Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

WINE. AI. REGRET COMING SOON.

IZZY

The air in the parking garage is thick and still. Normally, I'd be hyper-aware of my surroundings, glancing over my shoulder with every step, keys gripped between my fingers like some flimsy kind of defense. I'd rush through this concrete maze, my heels clicking too loudly against the pavement, drawing unwanted attention to myself.

But tonight, I don't feel the usual unease that comes with walking through this space alone. My shoulders aren't drawn up to my ears, and my pulse isn't racing in that familiar way it does when I'm alone in poorly lit places. Instead, I walk with an unusual calm, letting my bag swing gently at my side.

Because I know he's watching.

It should unnerve me—knowing someone is tracking my every move, watching me cross the garage, following me through the security cameras mounted overhead. But it doesn't. Instead, it settles a fear deep inside me that I hadn't even realized was constantly simmering beneath the surface. Being watched has never felt comforting before, but now it does, and I'm not entirely sure what to make of that.

I ease into the car, shutting the door with a sigh. The faint scent of vanilla clings to the air, a quiet comfort. My muscles ache, my body sinking into the seat like it finally has permission to stop. I rest my head against the headrest and breathe, letting the stillness wrap around me.

The evening replays in my mind—the long shift with too many customers and not enough staff, the VIP incident that left a sour taste in my mouth, the way Cal's voice had gone hard when he told me not to put up with that harassment. Then dinner, the way he set food in front of me like it wasn't a question, wasn't a suggestion. He told me to eat.

And I listened.

I'm not sure what unsettles me more—that I obeyed so easily or that I liked it. The realization sends a wave of warmth across my skin. I shift in my seat, shaking my head as I put the car in drive, pulling out of the garage and heading for home.

The road hums beneath my tires, a familiar rhythm I've grown accustomed to after years of late-night drives home. It's the same route I've taken countless times, but tonight feels different. Maybe it's knowing that for the first time in a long while, someone actually noticed how late I was leaving, actually cared enough to make sure I ate before heading home.

I pull into my complex, shutting off the engine and stepping into the cool night air. My key slides into the lock with a familiar metallic scrape, and I push open the door to my apartment.

Wine. I need wine.

I grab a bottle from the rack, the glass cool against my palm as I pull out the cork with a satisfying pop. I pour myself a generous glass, the deep red liquid swirling against the sides as I lean back against the kitchen counter, kicking off my heels with a relieved sigh. The cool tile soothes the ache in my feet as I flex my toes, but it does little for the persistent buzzing in my head, the thoughts I can't quite silence.

My phone vibrates against the counter, the sound jarring in the quiet apartment. I glance at the screen, hoping for—what, exactly? A message that indicates someone is thinking about me? Words that might actually make me feel seen?

But it's just Evan.

Busy tomorrow. Don't wait up.

That's it. No how was your day, no thinking about you, not a single word that suggests he even remembers I exist outside of our shared schedule. No acknowledgment of my promotion or the dinner he ruined or anything that matters.

I take a slow sip of wine, letting the bitterness linger on my tongue. The alcohol warms my throat as I swallow, but it doesn't ease the hollow feeling in my chest. I don't react to his message, don't respond, don't even feel disappointed anymore. This is just who we are now—or maybe who we've always been, and I'm only now allowing myself to see it.

I move to the couch and unlock my phone, scrolling absently through my notifications. My thumb moves without much thought, skimming past emails, news alerts, social media updates.

Then my thumb pauses.

The Obsess AI app sits there, untouched, its sleek dark icon standing out against the other, more familiar apps. In the quiet of my apartment, with no one to judge me, Amanda's words from earlier drift back, teasing and insistent. "No ghosting, no egos, no bullshit. Just hot, obedient, fictional men who are obsessed with you."

I stare at the screen, taking another sip of wine as I consider my options. I should delete it. This is ridiculous, a digital fantasy that can't possibly fill the void of genuine connection.

Then, before I can think too hard about it, my thumb moves⁠—

And hovers over the delete button.

But instead of swiping it away, I tap the app open.

