We Were One Once Book 1

By: Willow Madison

San Francisco: Simon Lamb





Watching. It’s the first thrill I get. I like this part—the beginning, watching. Sometimes it’s from afar, but usually I’m up close. I try to get as close as I can. I like to smell. To hear. For me, it’s all about the senses. I’m a product of my environment, and I need to have constant stimulation. I chuckle to myself with this thought.

I touched this one once. In a store, I reached for the same can of soup on purpose. Her hand sprang away like I’d grabbed it instead.

That was a good day, the day I first laid eyes on her. She dropped the can. I thought it landed on her foot, but it only rolled away. She didn’t even look at it or me, just walked away. She left her cart and walked away.

I like this one. She’s special. They’re all special to me; but this one, she’s different. And it’s not just because she’s plain. Everything about her is plain. Kinky brown hair that hasn’t seen a brush in a long time hides large brown eyes that only dart around occasionally before they shoot down to the ground again. No makeup, and she’s so tiny, not even taking up half the seat she’s in. This one's not my usual object of sexual desire and definitely not what anyone would call an ideal candidate for sex slave of the year.

I chuckle again but manage to cover this with a cough. The crazy Chinese bitch next to me keeps eyeballing me. I glare at her, and she finally gets up from her window seat just as the bus starts to enter the tunnel that bisects the streets lined with downtown storefronts from those fringed with pallets of food in Chinatown.

I glance back at my girl. Plain as she is, there’s something about her. Something I saw right away. Something I smelled right away. This one smells like heaven. When she talks, her voice is almost musical, not lyrical but like a tempo beat that she stops and starts at the oddest points. It’s a rhythm all her own. And I like that she doesn’t talk much. It’s a relief from all the fucking chatty bitches in the world, all on their phones non-stop with their non-stop chatter. It drives me fucking nuts.

I stand as the bus rocks to a stop and shove past a couple of suits and a hot fuck in leggings standing in the aisle. My height and build give me an advantage over the throng of passengers trying to get on or off. I make my way onto the street easily, past all of their pink plastic bags stuffed with bok choy, frogs, and an assortment of nasty smelling dried foods.

I don’t turn around and say bye to my girl. This isn’t goodbye; she’ll get off at the next stop. She hasn’t looked up anyway, not for the last few blocks.

I didn’t try to get close to her this time, just kept watching her from three seats away. I grin knowing that our time for getting real close is fast approaching now.



What the fuck?!

Where is she going?

Alarm bells go off in my head and chest. I don’t like this. I don’t like anything besides the routine. I know her pattern by now. She should’ve gotten off the bus at the next stop.

I always get off two blocks before her. Then she gets off. She walks the two blocks uphill to her scummy little apartment above the tea store. I walk by her as she goes up the three steps.

That is our routine, not her fucking staying on the bus!

So why is she fucking with me today and not getting off now?

I jog to catch up with her at the next stop but have to slow myself to a walk when I get close. A tall, strongly built, blond man in Chinatown stands out. It’s been her one flaw, living here. I’ve not been able to hang out around her apartment as quietly as I’d like.

She’s still on the bus. I stop. I turn around.

I have discipline. I can wait for her to come back. Whatever she’s up to now, it won’t matter soon enough.

I look at my watch. It’s 5:56 p.m. She hasn’t been out later than 7:49 p.m. before. I won’t have to wait long. She’s a hermit.

I head towards the Szechuan restaurant located diagonally across from her steps. I can keep an eye out for her through the window, eat some noodles, and wait.

I smile at the sweet little hostess as she shows me to a table. She’s not my type, but I know a buyer who’d pay to play with her. And she smells like cinnamon.

I don’t make it obvious that I’m watching the building across the street. I push my body against the cold window but keep my face out of the fluorescent lighting and pull the brim of my cap down more.