Garron wags his eyebrows at me and tells me not to threaten him with a good time. Fuck... it better not be Garron behind the mask.
Still, his friend never engages me. I feel uncomfortable sometimes, when Dax is around. His features are always severe, right before he takes off somewhere. Those nights without the drama of Jada or the fluctuation of Eamon’s moods, between flirting or ignoring me, go by easier. Nonetheless, I felt more like a babysitter than a bar manager.
The only song I can add to our list this week is,Elastica – “Connection.”The stalker played it for me one night, after Andrea and I went round and round, trying to make sense of how all these names are connected. It was actually Andrea who pointed out that Theo and Eamon went to the same school, Boston College. How did she know that?
I surmised since we pretty much grew up in the same city; our families had to have some sort of loose connection. Andrea intermittently became quiet when I would go on a tangent about Theo or Eamon. I can’t deny the feeling that she may be withholding something. It’s probably just in my head, trying to automatically make connections when there probably aren’t any.
When I told my roommate about the newest song, she ripped apart the apartment, looking for cameras or microphones. Cursing ensued and now we need to buy new throw pillows because she disemboweled each one with a kitchen knife and sheer determination. Nothing was found to indicate we were being watched, but I knew my stalker was always watching. Andrea was pissed. Personally? I was relieved he could still watch me.
I open the texts with my stalker. Rereading and trying to carefully form questions that could help in my search for answers. He wouldn’t answer any questions this week. In fact, he didn’t respond to anything I’ve sent. Since when did these roles reverse, the pursued became the pursuer. Had I done something wrong?
Wow, Cindel, are you concerned about your actions against him? Maybe I do need to start journaling again. Clearly, I’m more disturbed than before.
With the masked stalker MIA, I try to shift my focus to getting ready for dinner at Eamon’s. It’s tomorrow. So, many questions run through my mind.
How should I act in the privacy of his home? What do we talk about? Will he want to…? You know… how far am I willing to go with Eamon? Was agreeing to this date smart if I wasn’t willing to go all in? Was I simply using him… trying to shed light onmy brother’s life, before he passed?
Good grief, I think I am! Didn’t Eamon deserve a sincere connection, with no strings attached? I attempt to sort through my feelings as I ready for bed.
What are my feelings about Eamon? Genuinely, it feels more like hanging out with a sibling than anything sexual. Maybe I’m overthinking it. He is successful, charming, good-looking, and a skilled kisser. Ughh! My inner unrest reminds me of a game of tug-of-war, rationalizing between my brain and my heart.
On the sidelines is the cloaked stranger. Every time I feel as though my mind is made up, the stalker trickles into my thoughts. MY stalker.
The wave of memories hit me. How he made my body sing like no one has ever done. The whole situation should be considered unhealthy, ultimately dangerous. Yet, his furtive engagement has me longing for him in every dark alleyway I enter. Lately, I find myself thinking about him whenever I have time to myself. In the bath, in bed… last time he was near, he took care of me while I was ill. I appreciate the tenderness, but I also feel like I’m overdue. Now I only conjure up emotions about his touch against my skin. Somehow, this nameless man has me in a chokehold.
After I quiet my cravings, I emerge from the bathroom a few minutes before six...
Andrea nurses a bottle of Moscato in the kitchen, as she watches me do a last-minute fit check in the hallway mirror. The tight-fitting, black cocktail dress hugs me in all the right places, since I took in the bust to accommodate my small chest.
“You look hot. I’d fuck you,” she announces unabashedly. Setting the bottle down, she comes behind me and proceeds to zip up the garment. “Are you wearing it?” I turn, facing her fully, then point to the small rose brooch, affixed on the top of the dress. “Good. Make sure you're close enough so I can hear what’s being said. I want to know if you get into any trouble.” I look up to the ceiling and nod. This feels wrong, but I agreed to put her mind at ease.
“Yes, I know, but will you be listening if things get… ya know, serious?”
Her eyebrows furrow, then shoot up. “Oh. Right… umm, no. Eww. Love you, but no. I promise not to listen if you cross that bridge with him.” Andrea tells me when she hears the beep of a horn, just outside.
Simultaneously, my phone vibrates, indicating that my ride is here.
“I’m going to stay up and wait for you to get home,” she adds.
I sign to herthank youas I made my way out the door.
Eamon sent a car, since he needed to pick up a few last-minute things before our date. The driver shares that Eamon’s place is on the posher side of the city, overlooking picturesque sunsets on the Boston Harbor.
I smile but remain quiet, recheck my small clutch once in the vehicle. Phone, check. Earbud, check. Pepper Spray, check. Pepper spray? Damnit, Andrea! I don’t need that. Just because Eamon was sometimes complex, didn’t mean I was fearful for my life. My time with Eamon was enjoyable. Being around him feels effortless. No matter how tonight turns out, I know he won’t hurt me. I also recognize that Andrea is listening… I tap roughly on the rose brooch in lieu of her sneaky, ‘self-defense’ addition. I hope it makes an uncomfortably loud sound for her.
Considering the purple starred tech in my purse, I replaced my hearing aid. Not sure why, but I don’t want to be without it lately.
The car pulls up to an enormous, glass building that sits overlooking the bay. The modern structure has a marbled wall, with black lettering displaying Twenty-Two Liberty. The whole thing oozes class and money. A doorman instantly welcomes me inside the breathtaking premises. From the colossal decorative planters to intricate chandeliers, the lobby entrance is swankier than any hotel I have ever stayed in, but this is a place people live! My heels click along the smooth floors as I make my way through the vast room and over to the concierge.
“Welcome, Miss Mari. Mr. Murray is expecting you.”
The suited man with note-worthy posture escorts me to the elevator, holds the doors open as I enter before he swipes a card onto a reader. The light inside indicates we're heading up to thetop floor. As we ascend, I wonder if Eamon’s monthly rent is more than a year’s worth of the place Andrea and I split. How can the owner of a rundown bar and boxing club do this well? The elevator dings upon reaching the twentieth floor. The poised man once again, politely holds the automatic doors for me. I’m pretty sure the censors don’t allow the mechanism to squish people. Having an escort for guests is a tad excessive.
Exiting the lift, I find myself inside a well-lit, contemporary apartment with trendy art and windows as far as the eye can see. The water below looks like paintbrush strokes from an impressionistic painting. Boats bob on the water, as the last traces of warmth disappear below the horizon. Lights from residing buildings emit gold and traces of yellows against the contrasting black and blues, of the choppy waters beyond. I would never leave this place if it were my home. This view is everything Boston has to offer.
Banging pans in the kitchen bring me farther into the apartment, toward its source.“Hello?” To my surprise, Connor pops around the corner, holding a wood crate.
“Hey, Cindel. Just dropping off some bottles of whiskey for the boss.”
