Chapter 23
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
CINDEL
Ifall into a routine over the next few days; pulling long shifts at The Black Sheep, watching garbage cable TV, and finding the time to text both saved contacts: The Stalker and It’s Eamon Actually.
Not to automatically jump to the conclusion that I’ve entered a polyamorous relationship…
it could still be the ‘same’ person. One man.
Eamon hasn’t been to the bar in a while, either occupied with the Bay Boxing Club or his family being in town.
My contact, saved as The Stalker, will only give brief replies.
Simply answering two questions a day on average.
Texting him is like some outlandish game show, where you spin the wheel and are forced to mindlessly clap no matter where the pointer ends up.
Cindel: Did I gross you out? Because I’m still mortified! I’ve never done that with anyone.
The Stalker: THAT WAS THE HOTTEST THING I’VE EVER EXPERIENCED. Don’t you dare feel embarrassed. Now I have a barometer for your body.
That was one of his lengthier texts, to date, and I was glad for it. I felt empowered… even sexy. I also inquire about the day of the Craft Bazaar.
Cindel: Are you the one that returned my purse?
The Stalker: Yes.
Another time I ask…
Cindel: Was there a message behind the song “Loser” or is it just your favorite song?
The Stalker: No message.
Followed by the devil horned emoji.
The Stalker: Although, I like the song… it is not my favorite.
I may have learned the hard way that The Stalker won't text back if I ask two or more repetitive questions. For two days I missed opportunities to get answers, by asking the same repetitive question.
Cindel: Did you kill my manager, Craig?
After numerous “no responses,” I figured out how he works and moved on from the nagging question.
Although my musical stalker didn’t always make sense, I want to know what makes him tick.
Why he felt so compelled to not only follow me all over the city, but hours away as well.
Why me? When I think of the masked stranger, my body instinctively reacts.
My stomach does somersaults and my panties become wet, just by simply thinking back to how he made my body bend for him in that cramped office.
I’ve all but killed the batteries in my vibrator with how often I’ve been using it lately.
I know it sounds insane, but I’m drawn to him.
Maybe it’s the mystery of the unknown, but I want him.
I need to see him. I just hope that once I learn his true identity, these feelings won't change.
This morning, I wanted to know one thing.
As soon as I woke up, I sent The Stalker a text.
Cindel: Can I see you today?
It took him longer than usual to reply.
The Stalker: Not if I see you first.
Leaning over the bathroom sink, I ready myself for my date with Eamon.
I applied a bold burgundy lip and a messy slept-in-look for my eyes.
With a generous amount of mascara and a velvet ribbon fitted snuggly around my neck, I achieved the 90’s grunge look I was going for.
Once I am presentable, I tiptoe out of the bathroom, hoping that Andrea was still MIA…
“You look cute,” my roommate blurts.
As if glued to the spot, I gradually spun in place to face her. “Thanks! Just gonna go to a movie.”
Willing my feet to press forward, I make my way to the door. The room remains quiet as I bend over, pulling on one red converse at a time, before reaching for my messenger bag on the entryway table.
“By yourself?” She watches me from the kitchen, slurping up leftover lo mein noodles, while flipping through one of her magazines about women’s health.
“Mm-hmm.”
She abandons her food and starts to get up. “Lemme grab a coat, I’ll come with!”
I put up my hands, taking a step forward.
“No! I want to… I just need some time to myself.” Fuck, now I was lying.
I wonder if my fib sounds justified as I finish tying the laces.
She’s the one who threatened to involve my parents, all because she’s not happy with my choice in men. Andrea has pushed me to this point.
“Oh... okay.” She sits back down at the table and proceeds to continue flipping one page at a time.
She is my best friend. What is happening to us?
Not looking up from her magazine, she calls out, “YOU have fun, now.” Drawing out the ‘YOU,’ it’s clear she doesn’t believe that I’m going by myself.
No matter. I close and lock the door from the hallway, expelling all the air in my lungs at once. Fuck, did I misinterpret her? Is she actually hurt that I didn’t want her to tag along? I am the world’s worst friend!
