Psycho ➳ H.S.

Chapter 2

Repeating the same action in hopes of producing different results is classified as insanity, and Carissa was clearly going insane. For the rest of the week after she had left the cinema, visions of the man tainted her thoughts. She could swear she heard his voice reverberate somewhere in the distance while she was walking home from work, or saw the mop of curly, brown hair poking out through a large crowd when she crossed busy intersections. Attempts were made to push his face out of her head, to wash him from her system and rid him from her bones, but he still drifted about in her subconscious. It bothered her how much electricity he unknowingly sent shooting down her spine that night. She didn't want to gravitate towards him or his foul words- she merely wanted to forget she had ever imagined such filthy things about them together.

It was a good thing that it was just a physical longing. Though attachment didn't come easily to her, it didn't necessarily mean infatuations could be shut out at will.

Friday evening was among her once again and Carissa settled on going to the recreation center for a workout before checking in for the night. It had been a busy week at Le Troisième Ravier, the restaurant she worked at. It was situated right in the heart of the city and had reservations lined up for months. Since being deemed the most popular restaurant in California, Carissa had been one of the top critically acclaimed head chefs.

It was peculiar to see someone so young hold such an authoritative role, especially in an environment that demanded perfection. She was adamant on being the best. At first, they ridiculed her for being a young woman. She started working as a sous chef at the ripe age of eighteen, freshly graduated. Culinary arts was her specialty, even in high school. The job presented itself to her because her manager was acquainted to her estranged father, which angered some of the staff.

"She won't be able to keep up!" she recalled one of them complaining, "She'll just slow everyone down!"

But as time progressed they realized she was a valuable asset. They worked alongside her, taking her direction- she was an artist; every movement a stroke on a canvas, every ingredient added to a dish was a step closer to completing her masterpiece. She was the queen of her castle- no one could take that title away from her because she was the only female chef good enough to keep up. She took pride in knowing she was at the top of her game.

But today she was going to indulge in pampering: breaking a sweat, then a dip in the hot tub. It was always her favourite way to end a day.

After changing into form-fitting shorts and a tank top, she made her way into the weight room. The recreation center had been recently redesigned so that the people working out had a view of the people in the pool below; it was a good way to tempt the athletes in the gym to purchase a monthly membership to use the pool as well.

She started with a stretch, then went off to the bikes, situated the furthest away from the panoramic window of the weight room, and cycled until her legs felt like jelly. Sweat trickled from her forehead and trickled down her face. It was a sight most would turn away from- a sweaty woman with cheeks the colour of tomatoes- but she loved how it felt. She loved the stinging of her muscles, pleading for more oxygen, and the pounding of her heart against her ribcage. She stepped in front of the mirror after finishing her cycles to stretch again.

Unlike most, Carissa wasn't afraid to stare her reflection straight on- her demons were smothered under the weight of the narcissism in her character.

One would most likely notice the slender arch of her spine that dipped down just before curving out to create the aesthetic hills and valleys of her lower body. Her shirt, sweat ridden, hugged her torso well, clinging to the small swell of her chest and causing a few of the men in the gym to ogle at her while she wasn't looking. 'Bombshell' wasn't a word that would accurately describe her, but 'frumpy' wouldn't have done the trick either.

Once her second stretch was done she climbed onto a treadmill, all of which were facing the pool. She turned up the volume of her music, stuck her earphones in, and began her run. Not long later, she found herself getting distracted by a male swimming laps in the pool at an alarming speed. She continued running but directed her focus to the body zooming back and forth in the water.

Whoever it was sped like a bullet against the chlorinated liquid. Never had she seen someone swim so fast- save the Olympics. He moved his arms in a circular fashion parallel to his body, propelling him forward. She studied the muscles in his back, flexing with every stroke of his arms, water washing over his body and making his skin glisten under the fluorescent lighting of the pool area. His hair was hidden under a swim cap, which left her room to wonder what this man may have looked like; who he might have been. She dated a man about six months prior to the present date, also a swimmer, but recalled he hated using swim caps during practice.

