wonder how that firm ass would look in jeans.

I readjust my cock as she tries one thing after the other against her half-naked body.

One thing’s for certain. I need to either fuck her or kill her soon, so I can get the release.

Or I can do both.

It all depends on what she’s hiding behind those metal eyes and fake smile.

If she’s been wasting my time this entire week, she’s getting a bullet to her head and someone will have to adopt her ungrateful cats.

She settles on a little black dress, twirling while she holds it to her body. Interesting. She can do that just like any other woman, my fake little Petal.

She digs into a drawer and pulls out a set of white lace lingerie.

White lace.

My cock hardens, but it’s out of the hot red anger going through it rather than the view.

Who the fuck is she wearing lingerie for?

She unclasps her black bra and her breasts fall free with a gentle bounce. The soft pink areolas are tipped with semi-erect nipples, begging to be sucked, pinched, bitten.

Petal hides them all too soon with the white bra, then shimmies out of her cotton panties. Her pussy is smooth with a few hairs disappearing between her thighs. My cock pushes against my pants with the need to plunge inside that pussy, claim it and claim her, then get her out of my fucking system.

She pulls the new panties up way too soon, as if she feels me watching her, which isn’t remotely possible. She’d have to look from her window and have killer sight. I’m sitting in the darkness and she’s in the light.

Darkness never bothered me. If anything, it provided the shadows I needed to go unnoticed.

Petal stares at the mirror again, her brows furrowing as she admires her new lingerie.

White.

Why the fuck is it white? Does she think she’s some sort of angel being unboxed?

She throws the dress over her head. It has a low neckline and it’s tight at her stomach and falls to above her knees. Appearing satisfied with her dress for the night, she releases her hair, letting it fall in black waves to her back.

My little Petal never releases her hair, not even in her house when she’s alone. I didn’t even know it was that long.

She sits in front of her mirror and applies lipstick and mascara and ends the ritual by spraying perfume all around her.

What smell is it?

I don’t ever get close enough to smell her, but she always gave the impression of hospital smell; cold and impersonal. Just like all those fucking fake smiles.

She buzzes someone through to her apartment while my blood boils. I don’t see the son of a bitch, but I can already imagine cutting him up.

I have to know who the fuck she’s wearing that lingerie for.

4

Georgina

I spend a long day at the hospital and get home with twenty minutes to spare before the big date. Rushing through the door, I pet Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Hudson as I put my things down, then get their kibble ready for them. I need a quick shower before Andrew collects me if I have any hope of looking decent.

As I strip my clothes off, I feel as if somebody's watching me. That disconcerting feeling of a pair of eyes following my every move won't stop, even when I've checked every nook and cranny of the apartment. There's no one here, it's just my imagination. I need to stop being paranoid and just focus on my date. It's about time I had some fun.

I take a much too short warm shower and dry myself quickly. I hesitate for a moment before getting dressed, my fingers lingering over the lace in my lingerie drawer before I finally pull out the white set and put it on. I flush as I check out my reflection in the mirror, Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Hudson both watching from my bed with their heads cocked.

"Shut up, guys," I mutter. "It's not like I'm hoping something's going to happen."

Mrs. Hudson meows loudly and I sigh, leaning down to cuddle her close. I dry my hair and apply a quick layer of gloss to my lips, and a coat of black mascara to my eyes.

I spend a lifetime picking out outfits in front of my mirror, before finally settling on a little black dress. I even use some perfume, spraying my wrists and my neck.

I’m done in the nick of time, and the doorbell goes off not a minute past seven thirty. I let Andrew in with the buzzer and throw some stuff in my handbag before opening the front door.

"Good evening," he greets me with his signature grin, and I allow him to kiss my cheek before stepping inside my apartment. "So, this is your place."

"Welcome." I smile shyly and give him the grand tour.

There's not much to see – it's really just one big room with a separate bedroom and a small bathroom. It's cheap, and I don't need much more, anyway. It serves me just fine. But Andrew's expression falls slightly when he sees the inside of my home, and I try to imagine how it must look from his perspective.

The paint is chipping in some places, the kitchen is old, and the cats have pretty much destroyed my sofa. There are blankets and fluffy pillows everywhere, which I thought looked cozy, but it must look like a mess from a doctor's point of view. Of course, Dr. Martin must have a nice place, but then again, his paycheck is probably four times the amount of mine.

"Oh." His nose twitches when Mr. Bingley strolls into the living area and jumps on the dining table. "You have a cat."

"Two, actually." I scratch under Mr. Bingley's jaw and he purrs loudly. "You're not a cat person, I take it."