Chapter 7 #2
He thinks I’m hot. Yep, gonna take that little nugget and push it to the side. Can’t have that bouncing around my head.
We turn down the street, and I stop dead in my tracks. Curse you distracting but vibrant city life. Joey looks at me with that same judgy face I’m used to seeing. Shit, he called me hot, and now my obsessions will ruin the moment.
I start rubbing my thumb against my index finger in little circles as 632 Carver Street looms in front of us. And I really do not want to go down that street.
I sigh. “You wouldn’t want to go check out the street festival, would you?” The anxiety builds, crushing my chest.
“No, too many smells and people trying to sell you things.” His answer simultaneously fills me with a sense of kinship and dread.
“And you’re going to be mad at me if we walk down the other block.” My thumb circles aren’t calming me down like they normally do.
“That would mean backtracking three blocks and crossing two avenues to bypass the construction and street vendors.” He blows out the air in his cheeks and inhales. Of course he would have a logical observation about the situation. “Not mad, but there will be lots of follow-up questions.”
The deli is only one store away, and I can already smell the salt and spices in the air. “Ok, we’ll walk down this street, and you get to ask one question… which will probably be ‘why?’ And I will give you a long-winded answer, but you aren’t allowed to ask me anything else about this topic.”
I hand him the dog leash and head into the deli. There are several pre-made sandwiches in the refrigerator case, so I grab three of them and three bottles of water. I’m not sure why I always buy three, it just seems like it’s the right thing to do.
Fortunately, this is one of those old school delis that has a tiny bakery section. The girl behind the counter looks bored and chews gum while she asks, “What can I get you?”
My selection started out as a joke for myself, but over time it’s become tradition. “The devil’s food cupcake.” I point to the perfect spiral of frosting. I must’ve bought at least twenty of these over the years, and I’ve never eaten a single one.
She grabs the cupcake by the wrapper, asking, “Anything else?”
“No, thank you.” I’d like a teleportation device, but that’s probably not in stock.
It’s kind of a struggle party to carry everything, with the cupcake in its perfect white box in my right hand, the sandwiches in my left, and the bottles of water under my armpit.
I’m grateful for the paper bag the cashier gives me without charging me the bag fee.
He’s seen me do this before and gives me a little nod as I walk out.
Joey and Kingston are still waiting outside for me. “Say nothing until we get to the next block,” I instruct. He puts his hands in the air, palms facing me with that “no big deal” motion.
While some of the storefronts have been updated over the decades, the brownstone at 632 Carver Street stands over the rest of them as a relic from at least one hundred years ago.
The door has an ornate design, more about craftsmanship than artistic ability.
The sidewalk in front is cracked and marred.
A few years ago, the city replaced the worn concrete walkway.
Locals used the opportunity to etch runes and symbols into it while it was still wet.
But after the first cold winter rain, the once smooth surface shattered, rendering the new art obsolete, and the walkway a serious tripping hazard.
I shouldn’t look up, but some invisible force drags my eyes to the third-floor window. Movement. My stomach turns.
The stairs from the building jut out into the pathway, even more of a tripping hazard than the sidewalk. I prop my foot on the first step, but I never go any further. It gives me enough reach to put the bag of food on the top step and the white box next to it.
The sick feeling in my stomach doesn’t start to vanish until I’m halfway down the block, with Joey and Kingston a few feet away. I hear the front door strain and creak on its hinges in a banshee wail. I don’t need to look behind me. The food is already gone.
Once we’re two blocks away I say, “Go ahead, ask it.”
“What the hell was that?”
I take a deep breath. “I’m going to overshare, because I think it’ll make more sense with context and you might understand. Or it will solidify any opinion you have of me.”
Joey glances over. It’s not a side-eye of judgment, but more because we’re side by side and that’s the only way he can see me without turning his head.
“Ok, so I get a little hyper focused on things. Sometimes it’s crafts, sometimes it’s topics.
I have an alarming amount of useless information about tree frogs crammed in my brain.
But that’s neither here nor there. One of my fixations was on a TV show about these two brothers who hunt down monsters and shit.
It was on the air for sixteen seasons, and the fan base is, in a word, ravenous.
” I should know—I moderated two internet fan groups and read more fanfiction than any other form of literature.
“The lore around the show was interesting, and it sent me down a rabbit hole of information. I wasn’t interested in the stories anymore; I wanted to learn about the truth.
“When I moved out here, I did a few ghost tours and eventually started to lead one myself. I got obsessed with researching different ghost stories around the city. Most of them are fine. Basic. A few shadow figures. Lights and orbs. Sometimes a little kid. None of them made me freak out. That is until I came to 632 Carver Street.” I pause as I try to gauge his reaction, but I guess it doesn’t matter.
I’ve come this far already, might as well go all in.
“That house makes me feel sick. Sometimes I get headaches, other times I feel like I’m going to vomit.” Okay, here I go. “I’m one hundred percent convinced there’s a demon in there.”
He snorts.
“But there are also a few people who live there. They might be unhoused, I don’t know. I never asked. But if there is a demon in there, I don’t want to piss him off. So, I leave him a little offering every time I walk by, and something for the people too.”
Joey keeps his vision straight ahead. He doesn’t look at me, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He seems…completely unphased.
