"Obsessed" series on wattpad

вперше натрапила на цю книгу, ще коли бавилася wattpad-ом. Це книга, на яку автора надихнули пісні виконавця "Maroon 5". Але ж як гарно написана! я навіть автора не знаю, бо юзер підписаний в wattpad як adam_and_jane. Ну і є там же на wattpad-і 2 книги продовження, а в 3-ій навіть ще одну відому співачку додали - дуже атмосферно вийшло. Шкода, що шансів, що цей текст видадуть паперовою книгою, немає. Я її вже перечитувала кілька разів з великим задоволенням. Далі - кілька цитат (які насправді, це як кілька розділів), які передають емоційне навантаження - вони там справді obsessed! але так красиво! і я дуже сподіваюся, що цей текст з wattpad не видалять )

…Eventually, he'd come to believe that it was all in his head, this obsession he had with her. He'd idealized their relationship, building up a memory of something that had never really existed. That's why he had so much trouble connecting with anyone else, he told himself. They were all competing against a fantasy. Jane was just a girl like any other girl.

That's why he wanted to see Jane so badly now, he decided. He wanted to feel that awkwardness that comes from talking to someone you used to know but who is now nothing more than a stranger. He wanted to be alone in a room with her and feel nothing. If he could only see her again, he was sure, this hold she had over him would be broken. Maybe then he'd be free at last to feel something with someone else…

…She had expected to feel awkward, but now that she found herself alone with him, she suddenly felt incredibly shy. Her heart was starting to race again. This is exactly how one of his 14 year old fan girls would feel, she thought, alone in a hotel room with him. She knew she was starting to blush. It was mortifying, really, how attracted she was to him. The most important thing was not to let him see it. She would just about die of embarrassment if she thought he could tell.

She followed him to the couch where he was pouring the wine, taking a deep breath to steady herself. Luckily, she had a great deal of practice hiding her emotions. It was an important skill for a trial lawyer, a skill that she'd spent a number of years honing. She knew how to make her face blank and devoid of any reaction, like a poker player trying to conceal a good hand.

"Nice suit," he commented with a little smile.

"I came from work," she replied, smoothing the strands that had started to escape from the French twist in her hair.

"So you work long hours and wear a suit," he mused, taking a sip of his wine. "Banker or lawyer?"

"Lawyer."

Adam paused, trying to think of what to say next. He was painfully aware that she had taken a seat all the way on the other end of the couch. She was barely even looking at him, her eyes mostly fixed on the glass of wine she held swirling in her hand. What to say next? His palms were starting to sweat.

The moment she had walked in the room, he knew he had been kidding himself. It was Jane. Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane. She was here. In this room. Jane. He wanted to touch her. He wouldn't be able to breathe again until he was touching her.

I shiver when I hear your name.

I think about you but it's not the same.

I won't be satisfied 'til I'm under your skin.

He'd written Shiver 11 years ago. How was it possible that he was back here, feeling this way again?

It didn't matter in any case because, unfortunately, right now he was blowing it. Adam Levine – the most accomplished womanizer of his generation, his bandmates liked to joke – and he couldn't get more than a one word answer out of her. Time was slipping past. Soon she would yawn and say it was getting late, and she would slip right back out of his life again.

Immobilized by the thought of you.

Paralyzed by the sight of you.

Hypnotized by the words you say.

Not true but I believe 'em anyway.

"Seriously, Levine," he silently chastised. "Stop singing to yourself and get a grip." He put down his glass and laced his fingers together, grimly tracing the lines on his palm with his thumb, as he cast about for some way to break through the wall between them.

Jane was making a concerted effort not to look at him directly. She knew how impossible it would be to control her own face if she allowed herself to meet his eyes. When he began fidgeting with his hands, the movement drew her attention, and for a moment the image of his hands touching her flashed through her mind. A shiver ran through her at the thought, and she held her breath to prevent the gasp that almost escaped. She couldn't take her eyes off his hands. She had to figure out a way to make him stop doing that thing with his hands.

"Can I look at your tattoos?" she blurted out.

"Of course!" He shrugged off his button down shirt, revealing the fitted white undershirt beneath.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Jane thought, as the sight of his exposed arms caused a slow heat to start building in her stomach. Unable to backtrack, she had no choice but to move closer to him on the couch as he lifted his forearms for her to examine.

She gently took hold of his right wrist, turning it over, still not meeting his eyes. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up the length of his arm. He tightened his chest to keep his breathing from quickening.

She was intently studying the tiger at his elbow, bending his arm and then pulling it straight to see how it moved. She turned the wrist again, then, to look at the Mom tattoo on his forearm, tracing the shape of the heart with her thumb. He clenched his jaw against the hiss of air that tried to escape in response to her touch on the sensitive flesh of his arm. She was tracing the letters now, sending tingles of heat to the tips of his fingers.

