Forgotten Obsessions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 1)

by Talia Maxwell

  He’d hoped it was a waitress, though, and not a member of the Love is Murder Social Club. In theory, he despised anyone who desired to wallow in other people’s misery as a pastime, and he was already prepared to dislike the girl on principle. But regardless of her hobbies, he owed the heroic girl, Murder Club attendee or not, a word of gratitude. His mother raised him on thank you notes within forty-eight hours of a gift, and hostess presents for every home he ever visited. When he was in high school, he was invited over for a sleepover with a friend and he brought a box of Sees Chocolate, carefully procured after school without any prompting or help from his mom. His friend spent the whole night laughing about it.

  “Who comes over with old lady chocolates for a friend’s mom?” he’d mocked.

  The mom, however, treated him like an adorable puppy the rest of the night—like someone cute and fragile, and easily shattered which he supposed, in hindsight, might not have been far from the truth. Except, Derek never felt delicate. Even in his darkest moments, he always knew he was strong—he was alive, after all.

  He was alive because he fought.

  And because he was saved. His dad never let him forget that part of the story.

  Derek called the number that Gloria had given him. Better to get it over with.

  A voicemail kicked on.

  Heya. It’s Maeve. I’m probably watching Dateline and ignoring your call. Send a text for a faster response or leave a message and I’ll text you back.

  Derek cleared his throat. A message. That was perfect.

  The phone beeped. “Maeve. Hello. You don’t know me, I’m Derek Shelton.” He took a deep breath. No, she didn’t know him, but he bet she’d heard of him. “Thank you for calling me and thinking to let me know about my dad. He can be stubborn, and I don’t think I would’ve been…well, I’m a nurse, so I could…” he didn’t understand why he couldn’t really form the thank you well enough. He wasn’t trying to stutter and mumble his way; he wanted to convey genuine gratitude. “Not everyone would step up and you did…you were trying to help and I really appreciate it. And, so, thanks. Call back if you want.”

  He hung up.

  Call back if you want. He threw the phone on to his couch with frustration.

  Instantly, he regretted calling. He should’ve texted.

  He picked up his phone and started to craft a kind thank you text that could make up for his ineloquent voicemail. Before he could send anything, Maeve’s number—the number he just dialed—popped up on the screen.

  Derek took a deep breath.

  He answered.

  Chapter Six

  Maeve listened to the voicemail twice and immediately dialed Derek Shelton right back. She had a ball stuck in her throat that felt like a scream, but also a little bit like vomit, because now she had an actual voicemail from her childhood crush on her phone. Saved forever. For-ever.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  “It’s Maeve Montgomery,” she said as if he didn’t just call her, as if he didn’t already know who was on the other end of the line.

  “Yes. I know,” he said with a laugh on his voice and Maeve rolled back and threw a pillow over her face, concealing the delight and embarrassment she felt. She wished she could somehow record her entire call with him—to chronicle that it happened—but she was also afraid to move, afraid that if she got up off the couch or got up to get a drink, the spell would be broken and Derek Shelton would be gone.

  “This is strange for me, a bit,” she admitted and rolled her eyes at herself. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting a thank you. Anyone would’ve helped your father. You don’t have to thank me for, like, just being a good human.”

  “I don’t know if that’s true. A lot of people are content to be bystanders.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  A long and unwelcome pause. Derek cleared his throat.

  “Well, anyway,” he said, and Maeve could instantly feel him tugging to get off the phone. He’d left a voicemail, he’d thanked her in person, and now he didn’t need to do anything else, he was absolved.

  But Maeve didn’t want him to get off the phone.

  She wanted to keep him on the line as much as she wanted to be alive—she felt it was a primal instinct, to stretch out her time with him and soak up everything he said. In her world, he was as famous as they came, but she knew he’d abhor her drooling and her collection of pictures of him, amassed when he was fourteen, still stored in a box at her dad’s house.