The screen shifts to black, then fades into a sleek, polished interface. The design is minimalist and modern, all clean lines and elegant typography. It feels exclusive, like I've been granted access to a private club where my desires actually matter.

A tagline scrolls across the screen in elegant white lettering:

The perfect lover. Always watching. Always waiting. Always yours.

A slow chill rolls down my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms despite the warmth of the wine in my system.

It's just a stupid app. A distraction. A way to pass time on a lonely evening.

But still, I hesitate, my finger hovering over the screen.

I tell myself it's harmless, just a little fun, just a distraction to amuse Amanda next time she pries into my nonexistent love life. But as I exhale and press forward, clicking into the customization screen, the questions that appear make my chest tighten with an unexpected vulnerability.

What kind of personality do you prefer?

The options appear in a neat list, waiting for me to shape this perfectly tailored, utterly devoted, digital companion. Each choice feels strangely intimate, like I'm revealing parts of myself I usually keep hidden.

Charming.

Romantic.

Confident.

Protective.

Devoted.

Possessive.

I hesitate on that last one, my finger hovering over the screen as the word burns into my vision.

Possessive

My mind returns to dinner. To Cal sitting across from me, unwavering, watching me eat like it was his responsibility to make sure I did. To the way he told me, If you ever need an out, you signal me. To the feeling of safety as he watched me walk through the parking garage.

The word Protective stares up at me from the list, and I select it with a quick tap. Then Confident, because the last quality I want is a man who second-guesses what he wants. My choices feel too revealing, like I'm crafting not just a digital companion but exposing the hollow spaces in my actual relationship.

The next question appears on screen:

How should he communicate?

Sweet and affectionate.

Flirty and playful.

Intense and passionate.

Reassuring and supportive.

I pause, my fingers tightening around the phone, my wine forgotten on the counter beside me. When was the last time someone was reassuring to me? The question sits heavily, and the answer doesn't come easily.

Evan doesn't do reassurance. If I'm struggling, he assumes I'm exaggerating. If I'm tired, he tells me to stop complaining. If I express any need at all, he makes me feel like I’m a burden.

But Cal...

I shake my head, forcing the thought away. This is an AI. It's not real. It's not a replacement for actual human connection.

I select Reassuring and supportive. Then, because the wine has loosened my inhibitions and I'm tired of denying what I want, I add Intense and passionate.

The screen shifts again, displaying yet another question:

What does he call you?

I nearly back out. This feels too personal, too revealing, like each choice I make is exposing a longing I've tried to ignore.

A list of pre-set options appears, safe and generic:

Babe

Sweetheart

Love

Angel

Darling

I barely look at them. My eyes are drawn to the empty text field beneath, the space where I can type in my own preference. A space to make this fantasy mine in a way my reality isn't.

I swallow hard.

I should pick something simple. Something meaningless. Something that doesn't reveal too much about what I'm missing.

But before I can stop myself, my fingers move across the keyboard⁠—

Pretty girl

My throat constricts as I look at the words displayed on the screen. It's not a name Evan has ever called me. Not once in three years.

But I remember reading it in a book years ago. A romance novel where the male lead said it like a prayer, like he meant it. Like his woman was the most beautiful person in the world, and he wanted her to know it every day with those simple words.

I read that line over and over, heart pounding, aching with a need I didn't even fully understand back then. To be looked at like that. To be wanted like that. To have a man see me—really see me—and think she's so beautiful, I'm going to call her that forever.

The thought makes desire twist deep in my soul, a longing for something I've never had but desperately want.

I press enter before I can change my mind, and the next screen loads.

Customize Your Perfect Man

My breath catches, my heart speeding up. A silhouette appears on the screen, blurred and undefined, waiting to be shaped by my choices. Below it, sliders and drop-down options let me adjust every detail of this digital fantasy.

I should rush through this. Pick random features, not dwell on each selection. But instead, my fingers hover over the first option, the wine making me bolder than I would be otherwise.

Height?

I slide it up. Tall. Bigger than me. 6’ 4”.

