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Gross.
After turning her on her side, I used her phone to call 911, stepped out into the hall, and shouted, “Oh, my God, Stacy!” and waited around the corner for her friend to come stumbling out of another guy’s room in her underwear, rushing to her friend’s side.
Babysitter acquired.
The steps in that process lined up neatly, but my skin was itching.
I got my hands dirtier than I like to. I broke my pattern, so the tics were trying to fight their way out. It’s one of my secrets, my dirt that I keep private.
That’s the thing about info, people’s dirt. It’s hidden. And it’s usually messy. Filthy. I try not to think about it that way. It’s just facts. I have to think about it that way or I cringe, overcome with the need to wash my hands again. And again.
Data is clean. Sterile. And that, I can organize, file away. Maintain order. I need that order, that perfect system and routine.
Keeping all the details in line helps me break away from other less…desirable habits. When I fail, give in to the repetitive urges, I punish myself a little. Conditioning.
Last night, I broke a rule, and the stress nearly made my knees buckle. I got my hands dirty and I washed them several times in the bathroom before rushing downstairs, ready to bolt. I can usually hold out until I get home, where I can scour my body in scalding water. All that noise, compounded with the blaring music of the DJ downstairs, was overwhelming. Driving me straight toward the back door.
That’s when I saw her.
And all the noise stopped.
I don’t normally buy into serendipity or fate, those ridiculous moments people talk about where time slows down and everything changes. I’m objective. Factual.
Until I met Hellena Michaels.
She saw me. Really saw me.
Our hands touched, and I didn’t recoil. Like… every buzzing nerve stopped and the ticking clock I keep running in my head paused. The only thing I could feel was her hand on mine.
Warm. Soft. Pure.
I stood right beside her and I just… stared. Curves like you couldn’t believe. Her hair, dark, shining chocolate waves down to her ass. Her eyes… sharp, perceptive. I can’t even remember what color they are. Just that they saw through me.
I hate that I was working when I met her. That I wasn’t myself entirely. Except I was… unguarded when we spoke. Real. I couldn’t help the way I acted around her, abandoning my casual maneuvering through the party, drinking just enough to blend in, playing drinking games without partaking too much.
The job was an easy fit. I’m a little too old, but with my height and build, I can pass for a college jock easily. Plus, everyone is wasted, so a lot of my subterfuge was wasted. Never know when I might see someone I know, though.
But she saw right through me.
And I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop myself from laughing, chatting, flirting. Flirting has only ever been a tool for me, charms to get the story, fooling around with a secretary so she’ll drop a dime on her boss.
Hellena had me gabbing like a high school cheerleader at prom.
The memory of what came next has me sliding into the janitor’s closet at the police station, loosening my tie. I’m tempted to loosen my belt and the zipper on these slacks to ease the pressure that immediately thrusts into the front of my pants at the thought of her kiss, the feel of that sweet, round…
A broom shifts and snaps me in the back of the head, knocking my glasses off. I almost break the damn thing, then almost laugh out loud at how absurd the situation is. I’m standing in a broom closet in the middle of a police station about to strangle my cock.
The tic makes me crack my neck, the pop jolting me back to the matter at hand.
First, drop off the photos of Officer Jones’s wife cheating, the excuse I used to come down here in the first place. Another twitch reminds me of why I really had to come, and that I need to get it done to put my mind at ease. Then I can get back to work.
Check on Hellena.
Find out when she’s getting out. See if I can alleviate this feeling I’m so unfamiliar with eating at my chest.
Is it guilt?
I really hoped only a few EMTs would show up to help Stacy when I called 911, but I knew it was pretty likely they’d have some badges with them. I should have insisted that she leave with me. But that would have demanded answers I have no idea how to give her.