The swimmer's lap was coming to an end, and he used his arms as leverage to pull himself onto the deck. The flex was present again. She couldn't bring herself to stop staring. He sat up and suddenly her insides ignited once more: tattoos. Familiar swirls of ink. It couldn't be...could it?

She stared at the birds- swallows, perhaps?- inked upon the skin below his collarbones. She remembered the man from the cinema having something poking out from behind the collar of his tee. His left arm was further littered with various inklings. Her gaze finally dragged down to the butterfly on his stomach. Normally she would have laughed at such a design on someone like him, but she couldn't deny that it made him look sexier; manlier; maybe even a little badass? He pulled the swim cap off of his head and a flop of curly brown locks confirmed her assumptions of who it was: the man who had stolen her ticket.

It didn't take much for her eyes to wander shamelessly down the length of his tanned torso to his crimson coloured swim trunks, hung low on his waist to reveal the trail of hair that disappeared under the waistband. He leaned back on his arms, giving her a full view of his body and the one part of it that held her mind most intrigued- it was more noticeable than a black eye; his bulge was, and would be forevermore, mocking her straight to her deathbed.

Her mind started to prance around like a giddy school girl with a crush on a boy several years her senior. Once again she found herself visualizing the view of him on the deck of the pool, using his lean, toned arms to perch himself up, staring down at her body trapped under his. What would the onlookers think? Surely they'd get arrested with several counts of third degree public nudity and possibly a mistaken count of public drunkeness. Parents would shield their children's eyes from the voyeurism, footage would be posted on the Internet, and she would have to quit her job and live somewhere far, far away, never to return- but she couldn't convince herself to think that having sex with him right by the pool as a bad thing. She was helpless; she remembered his cologne, how it smelled so masculine and so unique to him, weakening her at the knees; she remembered his voice and how much she wanted him to groan her name in that luscious accent of his- laced with sheer ecstasy- when his head was spinning as he thrust into her harder and harder and harder, again and again and again- that's quite enough, Carissa! her conscience screeched. She often wondered if her conscience was actually her mother- the similarity between the two was uncanny.

She thought about his lips pressing to her flesh, leaving hot kisses in places other people hadn't kissed before. She thought about his teeth grazing her skin, leaving light pink trails in their aftermath as he worked his way down her body. Finally, she imagined his tongue- just as, if not twice as, talented as his fingers- licking bold stripes on the part of her body where she ached for him the most until she couldn't form coherent sentences; until she cried out for more and more; until he made her forget her own name. She wondered how he would taste; how he would feel- would he be any good at fulfilling her desires at all? It was silly to even dream of someone who she was trying to hate with every fibre in her body, but a movie ticket didn't seem quite as important as his length buried deep inside her on the deck in her state of trance.

"Having a good jog, love?" a familiar, husky voice whispered in her ear. She shrieked and jumped up, immediately ceasing her thoughts about the man in the pool, causing the other patrons to snap their heads in her direction to see if she was okay. She tripped on her steps and quickly pushed the stop button on the panel to prevent herself from falling off, but she felt the loss of balance give way. Luckily, warm limbs caught her before she had the chance to catch herself. She looked up at her saviour and blushed a maddening shade of red- he was no longer in the pool. He must've made his way up while she was busy thinking of all the ways he could take her-

"Ironic, isn't it? You falling into my arms?"

She remembered why she wanted to forget him in the first place. Maybe the reason why the man in her head was so appealing was because he didn't open his mouth to speak other than to moan her name against her core. She scowled and pried herself from his grasp, adjusting her top and snatching her water bottle off the cup holder. She wouldn't let his boyish charm and lurid tone catch her off guard again. She wouldn't let the fact that he was shirtless and smelled like a thick, musky shower gel get the better of her. His hair was pushed back on his head, drying, and it looked so effortlessly good- snap out of it, Carissa! She had self control...didn't she?

"You've got a lot of nerve talking to me after you stole my ticket."

"Oh, come on, don't be like that, love- you're making me out to be a thief," he chuckled in a hushed voice, his eyes raking her body from head to toe, then back up again. She felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. To the other people in the gym, they looked like two people- possibly a couple- having a conversation, but little did they know that it was far from it.