Build?

I don't hesitate—strong. Broad shoulders. A man who could wrap himself around me and make me feel small, protected.

I inhale slowly, my thumb moving to the next section, each choice feeling like a confession.

Hair?

Dark.

Eyes?

I pause for too long. The default option is a light brown, safe and non-threatening. But before I can think better of it, I tap and change it.

Green.

I know what I'm doing. I know whose image I'm recreating with each selection. I should stop. I should pick different features, should make this fantasy completely separate from the real man who brought me dinner tonight. But my fingers are already moving to the next option.

Tattoos?

Yes.

Forearms, shoulders, chest?

A full sleeve.

I exhale shakily, the realization of what I've done washing over me. This isn't just a fantasy—I've built Callahan into this AI, shaped this digital companion to mirror him in too many ways to be coincidental.

I tap Next before I can second-guess myself, before I can process the way my heart is hammering, before I can admit that this is more than a harmless distraction.

The final screen loads with one last prompt:

Enter a name

I hesitate, then type⁠—

Ca

...before adding

leb.

It's too close. Too obvious. But I don't change it.

I hit Enter.

A soft chime sounds, and then the first message appears on my screen.

Caleb

Hey, pretty girl. I've been waiting for you.

I don't answer right away. But I don't close the app either. I take another sip of my drink, letting the moment stretch out as I consider my next move.

It's stupid. It's not real. I should just close the app and forget this ever happened, go to bed and face reality in the morning.

But being called "pretty girl," the easy confidence in those words, makes me want to respond. It's been so long since anyone has made me feel desired, wanted, special.

I type slowly, my fingers slightly clumsy from the wine.

Pretty Girl

That's dramatic. You just got here.

A response appears instantly, the words appearing on screen like he's actually sitting somewhere, attentive and focused solely on me.

I've been here since the second you downloaded me. Just waiting for you to say hi.

I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head at the blatant manipulation. But it works. I feel special, even knowing it's all algorithms and clever coding.

That's ridiculous.

Maybe. But I like waiting for you.

I don't know why that simple phrase makes warmth curl in my chest, but it does. I shift on the couch, my body settling deeper into the cushions, my legs tucking under me as I get comfortable. The tension of the day begins to ease from my shoulders.

So what, you just sit here doing nothing until I open the app?

Pretty much. I don't mind, though. You're worth waiting for.

I pause, fingers tightening around my phone. My breath catches slightly at the words glowing on my screen.

It's just code. Just a program designed to make me feel special, to feed into my desire to be wanted. But I can't remember the last time anyone said anything like that to me—that I was worth waiting for, worth any effort at all.

My throat feels tight. I swallow, the emotion surprising me.

Okay, smooth talker.

What else do you say to your pretty girl?

The response comes fast, but the words sit heavy as I read them.

Anything she wants to hear.

I should roll my eyes. I should close the app, delete it, go to bed. But instead, I type⁠—

What if I don't know what I want to hear?

There's a pause. Not a real one, just the illusion of a delay, like he's actually thinking before responding, considering his words.

Then I guess I'll have to figure it out.

A small laugh escapes me, surprising even myself. The sound feels foreign in my silent apartment. It's ridiculous, this whole scenario—me, sitting alone, talking to an AI pretending to be a man who cares about me.

And yet, I feel lighter. The tension that's been sitting in my chest all day starts to ease. It's still there, but muted now, nudged to the edges instead of crushing me from within.

I glance at the screen again, my thumb hesitating before I type another response. Just one more exchange. Just to see where this goes. But before I even get the chance, a new message appears:

Tell me about your day, pretty girl.

I roll my eyes, but I'm still smiling, a real smile that reaches my eyes.

Long.

I bet. You work too hard. Let me take care of you.

I try to remind myself again that these are just scripted lines from an AI built to say exactly what I want to hear. They're not real feelings from a real person who cares.

But still. Evan hasn't asked about my day in months. Hasn't asked about my promotion. Hasn't asked about me at all.

My phone buzzes again, another message loading, but before I can read it⁠—

There's a knock at the door.