  “How is he doing?” Maeve asked. “Your dad?”

  Derek paused as if he hadn’t anticipated her asking, but then he launched into a calm diagnosis.

  She kept asking questions. She sat on her couch, feet tucked up under her body, and Roger sat his head against her knee.

  They settled in, Derek answering everything she lobbed his way.

  They talked about nursing.

  About his stepmoms.

  About his father. She kept the questions light. Every time she felt him trying to get off the phone, she’d pull him back in. They talked and talked and when Maeve looked at the clock, she realized she’d been on the phone with him for nearly an hour and forty-five minutes. The idea of it made her lightheaded and giddy. And the conversation traveled from his land in Boring, to his favorite bands, to a stiff rebuke of the way his father handled media and rounded its way back to medical terms, ER stories, and then to Maeve while she muddled through a quick biography of herself, cleaned up to pander to the audience.

  Soon, everything was easy and Maeve sat on her couch, her feet propped up in front of her, her phone battery hot against her ear.

  “Okay, so you went to college and majored in what?” Derek asked, impressed by her college degree, which she thought was unnecessarily kind.

  “Criminology, actually,” she admitted with a self-deprecating groan, anticipating his distaste for her answer.

  “I see. I see,” he replied. And Maeve held her breath, understanding that she’d kept her own interests out of the entire conversation with the knowledge that it was unavoidable. She could feel her embarrassment growing and his silence ticked by—and the longer he didn’t say anything, she knew that he was rethinking of her as a fan, someone ready to sell him out.

  She couldn’t blame him.

  She knew it had happened before.

  His girlfriend in high school sold her story of their first time to a tabloid, and then a news organization bought the tearful message he’d left for her after the story ran. Derek’s life was smattered out into the world and Maeve wouldn’t be able to pretend forever that she didn’t know jack shit about him. She literally knew everything there was to know about him from an outside perspective.

  “I’m glad you called,” she said.

  “I’m glad you called back,” he replied.

  “Ha,” Maeve mused, and then she trailed off into silence. Shit.

  That felt like flirting.

  “Yeah, well,” Derek picked up the slack. He sniffed. Earlier in the call, she heard the eagerness in his voice to stop the conversation with her, but now she felt the opposite. He was trying to think of something to say to keep the conversation going; Maeve felt smug.

  “No. I mean it. I’m glad I called, first.”

  Her body went icy with anxiety and warmth; Derek Shelton just said that he was glad she called back, and glad he called, and Maeve’s brain was going to explode.

  She couldn’t sit still. She jumped up off the couch and began to pace across her apartment floor, biting on a long fingernail, steadily analyzing all the different ways she could screw this up.

  “Well, hey, I work at this Italian place in Northeast,” she heard herself offering. And as the words left her mouth, a wave of nausea passed over her. “It’s called Esposito’s. You should come in some time and I’ll treat you to stolen bread or something. I can probably steal an entrée, too. But…” she stopped talking, mortified at the actual words coming out of her mouth. “But no, it’s really
fun—cute little place, wine, linguini, if you’re into that.”

  “You want me to come in while you work to eat food you’ve stolen for me?”

  “Well. When you say it like that.”

  “Do I need to get an actual table or can I just hover outside and wait until you pass me bread through the door.”

  She laughed. “Actually, yes, that’s the better plan.” He was silent and she panicked. “But, of course, the food is so good that I would recommend just going. Anytime. By yourself, even.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Do you ever go and just eat there? Do you go to work to eat?”

  “We get a half-price shift meal, if that’s what you mean—”

  “No,” Derek laughed. “I mean like, sit down, have wine, make your friends serve you.”

  “I haven’t. I can’t afford it,” she said with a light laugh.

  “Hey, another question.” he paused and she held her breath. “What if you eat at another Italian restaurant? Does it feel like you’re cheating on Esposito’s? Because…”

  Maeve could sense where this was going and she sat down in the middle of her living room and closed her eyes.

