7
Yesterday was a write-off, but today, I’m back to normal. Note to Self: Never leave unfinished bottles of alcohol in the apartment. Better still, ban alcohol altogether. It’s wiser to keep temptations out of the way of the tempted if I know what’s good for me.
I didn’t hear from Blake again and ignored the disappointment in my abdomen, but I’m reluctant to keep in contact with him. The only time I touched the handgun was when I took it out of my bag and placed it in its new hiding place in the bottom drawer of my dresser. I haven’t unwrapped it from the fabric or examined it from a distance. All I’ve done was move it from one place to another to deal with another day. But I still need to learn how to load it and shoot it accurately, so I decided to watch some YouTube vids later and learn that way.
But right now, I’m in my happy place working in the University gardens, pruning the dead rose flowers in direct line with the Sports Performance School. This is strategic, of course, so I can watch for the Lion and his entourage and take notes.
I have a bucket, and my secateurs therapeutically cut each dead rose head and chop any diseased wood while I’m at it. Plants infested with aphids are my favorites because I am slightly obsessed with squashing the insects and feeling them pop under my gloves. When I was younger, I used to pop them with my bare hands, but they’d leave a green stain on my skin that was difficult to wash off.
Standing behind a large bush of yellow flowers, the same color as my car that only poor girls drive, I peer over the top now and again, keeping an eye on my target. Several people pour out of one of the buildings, and I search for a familiar face, but it’s not the face I’m looking for. Instead, it’s Cowslick Cormac, a possible relative of Call Me Gabe.
To avoid him seeing me, I duck down behind the bush as he walks by with a group of athletic-looking students on the path that leads from the SPS through the gardens to the Olympic Stadium. I have the impression that he’s rarely alone, always surrounded by friends and adoring admirers. I bet his devotees moderate a special Cormac Cowslick fan club.
“Stans of the Freestyler,” I chuckle into the thorny bush.
Once the group has passed, I stand back to full height and start demolishing several generations of sneaky aphids.
“Killing like a female mantis,” I mumble as I crush hundreds of the tiny little pests with my fisted hand and feel them burst.
“You’re quite nihilistic, aren’t you?” a voice blurts unexpectedly in my ear, and I stumble backward in fright, and he seizes my arm just before I fall backward into a thorny beast.
“I didn’t see you there,” I say, moving away from his grip and placing my hand on my chest to calm my racing heart.
He slips his giant hands into his black sweatpants pocket and peers down at me curiously. “I noticed. Too busy killing innocents by hand.”
“They’re pests that must be destroyed, or else they’ll kill the entire garden of roses,” I explain. Does he even understand how necessary this is?
“The entire garden? That’s dramatic. Dramatic and nihilistic,” he states bluntly, which I admire. I’m never a fan of fluffing around with talk about niceties. Maybe he’s not related to Gabe after all.
“Well, I am a fire sign,” I tell him.
“Figures,” he tilts his head to the side and gazes at me like he did when he scolded me in the pool as if he’s just discovered something intriguing on my face. And, of course, unconsciously, I touch my face, wondering if there’s something there. “You just wiped green sludge on your face. Is that your ritual? Smearing the green blood of the dead on your face as a warning to deter unwanted attention. See, dramatic and nihilistic.”
“Yes,” I answer. “Not working with you, though, is it.”
He nods his head towards me, shooting me a severe expression. “This is not unwanted attention.”
“I disagree,” I argue.
“What are you doing now?” he asks, as those eyes drill into my face, unsettling me. I was more relaxed around the gun-toting thief than this guy.
“Um, as you can see, I’m killing things,” I tell him as if it’s not apparent.
“Yeah, I heard that, like a female mantis.” He makes a face. “Weird. Come have a coffee with me.”
“I can’t. I’m working. This is my job. I get paid to do this,” I explain, irritated.
“Really?” He screws his face up and glances about the garden as if he can’t understand why anyone would want to do this voluntarily. Well, I do. I volunteer to do this. “It won’t take long. You can come back and finish off later.”
I open my mouth to argue with him fervently, but a thought occurs to me. Cowslick is The Lion’s golden child. If I get close to Cowslick, I might be able to access the Lion and find out information about him.
“Okay,” I answer slowly, conflicted because I don’t want to go, but I must. “But not for long.”