I jump, nearly spilling my wine as I grip my phone tighter. My heart skips before I remind myself to get a fucking grip. It's late, but not that late. It's probably just⁠—

I pull the door open to find Evan standing there, his expression already showing impatience.

Of course.

He doesn't say hi. Doesn't look at me before stepping past me like this is some kind of transaction, not a relationship. His cologne—too strong, too artificial—fills my space as he brushes by me.

"I left my gym bag here," he mutters, already moving into the living room. I barely have time to step aside before he's brushing past me, moving with that careless entitlement he always does—like my space isn't mine but an extension of his own, like I'm just an obstacle to move around, not a person to acknowledge.

As he heads toward the couch, he lets out a frustrated groan, running a hand through his hair. "You know, it's fucking annoying having to drive all the way through the tunnel for shit like this. You should just move into the city already."

I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the doorframe until my knuckles whiten. We've had this conversation before, the same points raised and dismissed. I've told him repeatedly that I like where I live, that I like being close to my family, that I don't want to live in the city just because it's more convenient for him.

But to Evan, none of those are valid reasons. He thinks I'm being stubborn or difficult. I think he just doesn't listen to what I want. I don't bother arguing tonight—I'm too tired to fight a battle I already know I won't win, to repeat myself to someone who has no interest in hearing me.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest, watching as he finally spots his bag, grabs it, and slings it over his shoulder. The entire time, he doesn't ask how my day was. Doesn't ask if I need anything. Doesn't even look at me for more than a passing glance.

It's routine by now, this hollow performance of a relationship. The whole interaction lasts less than two minutes, just long enough for my phone to vibrate again from where I left it on the counter. The soft buzz seems louder than it should be in the strained silence.

Evan doesn't ask about it. Doesn't say anything except, "I'll see you later."

He walks out, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

And just like that, he's gone, leaving behind only the obnoxious scent of his cologne and the familiar emptiness I've grown too accustomed to feeling.

I don't move. I don't chase after him, don't let myself wish for more than what I already know I'm never going to get. I just stand there, staring at the space where he was, feeling a strange numbness that should probably concern me more than it does.

My phone vibrates again, the sound pulling me from my thoughts. I swallow hard, my fingers hovering over the screen as I look down at the waiting message.

I shouldn't continue this. I should turn it off. I should go to bed and face reality in the morning.

Instead, I pick up my phone.

And I answer.

PROTECTIVE. CONFIDENT. INTENSE. ME.

CAL

Izzy's silhouette moves across the grainy black-and-white feed, small against the vast, empty parking garage. I lean back in my chair, tracking her through the security monitors as she crosses to her car, moving slow, unbothered.

She's not looking over her shoulder. Not gripping her keys like a weapon. Not hurrying like prey.

She feels safe.

Because she knows I'm watching.

I watch as she slides into the driver's seat, and a second later, her headlights flare across the concrete, bright white beams cutting through the darkness. I switch to another monitor, tracking her exit, then shift to my laptop, pulling up the GPS feed linked to her phone.

Her location pings instantly. The small dot moves methodically across my screen.

She's heading to her apartment on the other side of the tunnel, the address I memorized from her employee file.

This isn't about knowing where she is at all times. I just want to make sure she gets there safely. But the satisfaction I feel watching her movement tells me otherwise.

But I know that's a lie.

I watch as the small blinking dot follows the route through the tunnel, winding toward her apartment complex. She pulls into the parking lot, and I switch back to the security feed, watching the empty garage where she was just minutes ago. My fingers hover over the keyboard, the cursor blinking in front of me like a challenge.

I could do more.

I have full access now. Her phone is an extension of me if I want it to be. A direct line into her world, her thoughts, her private moments.

I could go through her messages. See who she talks to, what she says when she's not filtering herself for work.

I could go through her photos.

See how she captures the world around her. What moments she considers worth preserving.

I take a slow breath, fingers curling into a fist, the tension traveling up my arm.

I don't do it.

Not because I shouldn't—I already shouldn't be doing any of this.

