Chapter Four: Bombs Away

Damon Salvatore

Damon didn't have long to get out of Elena's apartment.

He'd let himself in using the spare key her landlord, Stefan, kept. He'd stolen that key using the spare key to Stefan's home. The one Stefan had entrusted him to use for emergencies only. Damon Salvatore: very bad brother. Yes, he was aware. In his defense, when Stefan gave him that key, he ordered Damon not to touch his food or his hair products – he'd said nothing about his drop-dead gorgeous tenant's key. Would that hold up in court? Probably not. Anyway... not only did he need to leave Elena's apartment before she got home, but he also had to return her key as quickly as possible before Stefan discovered it was missing.

There was just one thing stopping him: her damn couch.

Women's homes were like a spiderweb of soft furnishings that you sunk into and couldn't escape. Couches were not chosen because the leather looked cool even though it stuck to your ass in the summer and froze to your ass in the winter. Women's couches were sooooooft! All the cushions were plumped into the right shape, and there were throw pillows so fluffy they would put chinchilla fur to shame.

So, here he was: his ass on a couch that felt like a cloud, and the side of his face stroking up and down the coziest pillow in history. Not even the shouting he got from Elena's friend managed to erase the look of bliss from his face. A bear trap would have had a harder time keeping him here when he should be leaving.

"I love you."

Oh, crap – his soppy display was totally giving the wrong impression to her parrot.

Wiping away his contented kitten look, and forcing his facial features into a tough, ruthless expression, he stood from the couch and made his way to the bird cage on the other side of the room. The cage was over six feet tall, and Polly was perched right at the top, meaning he could look her square in the eyes as he spoke.

"No, you do not love me," he told it sternly. "Do not fall for that romanticized bullshit. I am a stalker who is violating your owner's privacy and getting up to all kinds of criminal mischief – do not condone this kind of behavior!"

A plop hit the floor of the birdcage.

"That's right," he approved. "Crap yourself. That's exactly how you should be reacting when someone breaks into your home." Then he had a moment of guilt – was he actually traumatizing this parrot now? He sighed, feeling a weird urge to explain himself. "Look, I'm just showing her the reality of what she writes about – I'm proving to her that it's not romantic. I'm not doing anything unforgivable. I'm not snooping around her home, setting up secret cameras, or stealing her panties." He paused... thought about his last point... then decided, no, he was definitely not doing that. As tempting as her panties were. "I have a plan, okay? Trust me. When I've put her off the kind of guys she thinks she likes, playing this anonymous asshole, that's when the real me will swoop in and win her over. I'll be Prince Charming and set up the Meet Cute, and give her a Happily Ever After, okay?"

The parrot told Damon what she thought about that plan with another plop. She opened her beak and fluffed her gray feathers, looking pretty pleased with herself.

Damon narrowed his eyes at Polly. "I saw you squeeze that one out," he hissed accusingly.

Apologetically, the parrot repeated, "I love you."

"Shut up," Damon mumbled, fed up with the mixed messages he was getting from a bird.

Damon walked back towards the couch to pick up the two bags on the coffee table, containing the wine and seafood. All he needed to do was stop being distracted and put them in the kitchen. All her apartment needed to do was stop distracting him. His eyes drifted down toward the Rose Toy. Major distraction.

When he first saw it, he had no idea what it was, but a quick photo and image search revealed it to be something he least suspected: a vibrator that simulated oral sex. He wasn't going to touch it... he didn't need to know how it worked... and, more specifically, he didn't need to know what competition he was up against.

But, naturally, second glances led to second thoughts.

Curiously, he picked up and rotated the little bulb-shaped device around in his hands until he located a button. He must have found it more intimidating than he thought he would, because the moment he pressed that button, he squinted with anticipation like he'd just pulled the pin out of a grenade.

Nothing happened.

He pressed and held.

Nothing.

Then it occurred to him: the battery was dead.

He fist-pumped the air. "Yes! In your face, you weakling! At least my tongue doesn't run out of battery." He had won the marathon. Whether he would win in a sprint against this thing, well, he tried not to focus on that. But this was all Elena had for the moment, so this baby needed to get powered back up now that she had seen his new photo. Checking all the power points in the room, he located the charger and plugged it in.

See! Flowers... takeout... a fully charged vibrator... he could be a nice stalker.

Getting back on task, Damon returned back to the coffee table where he left the flowers but picked up the takeout bags and took them into the kitchen. He put the seafood on the island table and the wine in the fridge.

The white wine. The one that was essential for pairing with seafood, according to Elena's friend.

Just ignore the red wine that still remained in the bag that he would be taking away with him. It didn't exist. He was glad that Elena was appalled by his stalking behavior, but he really didn't want her to think he was an idiot too. He would go now, leaving the impression of an unscrupulous, low-life, villainous, detestable stalker... with impeccable taste in wine.

Eventually, he would win her over in person... just as soon as he got her hating every other type of guy in existence. Particularly the types in her books.