Dissent (2 page)

Unfortunately
moving to the city was going to greatly limit my chances for any of
those activities. I would have to become another faceless drone
running around Central Park or picking up weights for hours.

My
body was a testament to long hours learning how to sling a bow and
arrow, how to throw a hatchet, how to snare rabbits, how to slaughter
animals. I had scars all over, the darkest of which was one running
up the side of my ribs from when I had been target practicing and my
knife hit the tree wrong and came back at me.

My
hands were a crisscross mess of marks in different stages: white from
when I was younger, pink from my adolescence and early adulthood,
reddish from the past few months. I glanced at my palm for the barest
of seconds before balling my hands up in fists and walking into my
apartment.

So
far all I had gotten around to buying was a bed, a reading chair, and
a coffee table. The entire back of the apartment had floor to ceiling
windows leading out to a shared balcony with a pool, entertainment
system, and seating. The living room was lined with built-in
bookshelves which was, admittedly, the main reason I jumped at the
place.

I
hadn't always been a big reader. Back with my father, there were only
two types of books allowed in our house: the bible and hunting/
fishing/ survivalist living books. That was it. They didn't exactly
make for exciting nights curled up on the couch. I took up reading as
a way to re-acclimate to the real world, to learn about all the
things I had missed from my very religious homeschooling, to see what
the world outside my secluded little life was. Most of the books on
the shelves were history texts, popular culture, philosophy, and
biographies.

It
didn't seem to matter how much I read though, I always felt like I
was missing something. Like there was a secret all the regular people
with normal upbringings were exposed to that I just couldn't figure
out.

I walked into my bedroom, going into my closet and slipping into a
pair of gray slacks and a white t-shirt. I didn't have much in the
way of casual clothing. I wore suits to work and to chase women at
bars after work.

I
grabbed a book, poured a scotch, and made my way out toward the pool.
I still craved the outdoors, even if the outdoors in the city was
full of skyscrapers and car exhaust. I had grown too used to open air
to spend all my time inside.

I
grabbed one of the chaise lounges set back from the pool and opened
my book, content on spending another night alone.

But
then the door to the other penthouse was opening and I heard
footsteps coming around the balcony toward me.

Two

She
was young. Way too young to be any kind of big businesswoman or even
any kind of professional in general. So maybe I was right about her
being some kind of socialite. I felt the words of Dr. Todd settle
deep in my belly... because she was fucking gorgeous.

She
was tall, somewhere around five seven with a strong flare of hips and
a large chest. Her shocking mass of thick black hair fell straight to
her waist, kicking up at the ends in the wind. Her face was soft, all
roundness and plump cheekbones, a gently pointed chin, and strong
black eyebrows. But her eyes was what did you in. Because they were
framed with dark, thick black lashes and were the palest possible
shade of green and were so light they were almost startling.

She
didn't so much as glance around as she made her way toward the edge
of the pool, dipping her toe in, then quickly reaching for her shirt,
hauling it up over her head and dropping it on the ground next to
her. The skin of her back was impossibly pale and smooth in the faded
light of the crescent moon. She didn't have on a bra and was pulling
her tight black pants down her long legs. She was reaching for the
waist of her black panties when I finally shook myself out of my
daze.

I
cleared my throat, alerting her to my presence. I might have been a
lot of things in the past and even the present, but I wasn't a creep.
“Someone is out here,” I said, just loud enough for my
voice to carry to her.

“I
know,” she said, sliding her panties down to the ground,
exposing her high, round ass to me for a second before jumping into
the water with a small splash.

Yeah,
I really didn't think I was going to be able to complete the
assignment my shrink wanted me to. Because what red-blooded man could
resist the urge to take their hot skinny dipping neighbor to bed?

She
moved to the other side of the pool, arms on the cement on the
outside, looking out at the city for a moment before throwing herself
into the water and starting to swim fast, punishing laps.

I
looked back down at my book, forcing myself to concentrate on the
pages with the sound of her kicking in the background.

I
don't know how much later it was, having long lost interest in
watching her swim back and forth, but I heard the wet slapping sound
of bare feet on the ground, getting louder as she got closer. I
looked up just as she moved up next to my chaise, reaching up behind
me into the cabinet. Where the towels were. She was stark fucking
naked.

And...
damn. That was really the only way to put it. She was flawless. From
the long, shapely legs, the bare triangle hiding her sex, to the wide
hips, smallish waist, the large breasts. Her light pink nipples were
hard from the cold water and, I realized with a sharp pang of desire,
were both pierced- surgical steel barbells poking out of each side of
the hardened points.

As
she was leaning, a bead of water slid down her breast and landed in
the center of my chest. I wanted to pull her down and fuck her right
there. But she pulled back slowly, a fluffy white towel in her hands
as she looked down at me, a coy smile playing at her lips.

“Hi,”
I said, knowing my voice sounded husky and aroused and not giving a
damn.

“Hey,”
she said, smiling as she straightened, bringing the towel to her
chest. “So you're the new guy.”

“I'm
the new guy,” I agreed, watching as she moved to the chaise
next to me, laying the towel down and spreading herself down on top
of it. “Isaiah Meyers.”

“What
a proper name, Isaiah Meyers,” she said, sitting forward and
squeezing the water out of her long hair. “I'm Darcy.”