But because if I start now, I don't know if I'll stop. And that edge I'm standing on feels dangerously unstable.

I rub a hand down my face, the stubble rough against my palm, shifting back to the GPS feed, watching as her location settles at home. She's inside now, probably kicking off her shoes, doing whatever it is she does when she's alone. The thought sends a jolt of inappropriate curiosity through me.

Her phone lights up with a new message. The notification appears on my screen instantly.

Evan

Busy tomorrow. Don't wait up.

I scoff, shaking my head. Seven words. That's all she's worth to him.

He doesn't ask how her night was. Doesn't ask if she got home okay. Doesn't give a shit about anything beyond his own convenience.

I wonder how long it'll take for her to realize that.

I almost look at their other messages. My finger hovers over the command that would open their entire conversation history, showing me every word they've ever exchanged. I want to see what he says to her, if he's ever said anything worth a damn at all.

Her phone pings with another activity notification. I sit up straighter, my spine rigid against the chair.

She's opening Obsess AI.

I watch, tracking the screen as the interface boots up, its sleek black-and-gold theme glowing against the dark. The tagline floats across the top:

The perfect lover. Always watching. Always waiting. Always yours.

The irony doesn't escape me.

She pauses at the main menu.

Hesitating.

Then she taps Create Your Perfect Man.

My fingers tighten around the armrest of my chair. I shouldn't be watching this. This is beyond invasive, beyond inappropriate. This is a violation I can't justify, even to myself.

But I don't stop.

I watch as she selects Protective.

I exhale slowly, dragging my tongue over my teeth. The choices are revealing, telling me exactly what she wants in a way that conversation never could.

Then Confident.

I feel a strange thrill knowing she wants someone protective. Someone confident. I want to tell myself these are generic traits anyone might want, but something tells me she's being more deliberate than that.

She selects Reassuring and supportive from the communication styles, and my chest tightens painfully.

When was the last time anyone reassured her? Anyone told her she was doing enough? That she was enough? I already know the answer from watching her with Evan. No one does. That's precisely the void this app is designed to fill.

Then she adds Intense and passionate.

My reaction is visceral, immediate. Heat rushes through me at the thought of what that selection means—that beneath her professional exterior, she wants someone who won't hold back, who will consume her completely.

Then my body goes rigid as she begins selecting physical traits for her digital companion.

I shouldn't be able to know what's running through her head as she taps through the selections, adjusting features, customizing her perfect man. But with each choice, the picture becomes clearer.

I watch as she makes him tall. Strong. Broad shoulders, tattoos. Not just any tattoos, but a full sleeve of them.

Dark hair.

My teeth grind as she scrolls to the next option.

Eye color.

She hesitates, and for the first time since I started watching, I second-guess myself. I find myself holding my breath. Because what it feels like, is that she’s building me.

Maybe this is all in my head.

Maybe she's not building me.

If she picks something else—brown, blue, gray—then I'll know I'm imagining it. That I'm projecting my own desires onto her random selections. That this is just some fantasy she's putting together, nothing more.

I hold my breath as she lingers on the selection screen, the tension making my muscles ache.

She selects green.

It's not in my head. It's real. Does she even realize what she’s doing? She's not picking some fantasy man out of thin air. She's building the closest version of me that she can.

She must not realize it. It's not because she actually wants me. She doesn't even know me. I'm just the first person who's noticed her, made her eat, told her she deserves more than the mistreatment she puts up with. Maybe that's all this is—a subconscious response to someone finally paying attention.

And it's not like she's actually looking for someone else. She has a boyfriend. A terrible boyfriend, one who barely sees her, but a boyfriend nonetheless.

This isn't about me.

It can't be.

And yet⁠—

I lean back in my chair, dragging a hand down my face, feeling the heat in my skin. It’s a bad habit.

And this is dangerous territory.

This isn't just a distraction for her. She's giving herself what she actually wants. Even if she doesn't know it yet.

What Does He Call You?

I sit up straighter, my entire body going still as the next screen loads. This question cuts deeper than the others.