"But you are."

He stepped onto her treadmill, closing in on her from the only way off. She felt her breaths become irregular, her backside press against the panel, her heart rate quickening, and his lips drawing dangerously close to her face. She was frightened that if he got any closer, she'd end up kissing him.

"After stealing all those glances at me while I was down there? Kill me with words, princess, but I'd hate to call you a hypocrite."

He noticed her tremble at his near-silent words as the blush deepened on her cheeks. He pulled away from her ear only to have her frantically duck under his arms to get away. She held her composure, making her way to the bikes again. She was fully aware that she had already cycled, but she was too lost in thought and the sight of his bare chest to really care. She began to pedal, hoping he would give up if he saw her busy- she unfortunately stood corrected. He sat on the bicycle adjacent to her and mimicked her leg movements.

"What's your name, love?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she snapped, keeping her eyes forward.

"I would, actually."

"Piss off."

"Funny name," he smirked, causing her to roll her eyes at his sarcasm, "I'm Harry."

"I don't care."

"It seemed like you cared when you were staring at me."

"I was not!" she lied bitterly.

"A liar, hypocrite, and a thief? You're just the whole package, aren't you?"

She pulled on the brakes and glared at him, enraged. He continued pedaling with a stupid grin on his face.

"If you don't leave right now, I'll call the police and charge you with harassment."

"Why should I leave? You're the one sitting idle on your bike. I'm actually working out," he reasoned, pointing down at his legs which were still cycling. She groaned at his childish answer, unable to retaliate, and collected her belongings. If he wouldn't leave, then she would- she'd never charge him with harassment, not when she oddly enjoyed his teasing so much, but she grew even more irritable than she was at the movie theater.

It was entertaining to Harry, how she pouted when she didn't have her way. She wasn't like the other women he had met- they were easy to chase, and far easier to impress. She, however, put up a fight. He hadn't met very many that could refuse a sweet talk.

He wasn't going to deny that she didn't look like the women he normally got together with either. Her oriental visage and dark hair, both complimented by her hazel eyes, were out of the ordinary compared to the blondes and light brunettes he was more known to be associated with. Still, something about her pulled him her way; she was the magnet, and he was steel. However, when the situation flipped, he was the magnet desperately trying to attract her, and she was made of pure copper.

She removed herself from his presence, unable to handle his sass any further. He was so crude and open, unafraid of the repercussions his remarks might have entailed. He was carefree- another reason why she should have stayed clear of him. She couldn't risk her reputation, and she couldn't lose focus.

But staying clear of him was harder than expected when she walked straight into his body while turning the corner to leave the shower room.

"Jesus! What the hell? Do you know how suspicious you look? Waiting outside a ladies' change room?" she exclaimed. His lanky body was leaning up against the wall with his arms crossed against a loose, white tank top, which did an excellent job of momentarily making her swoon at the sight of his arms. A backwards Packers snapback sat atop his head, curls peeking out from under it. He looked like a meek fraternity boy. A frown took over his face. Carissa was taken aback by her yearning to kiss away the lines produced by the furrowing of his eyebrows, even though she was unsure of his sudden change in mood.

"Lavender?" he stepped closer to her and inhaled through his nose, looking as if he was trying to come up with a certain answer to his own question. She realized he was referring to her shampoo, though how he could identify it by scent alone was a mystery to her.

"Yes?" she replied, unsure of what he wanted to hear, "Is there something wrong?"

"No, it's nothing," he dismissed his previous thought, returning to his normal state, "I still don't know your name, love."

"And I intend on keeping it that way."

She pushed past him but he backed up, blocking the narrow hallway with the span of his arms. She gasped, both impressed and slightly frightened by how large he was. They were alone, the commotion taking place in the main area rather than in the stretch of walkway they were situated in.

"Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'?"

"Why don't you want me to know your name?"

"I don't know you. You could be a sociopathic killer for all I know."

"A sociopathic killer, huh?"

