HIS FANTASY ** COMPLETED BOOK 1

PETE AND ME

"Yeah, of course! I like you."

"Why...?" he asked.

"Because it's you, I like all of you. Even if you are... gay." I said.

I discovered Pete was a BI one year ago. He likes both men and women. Instead of feeling discouraged, because of his nature, I became happy because I realized that at least he was being honest with himself.

"I can't say that I am gay. I just like both men and women. That's it."

"OK. And then?" I asked. I wanted to know more about him. I was expecting his answer, but he just kissed me, even if we were in a public place.

"Hey, you really did it here?" I murmured. He just smiled and said, "As we officially made a decision, am I welcome to your room tonight?"

"No," I said.

"Aww! It's not good to hear that, but it's fine. I am willing to wait. Waiting for your "yes" response."

He added to say "Are you really not in a relationship right now?"

"Nope, but I have a boyfriend," he said.

"So, why did you want me to be your girlfriend?" I asked.

"My boyfriend is busy with someone. And I don't care! The most important thing for me is you. I mean you and me, together."

Pete explained. I don't really understand him. But I knew he was telling me the truth. I can feel that.

"OK, let's go..." I said.

"Where...? He asked in confusion. I took Pete into my room. At home, mom is not around; she's attending a women's club party, so maybe she will be going home late. So, Pete and I had a special moment in my room.

"Whoa," I blush, pushing him away as I backed up. My legs bumped the edge of my bed, and I fell back onto the mattress. Pete took this as an invitation and climbed on top of me.

"What?" he asked, claiming another kiss.

His weight was welcome to me. I felt his hard thing below, through his jeans, where it pressed against my thigh. I know he is horny now. His one hand cupped my breast through the sweatshirt I wore, his thumb rubbing my bra as if massaging it. Then his fingers slowly moved inside. I had both arms between us, my fingers curled in his flannel shirt, but I just held them there, keeping him at bay while I tried to think.

Maybe the percentage of alcohol that we drink from the bar is that high. Now, Pete was fondling my boob and rubbing against me, and I'm pretty sure he wasn't really into girls.

"Pete, do you really like me?" I asked while he continued on his way.

"Yes, what I said in the mini-park is true, it's not a lie." He said as he stopped his doings.

"Why do you ask? Don't you have any feelings for me, like true love? Even though I am gay, I want you to be mine, seriously, and forever." He explained. He laid down next to me. He was staring up as if deep in thought.

"Do I not deserve to be loved by a woman even if I am gay?" He asked all of a sudden.

"Of course, you deserve that; all of us deserve to be loved," I said.

"The truth is, I'm afraid—afraid to get in touch with someone, to lose someone, and to be hurt. You know I am currently writing a romance story, but I can't get into the climax of the story and make the ending. If you ask, that's because the story is all about me. I want to know the truth; I want to feel something deep in my heart until I can get the realization from my fiction work. For somehow, I should know what I should do, and what I should say."

My long explanation to Pete I wanted him to understand me and get to know me completely. We haven't shared that much depth yet. But here we are now, in an unexpected relationship. While we were both lying in my bed, I noticed that he was quiet by my side, so I turned to look at him.

"Hhhaaarrkkk. aarrrkk. krrroookkk."

What the...? He is snoring. It turns out that he fell asleep. Jeez...! Did I make the right decision to let him possess me? Is this love or lust?

I pushed Pete to our front door by 10 p.m., wanting him to leave the house before my mother arrived. I don't want her to meet Pete now. If it's not a shout, she could kick me out.

"Do you have a class today?" Mom asks when she arrives home. I cooked breakfast for her while she was eating some coffee at the table.

"For some reason, I thought you had no class today. Anyway, a package came from FedEx. I put it on the table in the living room, Mom added.

"Really?" I said, feigning interest as I skimmed past her question. I wasn't at school today. "I didn't order anything."

Mom is sitting on a stool at the kitchen table, staring at the cabinets. She steps down, leaving the cup, and she returns with a box. The box had a tag "delivery". "It's from my father, of course, I know his name. I saw his name on the return address. Mom is staring at me, waiting for my reaction.

I kept my expression calm. "Probably just some things that I didn't notice." She did not know how I felt about my father and father. I don't care. I don't want her to blame herself later for not doing more to help me remove the hatred from my heart.

"I made some salads for breakfast." I got a plate and vowed to put it on some more. Besides, it's more convenient to do this and keep my mind busy without talking about my father.

"I'll just stick these in the fridge and then go change." I'm desperate to open the box and bring it to my room. The package is waiting on my bed. My hands begin to tremble when I see the neatly printed numbers and letters written in all capitals. My father used to leave me notes in that handwriting nearly every month. I read the note, "You are so beautiful when you're asleep. I love you, sweetie."

The tenor of the notes changed as time passed. I use scissors to slice through the masking tape and open it up. Our photo album is on top; it was taken when I was six years old. Beneath it, I saw one piece of a white-colored hat, neatly covered in plastic. When I left, I always took a hat, whether it was sunny or rainy. My father has sent ensembles suitable for summer. He has selected the pieces that have always looked the best on me.

He really wanted me to have this album and the hat. Why? He just jots a note in the box by sending a message. I realize. I open the album and stare at our images, smiling up at dad. I barely recognize myself; it's like looking at an image of a different person.

I recall the booze shop across the street. I'd like to buy a bottle or two. A drink could help calm down my wrath. I stuffed the package inside my closet; is he scared? I'm curious. Is he aware of how I truly feel? I decided to treat myself to one more bottle of wine. I'll drink it and go through my strategy one more time. But before I went to the booze shop, I decided to do something else. And, miraculously, an unexpected opportunity fell into my lap as a result of that simple gesture.

I decided to get my laptop, and take the music on to inspire me to write another chapter of my novel.