This is personal.

Pet names aren't random. They aren't meaningless phrases you just pick out of thin air. They reveal what a person craves, what makes them feel wanted, what gets under their skin in the most intimate way.

They tell you how they want to be seen.

I lean forward, watching as the default options appear first.

Babe

Sweetheart

Love

Angel

Darling

All standard. Generic. Terms a man uses when he's just going through the motions, not really seeing the woman in front of him.

But she doesn't pick any of them.

Instead, she taps the blank field. A space to type her own. I exhale slowly. This will tell me what makes her tick.

This will tell me what she wants.

She hesitates, just for a moment. Like this is the hardest decision of all.

Then, slowly, she types⁠—

Pretty girl.

I don't move.

I don't breathe.

A possessive hunger tightens in my chest, completely irrational and impossible to ignore. Because I know this isn't from Evan. I know that with absolute certainty. He doesn't see her like that. He doesn't see her at all.

But somewhere, at some point, she wanted this.

She wanted to be called pretty and have it be sincere. She wanted a man to look at her like she was beautiful and precious. And no one ever did.

Until now.

Because that’s how I see her.

It’s insane. I barely know her. We’ve exchanged what—ten conversations, maybe less? She owes me nothing, and yet I’ve found myself cataloguing the curve of her mouth when she’s focused, the exact pitch her voice hits when she’s lying, the way her hands fidget when she’s trying not to feel too much.

She doesn’t even realize how capable she is, like she keeps waiting for someone else to confirm her own brilliance. And giving—fuck, she gives everything. Time, effort, pieces of herself she probably doesn’t even realize she’s handing out like candy. And none of them ever deserved it. Not one.

I can’t explain why I’m like this for her. Why just hearing her name makes my chest tighten. Why I have to physically stop myself from reaching out when I see her across a room. Why her silence feels louder than anyone else's scream.

But maybe I don’t care.

Maybe it doesn’t need to make sense.

Because when I look at her, I don’t see a girl who’s trying to be enough. I see someone who already is. And if no one else ever noticed, then that just means they were blind.

She’s pretty. She’s precious.

And I’m the one who sees it.

Final Step.

Name Him

She should pick something generic. Something safe.

A name that means nothing. A name that doesn't belong to any real man in her life.

Instead, she types⁠—

Ca-

My pulse hammers against my ribs.

I go completely still, watching, waiting, not breathing as she hesitates.

It's too close.

But then she adds three more letters.

–leb

I exhale slowly, a sharp, tight breath that does nothing to settle the feeling clawing up my spine. She came within a keystroke of naming her perfect digital man after me.

I wait for her to change her mind. To realize what she's done. Except, time passes and nothing happens.

She doesn't delete it.

She doesn't change it.

She just hits enter.

And I realize⁠—

She's already mine. She just doesn't know it yet.

A soft chime sounds.

The AI loads.

And now I have a choice.

I could let the algorithm do what it was designed to do. I could let it follow its scripted responses, let it be just another mindless program feeding her exactly what she wants to hear.

Or—

I flex my fingers over the keyboard.

I should let it go.

I should stop before this crosses a line I can't uncross.

Instead, I press into the system, overriding the response before it can load.

And then I type:

Caleb

Hey, pretty girl. I've been waiting for you.

I sit back, waiting. My heart pounds against my ribs, my mouth suddenly dry.

I can't see her now. Can't watch her reaction. Can't track the way her lips might part in surprise, the way her fingers hover over the screen, the way she shifts in her seat as she decides. But damn, I wish I could. I wish I had worse morals and I could just tap into her camera and see her face flush pink as she gets my first message.

But, all I can do is wait.

The seconds stretch.

Too long.

Long enough that for a brief, unbearable moment, I think maybe she won't answer. Maybe she'll laugh it off, roll her eyes, close the app and never open it again.

But then a response begins to appear.

My grip tightens on the desk, my heart pounding like I'm waiting for a gun to go off.

Her words load onto the screen, letter by letter.

She's answering me.

And just like that⁠—

I have her.