  And he did it. He asked her.

  “I was thinking,” Derek said, his voice catching at the end, betraying a hint of nerves. “I could take you to this place I like out my way. An Italian place. If you’d like.”

  And just like that, Maeve fell back on the floor, kicked her legs and suppressed a giant cry of excitement.

  Derek Shelton, her childhood obsession, just asked her on a date. She stared at the ceiling and wondered if there were any friends in her circle who could understand the enormity of what just occurred, but she realized she had no one who could properly respond to the craziness.

  Except, maybe, the other members of the Social Club.

  With a lump of excitement in her chest and the feeling rushing out of her hands and feet, Maeve said, “Well, yeah, if you’re thinking that would be fun, then I think we should eat some pasta together.”

  “We should definitely eat some pasta together,” he repeated. “As a thank you for saving my dad and filling these last…holy shit, two hours, with such easy conversation.”

  “Of course,” she blushed, her cheeks hurting from the smile plastered to her face. And because she was feeling lighter than anything, buoyant and smitten, she asked, “I mean…I’ve talked up an appetite. How’s tonight sound?”

  Chapter Seven

  It hadn’t been his intention or even on his radar, but as the conversation picked up speed he found himself curled up in a ball on his queen mattress in the trailer, talking to Maeve like he’d known her forever. It just sort of happened in a natural way, informal and fluid, and he didn’t really want to get off the phone and have the magic dispelled.

  It was so easy to let good things disappear into the ether.

  He liked her voice; sardonic and deep, gravelly at times, a smile always hovering. She was self-deprecating and smart and when she’d laughed, she’d committed to a roar that made him pull the phone back from his ear. He loved it. It made him want to make her laugh all the time.

  Still, he wondered if dinner might be a mistake.

  He felt hungry to talk to her and learn about her life, but there was no way the Criminology major didn’t already know everything about him. The whole dinner he’d sit and wonder if she was thinking the media’s version of him or how he was portrayed during the trial. Even his break-up from his fiancé made news in some sectors.

  Derek didn’t know what to expect. What did she know? What didn’t she know?

  He was flying blind.

  There were times when he could forget who he was and where he came from, but those moments were few and far between—his daily life was riddled with reminders, and he didn’t want Maeve to become one, too. Even if it was a waste; even if she wasn’t his type or their connection disappeared in person, he could tell his therapist that he had taken a risk anyway.

  Derek realized after he asked her to dinner that he didn’t even know what she looked like. He half imagined a mom-type with ratty hair, ill-fitting shoes and food on her clothes. That’s what he imagined a mom-type to be. Still, he was desperate for someone to talk to—and he wanted to keep talking to Maeve. Ill-footing shoes and all.

  “One rule,” Derek told her before they hung up the phone to commence an in-person rendezvous at his favorite little Italian place in Gresham. “I don’t want to talk about me. Not about anything crime related, I mean. I’m going to assume you know everything…so, it’s all just a non-issue. I don’t want to meet…and then…”

  He thought he heard her draw in a sharp intake of breath on the other end as though she was suddenly worried, but when she spoke, she was careful and calm.

  “Shit. I’m sorry you have to say that,” Maeve said. He wished he knew where she was in her apartment—in her bed, in a chair, or pacing. He heard her get up once and get a drink, and he tried to imagine what she looked like. It was a strange game and he found it fun. “I have no interest in talking about the crime,” she said. But he could tell it was a lie told for his benefit. “I mean,” she corrected, “I don’t need to know. I won’t chase answers…” she stopped.

  “I’m sorry I have to even ask.”

  “Of course. Of course. Okay. I’m going to go brush my hair or something. Or put on pants.”

  He laughed. She said something about wishing she was kidding. He imagined her with long, frizzy hair in need of taming. He pictured her wanting to look good for him. He hoped that was true because he found himself wanting to impress her, too. “What kind of place is this? Jeans or—”

  “It’s not too fancy. But I’d recommend pants,” he said. He knew he was going to put on his best brown pants and the blue shirt everyone always complimented.