He smiles for the first time since he invaded my utopia. “You want to wipe that green sludge off your face first?”
I raise my chin in pride. “No. I’m quite happy with the blood of my enemies on my face.”
He frowns and smirks at the same time. My comment was meant to be a turn-off, but he seems entertained by it. “Here,” he says, lifting the hem of his T-shirt, revealing his flat, glorious stomach, and wiping my face clean. “That’s better.” Then he inspects the green smear on his white tee and shrugs it off.
“That’ll never come out in the wash,” I inform him as I walk next to his towering frame on the path, letting him lead me to wherever he wants to go, which makes me nervous. But I suspect he’s reasonably harmless.
“I’ll buy another one,” he answers indifferently and glances down at my hands. “Are you going take your dirty gloves off?”
“Oh, right,” I answer, pulling them off and hurling them at the bucket, hoping they’ll land inside. Unfortunately, I missed, but Cowslick Cormac walks over to place them in the bucket like a good, decent man.
“My name’s Cormac,” he says, holding his hand to shake, and I take his large, strong hand.
“I know,” I answer without thinking, realizing I should’ve played dumb. Too late now.
“You know?” he asks as we stroll along the path surrounded by old camellias in bloom that were planted before they became known as ‘old lady’s plants,’ but I still like them.
“Yeah,” I think quickly. “Your face popped up when I did a search on swim team results. I used to be on the team years ago.”
“Years ago? How old are you?” It occurs to me that we’re still holding hands, or more accurately, he’s holding my hand, and I quickly snatch mine away.
“Nineteen. It was over two years ago,” I correct. “But I only swim for pleasure now.”
‘So…have you got a name?” he asks as he examines the hand I just shook with a frown on his face.
“Sorry, it’s Rae,” I answer as we come to a small kiosk that serves mediocre coffee, but this is where we stop and line up.
“Rae? Short for what?” he says, unzipping his bag and taking out a wallet.
“Just Rae. Is Cormac short for McCormac, good ol’ Scottishness?” I’m trying to ease my anxiety about being in close proximity to a man whose arm is grazing my arm.
“No, it’s Irish. Weirdly. Italian Dad, Irish Mom,” he states with a small smile that lasts only a few seconds before fading to sadness behind his eyes. It looks like Cormac has secrets.
Once he’s purchased two coffees and two oatmeal cookies, we find a green space and sit on the grass since all the seats are taken.
“So, will you tell me why you need to talk to me?” I ask, biting into the oatmeal cookie and wishing it tasted like the ones Mom makes from scratch. There is no buying cookie dough or mass-produced cookies in my family. I had a lucky childhood.
He lies on his side on the grass as I sit cross-legged, and he shrugs those broad shoulders. “I was just wondering what you were doing at the bottom of the pool that day?”
I suspect this is a lead-in question and not the real reason he asked me for a coffee, but I’ll answer it anyway. “Thinking.”
“Thinking? You were thinking at the bottom of the pool?” he frowns, and I’m slightly confused as to why this bothers him so much—apart from the fact that I interrupted his training for a second. “There are a hundred million places you could go to think, and you choose the bottom of a pool.”
“It’s quiet down there. Why? Why does it matter to you?” I ask, then take a sip of the mediocre coffee from the coffee cup.
“In an Olympic pool where several elite swimmers were training?” he adds with a hint of fury.
“Okay, I know it was stupid, but I just get…” I sigh and take another sip of my coffee. “It doesn’t matter. Just forget it.”
“No. You just get what? Finish your sentence,” his tone is demanding.
I’m uncomfortable opening up to this man I just met, but I guess he deserves an explanation. “Sad,” I finally answer.
His eyes soften, and it occurs to me that they are sky blue, like Det. Gabe’s. “You weren’t trying to…you know,” he flicks his hand, refusing to say it, but I know what he means.
“No,” I lie. “Unfortunately, my hunger for life exceeds my desire for death.”
“See, you’re a nihilist,” he mumbles before sipping his coffee.
“Probably,” I don’t care what he calls me.
His baby blue eyes find a spot on the grass by my leg. I decided to wear jeans today, even though it’s stinking hot, and a plain black T-shirt since I’m working. As usual, I tie my hair up in a ponytail. I rarely wear my hair down for several reasons.