“Just
Darcy?” I found myself asking, wanting to keep engaging her.

She
turned her head to me, her brows drawn together in confusion. “That
is usually enough for most people.”

“I
don't know what that's supposed to mean,” I said, shrugging.

Her
brows furrowed for another second then she turned, putting her feet
on the ground near my chair, smiling. “That's refreshing,”
she said. “I'm Darcy Monroe. From Darcy.”

“Is
that a place?”

She
laughed then, the sound at once husky and honey in texture. “No.
Darcy is the name of my band.”

“You're
a musician,” I said, sitting up slightly. Music was one of the
few normal human things I felt a strong emotional connection with. I
had delved into endless albums, I had learned a lot about life and
relationships from the crooning sounds of alternative rock bands.

“Yep,”
she said, nodding.

“What
kind of music?”

She
shook her head, looking at me like I must be some sort of alien.
“Metal,” she said finally.

“Metal?
Really?” I asked, not having listened to much and not
particularly liking it, but knowing that it was dominated by men.

“Are
you shocked, Isaiah Meyers?” she asked, looking amused.

“Yeah,”
I admitted.

“Because
metal is a genre of men with long stringy hair and studded belts?”
she asked.

“Pretty
much.”

She
shrugged a shoulder, “I guess I'm on a one woman mission to
smash the patriarchy.”

“How's
that going for you?”

She
smirked, waving a hand out toward her apartment. “Pretty
fucking well.”

She
had a point. I knew what that penthouse cost me and I had the
financial backing of a thriving, generations old family business to
fund it. If she could afford it fronting a metal band, then she must
have been doing really well.

She
looked down at my lap with a raised brow. “Are you trying to
put yourself to sleep?” she asked. At my confused look, she
laughed. “Chester A. Author?” she asked, waving at my
book. “He's got to be one of the most boring presidents in
history.”

I
reached for my book. “Hey he succeeded James A. Garfield after
his assassination.”

“Which
is the only interesting thing about him. And it wasn't even
technically about him,” she said, standing and finally wrapping
her body up in the white towel.

“Big
history buff, huh?”

She
snorted. The gorgeous, exhibitionist female metal singer actually
snorted. “Two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars in private
school tuition will pound even the most mundane facts into your
head,” she turned, waving a hand up in the air as she walked
away. “Nice to meet you, Isaiah Meyers.”

She
was gone before I could even respond.

Yeah,
I was going to owe Dr. Todd an apology because there was no way I
wasn't going to get her pretty ass into my bed. She would get over
it. I had disappointed her countless times before. It wasn't my fault
that my neighbor turned out to be the sexiest woman I had laid eyes
on in months.

I
got up off the chaise, letting myself back into my apartment and
putting my book back on the shelf next to all my other books on the
presidents. Twenty-one down, twenty-two to go. I grabbed my laptop
and sat down on my kitchen counter, doing a quick search of Darcy
Monroe. I slipped earbuds in, not wanting her to know I was
researching her, if she could hear through the walls, as I put one of
her songs on.

There,
arching out of the sounds of distorted guitars, dense bass, and
roaring drums, was Darcy Monroe's unique, beautiful voice. It seemed
almost out of place against the backdrop of masculine riffs. Her
range was capable of soaring high notes and low rolling growls, at
once both operatic and classic grunge. The lyrics ranged from loud,
aggressive calls to rebellion to haunting tales of stalking, suicide,
and murder. Dark. Everything was dark.

I
wondered if Darcy was the lyricist. If she was the one penning songs
about the darkest parts of human existence. Aside from her almost
gothic appearance and her nipple piercings, she seemed open and
sweet. But if she was singing about those topics, then there must
have been darkness inside of her.

Which
only made her all the more intriguing. I'd known more than my fair
share of women in my time and while they were all unique in their
combination of personality traits, there was an underlying
superficiality. They liked things. Clothes, television, makeup,
animals. Tangible things. They weren't much for ideas. Concepts. They
didn't wonder about the human condition. They didn't read poetry and
contemplate the idea of love. They didn't read philosophy and ponder
why the fuck we are all even here.

Darcy
Monroe had a well of introspection. She didn't sing about her
wardrobe or pets or shows. She sang about angst and emotion. She sang
about what drove kids to kill. Hell, she wrote a song about having an
orgy with Rasputin.

The
girl was fucking unique.

I
watched videos of her on stage, her long black hair flying around her
as she jumped up and down, as she threw herself off the stage into
the mercy of the crowd, their hands lifting her up, as she danced.
Her stage wardrobe varied. At one show, she wore tight black pants, a
tank top, and combat boots. The next show she might be wearing a
tight-laced corset and a floor length billowing red gothic skirt. Her
eyes were always lined with black, her lips a shiny blood red.

You
couldn't look away from her if you tried.

She
was singing a song about cutting, about slicing into your own skin
which, from the full view of her exquisite body I got, was not
something she did herself, but she sang of it with connection, with
knowledge and as she belted out the dragging, growling final note,
the top of the stage opened up in a blood rain, pouring down on her
and the musicians, the color jumping off of the top of the drums,
flying off the bass player's hair and completely drenching Darcy,
making her dress cling to her, making her face look like it was
straight out of a horror movie.