Page 72 of King of Hollywood
For the first time in my life, I couldn’t shut up. While I shoveled pie in my mouth, and changed my phone screen to Felix’s face, I told Harold about our date. About Felix in general. About his pretty eyes, and how short he was, and the fact that he was clever, and silly, and lovely, lovely, lovely.
When Winnie visited me again she remarked—rather unhelpfully—that she had “never seen me more zen.”
I didn’t know about that.
Zen people did not feel like they were about to vibrate out of their skin.
Zen people did not buy binoculars so they could peer inside their neighbor’s windows when he had visitors over.
Zen people did not hoard said neighbor’s mail—because they’d waited too long to give it back, and now it was awkward.
Tampering with packages was a felony. I knew this. We all knew this. But of the felonies I was guilty of, this was the one I was least concerned about. I was lucky that my kill for the year had happened during spring, as that itch in and of itself was hard to ignore.
My full focus was on Felix now.
And I’d never been more satisfied—or hungry in all my life.
Visions of fucking him assaulted me at the most inopportune times. As did fantasies of dancing with him, of playing with him, of lying beneath his big telescope and watching him gaze at the stars. I wanted to share everything with him. Every waking moment we had left.
There were rings in my shopping cart.
I bought a t-shirt with his face on it to wear as pajamas.
I doodled his name on my notes at work like a lovesick teenager.
And when my coworkers asked me what I was doing for the weekend, I grinned so wide and so creepily that they all left me alone.
I was so obsessed with Felix that I nearly forgot about the disappearing shop we’d both visited in the first place.
Nearly.
I had spent a solid two hours immediately after that first dinner date hunting the internet for signs of it—to no avail—but aside from that, yes. Forgotten. Totally, completely forgotten.
The next time I saw Felix, he was leaving his house well after ten p.m. It was late, but I was curious. And when I inquired what he was up to, I was informed that it was time for his cats’ yearly check-up at the vet.
I offered to carry them, and forty minutes later, with cat carriers in each hand, we strode into a twenty-four hour clinic in a town called Elmwood. The receptionist eyed me curiously, but didn’t say a thing, though she was rather friendly toward Felix.
Suspiciously friendly.
I didn’t like it.
“Back again?” she asked with a happy hum. Her nails clicked on the counter and it grated on my nerves.
“Tiffany had a stomach ache a few months ago,” Felix explained to me. “So we’re back sooner than usual.”
“She feeling better?” the receptionist asked, tapping away on the computer like she was taking notes. The cats were surprisingly docile as I held them aloft in their carriers. They stared up at me through the gaps in the cages, almost like they appreciated my presence here.
As they should.
I was protecting their owner after all.
“Much better,” Felix replied. He had his hat on, and his sunglasses, and he looked adorable and tiny, dressed in a cute little vintage shirt-pant combo that looked like it came straight out of a black and white film. His biceps were on display, and I had a hard time not staring at them. They looked particularly…lickable today. As did his ass, which flexed rather prettily as he shifted from foot to foot.
It was tricky to stare up close like this without being caught, so I switched tactics.
Figuring I wasn’t needed, I retreated to the waiting area with the cats where I could ogle a little less obviously. However, I did stick close enough that I would still be able to hear Felix and the woman as they spoke.
I kept my attention half on them as I took in our surroundings. Pristine, white paint. Posters that were probably meant to evoke a feeling of calm. A wall lined with portraits of animals. Boring.