"Your mother hates these," she said softly, almost to herself. It was a statement, not a question. How did she know that? Had she read it in one of his interviews? How much had she been following? Did she hate the tattoos too? He studied her face, trying to gauge her reaction, but her expression remained impassive.

She dropped his right arm abruptly and picked up his left wrist where it was resting against his knee.

"Huh," she whispered, as she took in the convoluted patterns and shapes that covered his arm in a sleeve from wrist to shoulder. "I can't believe you did this."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice light, as the movement of her fingers raised the hairs on the back of his arm.

She merely shook her head and leaned in to get a closer look. He could feel her breath against his upper arm, and he closed his eyes with effort for a moment, resisting with all his might the urge to touch her face.

So come to bed it's getting late.

There's no more time for us to waste.

Remember how my body tastes.

You feel your heart begin to race.

When he opened his eyes, she was bent close, spreading the flesh at his bicep between her thumb and forefinger. He felt her sharp intake of breath as she traced the small, raised scars hidden among the leaves. These weren't inked, but branded on his skin, all but invisible in photographs. Seven little numbers: 585235

"Does she recognize it?" he wondered, holding his breath, afraid to move a muscle as she slowly ran her index finger across the row of numbers.

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes at last, shaking her head in disbelief.

"And you are the only other person on earth who knows what those are," he whispered. Her eyes widened at his words.

"When did you get this?" she asked.

She knew what it was. Seven numbers. A phone number.

"The day after you cut off your phone

The day after he had called for the hundredth time to listen to her voicemail message, and heard three shrill beeps instead.

She saw him wince as he spoke. Of course, she'd known that their breakup would hurt him, but it came as a shock that her actions could have caused him to go out and brand something on his skin. She forgot her resolution to show him no reaction, suddenly overcome with a need to comfort him.

"Oh Adam…" she said, raising her hand to touch the side of his face.

He couldn't hold back any longer. He felt himself sway slightly as he closed his eyes against the sight of her and brought his lips down to meet hers…

…Adam felt a sharp pang of remorse. Had he really neglected her so thoroughly? Had he driven her away?  He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to think of it. He'd been so young and stupid. But she had been too, hadn't she? Why was this the first he was ever hearing of it? Why hadn't she said something if she was so dissatisfied?..

…She'd put her number in his phone, and he'd snapped a photo. "To keep you straight from all the other Janes," he'd told her with a wink.

His phone was set to airplane mode now, but he picked it up and scrolled to her name. Jane. The stab of pleasure he felt, seeing it there in his contact list, was so intense it was almost painful. Did she realize he'd been waiting 11 years to get that number? He should tattoo it on his other arm.

He wanted to call the moment the plane hit the ground, just to hear her voice again, but that was absolutely out of the question. He had to be careful now. Casual, that's what he had said to her. "Let's just keep it casual."

He couldn't tell her what he really wanted. She'd been back in his life for a grand total of two days. He'd known exactly where he stood, though, after that first night. Obsessed, craving her like an addict who'd just fallen off the wagon after 11 years of sobriety. It was the same way he'd felt after the weekend they first got together. The moment he let her out of his sight, all he could think about was seeing her again. Back then, he hadn't made it 24 hours before he needed another fix. It had to be different now. He couldn't let her see how much she affected him. He couldn't tell her what he knew with a frightening clarity: that he was in love with her, that he'd never really stopped. It was way too soon to talk about love.

He took out the pages he'd torn this morning from the hotel phone book. He'd been scribbling fragments of song lyrics again last night while she slept.

Wake you up

In the middle of the night to say

I will never walk away again.

I'm never gonna leave this bed.

It would make a good chorus, but he couldn't write the rest of the song just yet – just as he couldn't confess to her how many other songs she had inspired over the years. No, he had to take it one step at a time. He'd crafted his strategy as he lay awake, watching her sleep. First, he would come up with excuses to be in New York as often as possible.

He ran through his schedule again now, shifting things around in his mind, calculating the soonest he could come back. Could he manage it next weekend? He didn't think he could last two weeks. Hell, he didn't think he could last two days, but he was going to have to. He absolutely could not call her, under any circumstances, until at least Thursday.

He would try to see her next weekend, but then no more than twice a month after that. That's what she'd said about her relationships these days with other guys. Twice a month. He could work with twice a month. He would win her over slowly. Wine her and dine her. He would make her fall back in love with him. After all, she'd never truly been subjected to Adam Levine in full seduction mode before. Give it six months. She wouldn't know what hit her.