Approaching the local cinema, I’m instantly brought back to the days my brother and I would buy a ticket to a “PG” movie, with the intention of hopping from screen to screen, sampling all the vulgarity, violence, and sexual content that “R” ratings had to offer.
The best part of this theater was if you simply stated you wanted subtitles for your showing, they obliged.
Standing in front of the little run-down theater, with a classic marquee and at least three bulbs burnt out, is Eamon.
He wears a long gray, tweed coat with quintessential suede, elbow patches.
That is the thing about him… he wears the clothes; they don’t wear him.
Everything he dresses his body in is like a second skin.
It only makes him look that much more…. MORE!
I'd ask if it was vintage, but I had a feeling that it was new and probably cost more than my entire month’s rent.
When he sees me approaching, he throws down his smoke and stamps it out with his shiny shoe.
Brodi had a similar habit and wouldn't quit, no matter how often I pressed the issue. I didn’t mind the smell at the time, I work in a bar after all, but it was the taste of it that bothers me.
Eamon immediately throws an arm around me. “You look like you’re ready to help refuel at the next Formula One race.”
My hand goes to my chest, mouth agape; I back out of his embrace. “I’ll have you know that this is a jumpsuit and it's the epitome of fall fashion!” I can be a bit overzealous at times.
His amused look causes the green of his eyes to sparkle with mischief. Somehow, the sight of him fills in the tiny cracks of my heart, originating from my dishonesty with Andrea.
“Is that so? Well, I hope to see them next season on the runway, during fashion week. Now my interest has piqued! “Have you been?!”
He casually nodded, pushing his fists into his coat pockets. “I’m invited regularly; however, I rarely show.”
I was in awe over this man's ability to have it all but not give a rat’s ass unless it suited him.
Sure, he was a walking billboard of designer labels and drove a teenage boy’s wet dream of a sports car, but the more I got to know him the more he surprised me.
In spite of his ‘all business’ persona at work, he can be quite sweet when he’s away from it all.
I can’t fault him for wanting to “keep up appearances.” Especially in a city like this, where people only seem to be impressed by how hard you work and how little sleep you get.
The grind is a way of life, until life is taken away.
With time, I hope Eamon’s shell can fall away.
I see slivers shining through the cracks, each time we’re alone together.
At the box, I politely ask for subtitles during our show.
Our tickets for the nine o’clock showing of Lost Boys, already had a queue full of other eager movie goers, including some couples hand-in-hand.
I find myself suddenly looking for something to occupy my hands.
As the line gradually moves forward, I celebrate silently as I remember my stylish jumper has pockets.
I slide my hands on each side of me, thankful that they have a place to be.
In the lobby, Eamon notices me eyeing the candy display as we make our way to the theater three. Without a second thought, he diverts us over to the counter, dragging my hand from the safety of my pocket. I look down to find our hands joined together. I like how my hand feels in his.
“A box of chocolate clusters and sour candy for the lady.” My lips purse. Odd choices. “Chocolate clusters were my brother’s favorite,” I inform him as he pays.
He hands me my box then proceeds to rip open his selected treat, rattling a handful into the palm of his hand, ahead of popping them into his mouth.
“No kiddin’,” he says with a mouth full of chocolate.
Extending his bent arm, he escorts me to our assigned auditorium.
Any previous smile is long gone; he seems more withdrawn than before.
Did I do something wrong?
We sit down front and center, nibbling on our candy, while waiting for the classic horror flick to start.
A few teenagers sit behind us, as the theatre slowly starts to fill up.
I could tell they were boys based on the different pitches in their tones, not quite settled with a deeper masculine voice yet.
I also couldn’t make out what they were saying.
The movie begins after a short preview, and the subtitles appear across the bottom of the screen.
It makes it so much easier to follow along with the character's dialogue, especially when the actor is speaking “off screen.” I look over at Eamon. He seems on edge, turning occasionally to glance back at the rambunctious adolescents behind us. Eventually, their words become loud enough for me to hear. The teens are booing and yelling for the staff to, “Turn off the stupid words at the bottom of the screen?!” This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had others complain about simple accommodations that cause no harm to them but make a world of difference for people like me.