❝ HE'S PSYCHOTIC, OBSESSIVE, AND MY WORST NIGHTMARE.
OF COURSE, I'M THE ONE HE CHOOSES ❞
[ DARK!TOM HIDDLESTON AU]
[ TEACHER!TOM HIDDLESTON AU ]
[ BOOK ONE IN "THE NEFARIOUS" SERIES ]
[ ORIGINALLY...
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PARTYING ISN'T MY THING, AND yet here I am in the far corner of the unfamiliar living room with a cliché red Solo cup in my hand.
In all honesty, I should have opted out when Ellie initially asked me to come with her. But with her large puppy-dog eyes and the schoolgirl-esque fawning over the host, I found myself unable to turn down the invite. Looking across the room and seeing how close Ellie and a boy named Cory had become made me wonder if playing the wing-woman was at all necessary in the first place. As if I had even played the role well: my introduction featured nothing but stuttering and awkward, tight-lipped smiles.
I bring the jungle juice to my lips and take a large gulp. The rum and vodka don't hit my taste buds until the back of my throat burns, but the other ingredients added dulls the physical sensation in my mouth. Where the strong taste begins to dwindle, my head ever so slowly creeps towards a fuzzy cloud.
Perhaps the need to feel weightless is why I came here.
All last night I kept thinking about Mr. Hiddleston and our drive. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that the drive itself wasn't bad; it was how he knew my house that stuck out. I remember wondering if I had mentioned my house number before or my street or the turns that he took without my guidance. It was too much of a coincidence for him to guess all the right answers. Maybe I had mentioned the address before. He had said he was familiar with the neighborhood, given than a friend of his lives nearby, so there is a chance he's driven around before. Maybe he considered moving into the very neighborhood, on my street even, and that's why Sycamore Lane was easy for him to navigate.
Yet, no matter how many times I tried to rationalize or play around with ideas, something never sits quite right. If I told him the address, then he must have some kind of internal GPS system. If I had said what turns to take, why don't I remember? Am I that forgetful?
The last conclusion my thoughts drew to was something straight out of a movie or a book, the type that would entertain me the most. The idea makes me want to laugh out loud with a shake of my head: as if Mr. Hiddleston knew my address because he had been stalking me. It's ludicrous, I'm very much aware. After all, why would my English teacher stalk me out of all the people on this planet? At least that would make for a rather interesting story, if anything.