“So, I have to go to dinner this Friday night,” he says after several minutes of silence, during which I was internally plotting how to broach the subject of his swim coach. But a ball of sick stirs in my stomach whenever I try to talk about the coach because keeping those thoughts trapped in my head makes it less real. “I was wondering if you could come with me?”
Did I mishear? “What? I thought…” I glance over his shoulder, “I thought you had a harem of women in your pockets.”
He screws his face up in bemusement. “A harem? Rae, I have no time for harems.”
“But you’re always surrounded by girls, so…”
“Sounds like you’ve looked at me a lot?” he’s eager for me to say yes.
“No. I mean, on the two occasions that I have looked up, and you happen to be standing, randomly, in my viewing range, I noticed that girls were there gazing up at you like you’re some Greek God or something.”
His eyes narrow as a grin slides across his cleanly shaven dial, highlighting how handsome he is. “Randomly? Greek God,” he shakes his head. “Not fond of that. Anyway, do you want to come?”
“Um, so what is the objective of the dinner?” I ask, wondering if it’s a family thing and his father might be there. Part of me wants to see him again to thank him for how he helped me through the worst time of my life. But another part of me wants to set that part of my life on fire and turn it into ashes, and I can’t do that when people in my past are in my present.
He answers, “It’s a swim team pre-celebration meet. The Nationals are coming up in two weeks. I don’t know the point of the dinners, but yeah, are you keen?”
Anxiety clutches at my chest. I need to loosen up. “Is it just the swimmers going? What about management and coaches, etcetera?”
“The whole bamboozle,” he answers, screwing his face up again. “That’s why I need a distraction to make the night go faster, like a dramatic female mantis nihilist like you.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” I snort. “Sure. I’ll go.”
His face lights up, and those eyes connect with mine, and I immediately look away. I feel guilty that he thinks I’m going with him, not because I like him but because it allows me to get close to the Lion.
“It’s formal,” he adds, taking another sip of his coffee, and I cringe.
I have a couple of formal dresses in my closet I can choose from, but I’m not keen on wearing either. “Okay,” I tell him. “I can’t stay out late because I have to head out of town to my parents” place early Saturday morning. It’s a four-hour drive.”
“We’re in the midst of heavy training,” he asserts, “we won’t be out late. Or drinking alcohol.”
“Good,” I sigh in relief.
“So, can I have your number?” he asks. He’s quite a serious guy, doesn’t smile much, and harbors a burden of weight from something…training, maybe, or something else.
“Sure,” I’m a little rattled because I’m so out of practice with dating and men. I give him my number, and he adds it to his contacts.
“So, do you live on campus?” he asks as he places his phone on the grass.
“No, I have an apartment in town. And you?” It looks like I’m making small talk and this awkward conversation couldn’t get staider.
“Yeah, I’m in a frat house with other guys from the team. I’ll probably move out at the end of term and into an apartment block in town where several Keele students reside,” he explains. I wonder why anyone would move away from campus life to where many students are. It seems to defeat the purpose of venturing out.
“Living the college life,” I state.
“I’m too busy training to party,” he says thoughtfully, and I have an enormous urge to crack a joke to lighten him up.
“So…are you going to tell me what was in that paper ball you threw at me in Willard’s class but inadvertently landed on the girl next to me?” I tease, smirking at him, hoping his handsome face will crack into another smile again.
His face seems permanently set into a frown, but another smile comes along as he looks away from me bashfully and then sips his coffee. “Yeah, that was…embarrassing.”
“What did your message say?” I push, trying hard to stifle my giggles.
“To meet me after class,” he answers, and my mouth drops open in shock.
“And did she? I couldn’t tell if she was delighted with your message?” I inquire with great enthusiasm.
“I don’t know. I was too fast escaping out the door,” he says flatly. “Trying to catch up with you, but you were gone.” He makes a zoom sound and uses his giant hand to mimic a car, boat, or other fast-moving object.
I snort and tip my head back and laugh.
“I caught up with you now, though,” he proudly states. “Persistence always pays off.”
“Depends on the girl you’re pursuing,” I hint that he’s barking up the wrong tree. Please don’t fall for me. I’ll only disappoint you.
His smile fades again as those blue eyes drill into my face as if trying to read my mind. “It never ends well for the male mantis,” he says, surprising me not only with his knowledge of insects but of how insightful he is.
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” I agree, avoiding his eye.