"Yes. Now if you don't mind-" she raised her arm to push him out of the way, but winced when he clasped his left hand around her wrist and pushed her against the wall. He placed his other hand next to her face for leverage as he leaned into her quivering body, brushing his torso against hers. She felt dizzy from him overwhelming all of her senses. Her lips became parched; his grip could petrify the strongest of men. His face got closer and closer to hers, lips grazing the tiny hairs on her ear, and his soft locks dusting her forehead. She felt the heat of his breath scorch whatever miniscule amount of self-control she had left, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"Then the least you could do is be a good little hostage and tell me your name."

Someone could have stood a foot away from them and failed to hear the words escape his mouth; he spoke so faintly that had she not felt his lips move, she would have doubted he said anything at all. She could have easily called for help, kicked him where it'd hurt him the most, or spat straight in his face- but she didn't. She was scared, his cliffhanger grip surely causing a pause in the blood flow to her hand, but a naughty image came to mind- the word hostage scampered back and forth in her head.

He took off his belt, standing at the foot of the bed as the clinking of his buckle sent shivers coursing through her spine. A venomous smile crept upon his face. She was on her elbows and knees, and her hands grasped the metal bars of the bed frame. She dared not look back at him, only anticipating what had yet to come by the sound of a zipper being pulled and denim sliding down his legs. Cold air tickled her bare body; she was exposed and vulnerable, merely there for his pleasure.

He paced over to her and wrapped his belt around her wrists, securing them to the bars so she couldn't escape.

"You're going to be a good girl now, aren't you?"

She could only bring herself to nod as her desire fused with her fear.

"Say it."

"I'm going to be a good girl."

His hand came down on the flesh of her ass with a loud smack. She recoiled in pain, knowing full well his hand would leave marks for days.

"Again."

"I'm going to be a good girl!"

Another smack. Another yelp of shock. Her conscience, furiously screaming at her, combatted her traitorous body, which only ever wanted more.

"Look at you- you're already drenched for me, aren't you, baby?"

Another nod. She could feel the heat of his hand hovering over her dripping slit.

"I'm not convinced, sweetheart. Who are you wet for?"

Another spank.

"You! I'm wet for you, Harry," she managed to whimper, her body quaking with lust. She felt his hand soothing the pain he had created once he climbed back onto the bed behind her. All she could feel was her core craving to be filled- she wanted him so, so badly-

"I'm...I'm-" she stammered, lost between reality and fantasy. He was staring down at her, as if admiring a car or a trophy. She gulped- his pupils had dilated, only leaving a thin ring of green to circle them.

"I don't have all day, princess," he still wanted her name.

"Carissa," she breathed instantaneously. She watched the seriousness on his face twist into a foolish grin as he started snickering, which then turned into a full out guffaw once he released her arm. She could feel her cheeks change colour yet again.

"Your face! You should've seen- oh god, absolutely priceless!" he mocked, taking steps back and clutching his stomach to try and contain his laughter. She felt idiotic, and there wasn't a doubt she obviously looked like it too.

When she turned to escape the humiliation he threw at her face, he didn't chase her. She could feel his gaze burning into the back of her neck. It wasn't relief she felt; no, it was more like mixture of longing and despair- she wanted to be teased again just so she could be in his presence a little longer.

"Carissa?"

She spun around, eyes meeting his, heart beating a little quicker. Her stomach did a backflip. Never had her name sounded so melodic, so euphonic, and so- she dared to believe- beautiful. It was the sound of apples being plucked from the stem the same way a violinist plucked the strings of his instrument. It was the sound of a single marble rolling on the floor of an empty, spacious room, its ceilings higher than one would care to calculate, giving the marble a deafening echo. It was the crackling sound of sweet corn roasting over an open flame outdoors on the night of the summer solstice. His accent wrapped around the consonants and vowels and cradled them in a way her ears had never witnessed before.

"I...I really liked jasmine on you."

He smiled, turning and walking the other way without another glance back at her.

Carissa's jasmine scented shampoo sat on the shower caddy in her bathroom along with vanilla, tropical fruit, and a children's watermelon splash. It had been a week since she used it, figuring that no one bothered to notice what her hair smelled like. She was wrong- someone had noticed, and he was walking away from her faster than she had the time to realize it.



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