He looked at her picture on his phone again. She'd been laughing, one hand up to ward him off as he'd snapped it. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, opening the tray table in front of him to cover his lap. How on earth was he going to wait until Thursday? OK, maybe Wednesday night...

…He switched his phone back on to check his messages, and there it was. A text from Jane.

He felt a burst of pleasure when he saw her name come up at the top of the screen. Jane. Maybe she couldn't stop thinking about him either. Then he read the message.

"Thx for a great time. Better if we're not in touch. No regrets."

The whole world went dark for a moment, and then bright crimson red. If he hadn't been on a crowded airplane, he might have thrown the phone across the room. She was cutting him off again. He couldn't believe it. "Goddammit," he swore under his breath. "God-fucking-dammit!"

He shook his head in disbelief. How could she do this? Everything had been so good – why why why did she always have to do this?

"Fuck you too," he typed into his phone, his finger shaking with anger, hovering over the Send button.

He pulled his hand back with a sudden jerk, sucking in his breath sharply as an image struck him. A music video he had once shot: walking through an airport, getting on a plane… a man in a tuxedo, aloof to all the beautiful models surrounding him, unable to connect with the pretty brunette on the phone… the pretty brunette in the black strapless dress

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. It was the video for Makes Me Wonder, come back to haunt him. Like a goddamn premonition. He heard the words to the chorus playing in his head:

I still don't have the reason,

And you don't have the time,

And it really makes me wonder

If I ever gave a fuck about you.

She could go fuck herself. His phone had gone dark, and he flicked it back on, ready to hit Send. "Forget it," he said out loud. "Forget her. Move on." But move on to what, exactly? To the same shit he'd been living for the past 11 years? To a life spent writing songs about a woman who wasn't even listening?

"I don't know, Adam. Maybe you should write a song about it." He could still hear her voice, clear as a bell, uttering those words to him that night – her parting shot, the life sentence imposed on him for his crimes. And what had he replied? Adam Levine, the great songwriter, the pop-star poet – what was his brilliant comeback? "Fuck you."

"No," he told himself, deleting the text he was about to send. That was the mistake he made the last time. He got angry and by the time he had cooled off, it was too late. There was something wrong that he had neglected. If he'd taken a moment to figure out what it was, instead of just lashing out in anger, maybe he could have held onto her. It was the biggest mistake of his life. He had to learn from it.

He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the waves of nausea washing over him as he read her message again. Why did she send it? What was going on in her head?

"No regrets," the message said. He'd heard that from her before. Another memory, another conversation – this one in Central Park, 15 years ago. "No regrets," she'd said then, too. She and her busybody friend Marcy had talked themselves into believing he was about to break up with her. "There was not a woman there who didn't want to be with you," she had confessed to him back then. It was the same thing now. How many times had she done it over the course of their relationship? She was just feeling insecure. Maybe.

Or maybe not. Other words of hers came back to him – more recent words. "Aren't you the guy that has his picture in the dictionary next to the word ‘modelizer'?" He felt himself wince as he remembered. Maybe she was just disgusted by him. "You can tell me," she'd said. "I won't judge, I promise." But she had judged. Is that what this was? And now she thought she was just one more notch on his bedpost? Maybe.

He still felt like he was missing something. There was something else she'd said to him this morning – something important. "At the end of the day, I couldn't see myself married to a star." That's why she had left him before. She wanted a white picket fence, a house in the suburbs, a husband who came home every night. She wanted a picture perfect life. That's what she'd realized he couldn't give her, and he still couldn't give it to her now.

That was the heart of the matter. Maybe the other stuff entered into it, but at the end of the day, that's what they'd never resolved.

He looked down at his phone again. Should he try to call her? His head was spinning, spinning...

God damn my spinning head,

Decisions that made my bed.

Now I must lay in it

And deal with things I've left unsaid.

Had it been a mistake, not telling her how he really felt this morning? This whole plan of his to act casual, wine her and dine her – he should have known it was never going to work. That was the same crap he always used on women, the same bullshit he'd been spewing his whole life. She was the only woman who'd ever managed to sneak past it and really connect. And even with her, even when things were at their best, how many times had the connection broken down? Every time the two of them started making assumptions, taking things for granted, leaving things unsaid. Then the static would creep in and the signal would fade. Then the call would get dropped.

He'd been an idiot, playing coy with her before. He needed to make her understand how much she had always meant to him. And then they needed to have it out, get to the bottom of all of it.

He needed to talk to her. But he also knew Jane. Once there were issues, there was no more talking. She just ran. If he tried to call her now, she wouldn't even pick up the phone. There was only one way to get her to listen.

He made a decision. He didn't know if it would work, but at least it was worth trying. Adam strode decisively off the plane and headed for his car, typing out a text as he went...