What the hell? I told him I believe in demons and ghosts and shit, and he’s acting like I said I like ketchup on my hot dogs.
I’m a little encouraged because I’m not seeing that judgy expression I usually get when I mention supernatural stuff, and I let the Narrator Lady slip out, so I continue.
“At best, I’m a super nice person who feeds some people who might need a little help.
At worst, I’m a paranoid Pagan nerd whose fandom changed their sense of reality.
” I sigh. “Maybe context doesn’t help your opinion of me. ”
It's another agonizing block in silence. He thinks I’m a freaking weirdo, doesn’t he? He’s trying to figure out the best way to fire me, and I’ll never see my little Kingston again.
Then he says, “In my line of work, I hear a lot of strange shit. Some I believe, most I don’t. But if leaving food on a doorstep makes you feel safe, then I’m not gonna say shit to you about it.”
“But what do you think?”
“Oh, I’m thinking about a lot of stuff. It’s pretty loud in my head, but I know better than to verbalize it.”
“I appreciate that.” It’s better not to know anyway. At least I can live in the delusion that he thinks I’m somewhat normal.
Joey seems to perk up whenever someone passes us. His eyes narrow and he steps a little closer to me. It’s like he’s constantly checking for threats. He frowns when a woman walks past us and she waves at Kingston.
As another woman’s eyes drop toward Kingston, she lights up and says hi. And for the third time, Joey responds back.
“They’re looking at the dog, not you.”
“What?”
“Women like dogs, the cuter the better. But this dog is so cute, you’re invisible.
The same thing happens to me when I walk him.
It’s like everything else on the street vanishes, and all they see is Kingston.
If you had a mid-cute dog, you might be able to use him to get laid.
But this little guy will be a cock-block every time. ”
“Oh?”
“Yep. He’s the only reason I’ve been hanging out with you and not once have I inappropriately hit on you or made a comment about how cute I think your butt is.”
He sniffs. “You think I’ve got a cute ass?”
“Call me Tina Belcher, I’m butt crazy. And the whole point of that tangent is how I’m keeping my intrusive thoughts to myself. For once.”
He huffs, but stops and glances around the sidewalk, his face squishing as he turns his head from side to side. “Wait, where are you moving to?”
“Crystal Gardens.”
His cheeks sink inward as he chews on them. “Are you renting or buying?”
“Buying. It’s a new build. The whole place was gutted a few years ago and they’ve been building condos.” I point down the street to the Elysian Sky Developments office. I kinda hate the name, but they do excellent work.
Joey looks slightly concerned, almost more than when I said there were demons living in a building.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
His eyes drift upward and he mumbles something in Italian. “I live in this neighborhood.”
Oh shit. “That’s a problem.”
He’s quiet for a second. “Why? It will make it easier to walk Kingston.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I can’t have any of my people in this neighborhood. This is Harriet’s turf. She’s super sweet, and we send each other customers all the time, but I like to respect boundaries.”
Joey nods. “Cosa Nostra.”
Hers, at least. The longer I walk with Joey, the less I want to respect professional boundaries.
I'm a little concerned the lines are getting blurry and almost invisible. Because yes, he is very attractive, and he’s been kind and attentive all morning.
Plus, he’s been shockingly accepting of my crazy-ass brain, too.
While he’s noticed other women, he hasn’t been checking them out.
But his eyes drop to my cleavage a few times during our walk.
“Okay.” He sounds disappointed, but then his eyes get hard and his jaw tightens. “I’ll talk to Harriet and make some sort of an arrangement.”
I laugh. “Or I could text her. Shit, it’s not like it’s mob warfare or anything.”
I catch his side-eye as he jams his hands in his pocket. The summer sun beats down on our backs, and I’m grateful we’re only a few buildings away from our stop.
I take the leash from him and stand in front of the office door. “Behold the true power of his boopable snoot,” I say as I push open the door.
The room smells crisp and clean… too much so.
Like they’re trying to cover the smell of mold, or maybe other construction.
The space is small, with one receptionist gatekeeping a conference room and a few private offices.
The receptionist is younger than me, with short brown hair, big hoop earrings, a trendy business-casual jacket, and what I assume are pants.
As soon as she sees Kingston, she jumps up. Yep. Black pants.
“What a good boy!” She almost vaults over the desk and lands in front of the dog. Kingston takes a step back behind me. “Can I pet him?”
She’s around my back, bending down and putting her hand out for the dog to sniff before I even answer her. Kingston inches closer, takes a whiff, and opens his mouth, his tail curling up again.
“Can I see Mr. Hall?”
The woman points behind her. “He’s in the second office on the right.” Kingston rolls over onto his back. “Do you want some belly rubs? Yes, you do. You’re the goodest boy ever.”
I should take this dog everywhere.
Behind me, Joey’s on his phone, tapping away. “I’ve got a family thing I need to take care of.” His phone buzzes, and he types again.
“Ok, I’ve got a few dogs to walk, and then Kingston has a vet appointment at two today. I can bring him to that.”
Joey shifts his weight from leg to leg. “I should be there, he’s my dog. Where is it?”
“Near Jacobson Street, next to the CrossFit gym.”
“Got it.” He nods his head at me and says, “See you there.”
I crack my knuckles and roll my head from side to side. Time to lay the smackdown on some contractors.