  They said their goodbyes and hung up. And after he changed, he drove straight to the restaurant, grabbed a seat with a view of the door, ordered wine, and waited.

  It was agonizing to wait for Maeve to arrive. Every girl who walked in, he tried to make eye contact with and await the glimmer of recognition. He didn’t want to seem too friendly with the wrong woman walking toward him at the same time his date showed up. But he also didn’t want to ignore her, letting her walk to him and catch him off guard.

  He was nervous but self-assured—they’d just had the best phone call—didn’t that mean something? He felt foolish for pushing so many expectations on just a simple meet-up; there were no expectations and they could end the evening as friends. Derek took a deep breath and steadied his nerves; the wine helped.

  Soon, a girl entered.

  She was wearing a black skirt and floral top with her shoulders exposed, and on her feet, white sneakers, spotless and pristine. Immediately he thought of them covered in blood. Not because of his past, or maybe to spite it, but because of his work in the ER. Any new pair of sneakers he wore to work came home covered in other people’s bodily fluids. Vomit, piss, and definitely blood. He could follow every protocol and still wind up staring at his shoes wondering how they ended up gross again. His sneaker budget was ungodly compared to normal people.

  He knew those shoes wouldn’t last a second in his world.

  The girl’s sneakers were white and gleaming and he followed his gaze up from the shoes, across her legs and then up to her face, dark hair flowing, straight and brushed down past her shoulders. The girl’s brown eyes locked on to his and as they did, he soaked in everything about her: the shy way she waved at him and shook her head in disbelief, the way she bit her lip.

  She was amazing.

  He admitted his relief and stood up, reaching up to greet her with a hug. She awkwardly embraced him back and then pulled out her chair to sit down, squealing with delight.

  “Oh, wow,” Maeve said, while she put her napkin in her lap. “Hello, Derek Shelton.”

  “I’m sorry, I should’ve gotten that chair for you,” Derek mumbled as he sat back down in his booth and
looked across the table at her, his mind completely blown by her sheer beauty. He didn’t think she was wearing any makeup and he could see a smattering of freckles across her face, dark and vibrant against her skin. “Hello,” he said.

  He could admit she was not what he was expecting. He’d prepared himself to be disappointed.

  “In high school,” Maeve started, looking down, “this guy friend opened a door for me at a movie theater and told me chivalry wasn’t dead. Then ten minutes later he tried to grab my tits during the previews.”

  “Crucial question,” Derek said without missing a beat. His nervousness seeping away, his hands resuming their natural temperature. “What movie?”

  “That is a crucial question,” Maeve answered with a smirk. “It was a dollar movie for an old show…second run. And we went to see...” she looked to the ceiling and tried to recall, but when she looked back down at Derek, she shrugged, “I don’t remember.”

  He couldn’t hide his disappointment. He lived for details like that. “You’ll have to tell me if you remember. It’s the minutiae that interest me,” he said. “Would you like to start with wine?”

  “I would,” Maeve said.

  He summoned the waitress and waited patiently while Maeve poured over the menu and then ordered a Pinot. When the waitress left, they eased back into steady conversation. She laughed, her teeth flashing, and he, once, put his hand across the table to touch her forearm, a gesture so intimate he didn’t even realize he was doing it until she looked down and he withdrew his hand quickly.

  He’d made her shiver.

  And he looked at her as if she’d disappear and slip to dust if he made one wrong move.

  It had been a long time since he’d even entertained the idea of being involved with someone. In his fantasy world, there would be a girl he could dote on and fall in love with—and then he could propose the right way. He’d planned an elaborate scavenger hunt to lead Julie, his ex, to him and the ring, but she found the receipt from the jeweler and demanded that he give it to her right then and there. While he was in his boxers, unprepared, and annoyed.