by Terry Towers
Obsessed
By
Terry Towers
Obsessed
Copyright 2014 by Terry Towers
Cover By: Erin Dameron-Hill
edhgraphics.blogspot.ca
All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotes used for critical reviews and articles no part of this book may be used or reproduced without the written permission of the author Terry Towers. Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada. Terry Towers can be contacted via her website at www.elixaeverett.com
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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.
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Chapter 1
Elijah
“Help me! Somebody!” His pleas echoed throughout the small bathroom, but fell on deaf ears.
“Why won’t you just fucking die already!” I growled, tightening my grip on the screaming man’s shoulders and plunging him down into the bathwater for a third time. A third goddamned time! And who in the fuck did he think was going to help him anyhow? We were the only two people in this shitty-assed apartment. Idiot. In this part of town screaming for help was a usual thing, not like anyone around here would attempt to help even if they did hear.
The man – Mark Gibbons aka Speed Daddy – was a local drug dealer and pimp. He’d killed one of his girls a couple of weeks ago, but because she was a prostitute the police didn’t spend much time getting the details. It was still an open investigation and it would remain that way. Melissa wouldn’t get justice unless I got it for her. The fact there was going to be one less crack pusher on the streets was a happy bonus.
Beethoven blasted from the other room; it was the music that allowed me to creep in undetected. He’d been reclined in the bathwater high as a fucking kite, drinking a beer and enjoying a bubble bath. The way Speed Daddy lived his life it was a shock he wasn’t dead already. The fag even had aromatherapy candles lining the tub. Like, fuck, really man? Aromatherapy candles? Now, I gotta stop right now and say that when I use the word fag I’m not saying he was gay, I wouldn’t insult gay people by grouping this piece of shit with them. I have a huge respect for the injustices they face each and every day just because they’re trying to live their lives being honest with themselves. I’m saying he was a stupid-assed, waste of breath criminal. That’s what I’m saying. Perhaps I should consider using a different, more politically correct word? Bah, fuck it.
He gurgled under the water, a new line of bubbles forming over his head as he screamed under the water. “I’ve got places to be, motherfucker. Let’s just get this over with.” I pushed him down another couple of inches. One minute passed. Two minutes. Three minutes later he was no longer struggling. I kept him under another solid minute – just in case, ya know, I’m thorough like that. I wouldn’t want to let him up just for him to get a breath of air and have to start this process all over again. All of his struggling had gotten my suit wet, which pissed me off – hardcore. Now I had to go change before I went to see her.
Another minute passed and it was over. Finally. I let out a sigh of relief.
Releasing him, I pulled my black-gloved hands from the water. My favourite gloves to boot, they’d never go back to normal after being drenched like they’d been. Gonna have to take a stop by Madison Avenue tomorrow, I’m a brand whore – sue me. Although with it being summer getting a pair of fingered gloves would be a chore. Stupid murdering, crack-dealing piece of shit made me ruin my gloves.
I chuckled, who am I to talk…
Mark’s body floated to the top of the water, his eyes wide as if they were about to pop out of his head. They float, they all float down here Georgie… The line from the Stephen King book It came to my mind as I watched the dead man float in the tub, pulled off my gloves and straightened my suit. Wouldn’t it have been a riot if Mark’s name had actually been George? A snort of laughter escaped me as I turned from the dead man and left the bathroom.
I didn’t pause or take time to explore the pigsty of an apartment. It was disgusting. Empty and partially empty food containers all over the tables and some on the floors. Used needles and drugs spread across the coffee table in the living room and everything seemed to have a layer of dust on it. I also noticed a used condom on the end table by the sofa; well, look at that, Speed Daddy was a safety guy. I huffed. Jesus man, get yourself some self-respect and clean up a bit. Not that it mattered now, I supposed.
But seriously though, how does someone live in filth like this? Boxes of crap were piled everywhere I could see. And it stank – badly. If someone didn’t find him right away I seriously doubted anyone would be able to smell his decaying corpse over the stink in this place. And believe me, a decaying corpse that hasn’t been embalmed stinks like nothing you’d ever want to smell. The smell etches itself in your brain and can never be forgotten.
Normally I got paid to kill someone. A guy’s gotta eat, ya know. But I killed Mark as a community service. You’re welcome Newark, NJ.
I pulled my mirrored sunglasses from the inside pocket of my suit and put them on before leaving the apartment. Walking down the hallways towards the exit I didn’t see a soul; it wasn’t until I was leaving the building that I bumped into an older lady. I opened the heavy glass door for the elderly lady and stepped aside, motioning for her to exit.
“Thank you, young man.” She graced me with a smile as she passed by me. I was twenty-eight years old, but have been told I have a youthful look and could easily pass for my early twenties.
“Welcome, ma’am.” I exited not looking back. The woman wouldn’t remember me when and if the cops found Mark. If by chance she did, she’d never be able to identify me. I was just another person in a sea of unremembered faces who entered and exited the building that day.
~*~*~*~
I hated standing in lines. If it weren’t for her I’d never come to these things. But I have to say, there’s a certain charm to Comic Con conventions. I got a kick out of some of the costumes. Some people put a lot of time and effort into their costumes and you really had to respect the dedication. But one thing I hated were the fangirls. My God – screaming, eager teenagers. You know what, I could almost understand the teenagers, but married, middle-aged women would whoop and scream at the sight of their favourite stars as if they were teenagers. It was weird.
The autograph line moved forward and I moved with it. I was next – finally. I watched as Sidney Lopez made eye contact with the woman on the other side of the table from her and said something to her. Sidney was beautiful. A goddess in my eyes and the eyes of millions of others. I’d been in love with Sidney since we were kids, but she just didn’t know it – yet. She brushed her long chestnut-coloured hair back with her hand and smiled at the woman before signing her name to the poster the woman had presented her with.
Come on, come on, come on. The woman in the Star Trek costume at Sidney’s table was a chatty one. She just would not shut up. Come on lady, there’s a hundred people behind you. No exaggeration, there were at least a hundred peop
le behind me waiting for a minute with her. Finally she stopped talking, shook hands with Sidney and moved aside so I could step up to the table. Quickly I passed fifty bucks to Sidney’s male assistant/bodyguard – whatever he was – sitting next to her and shuffled over to Sidney without giving him a second glance.
“Hey there.” Sidney gave me a wide smile as her gaze locked with mine.
For a moment I was tongue-tied, like I always was around her. What a joke I was. I’m a hit man who can snap a man’s neck without a second thought, but when in front of Sidney I become a blabbering teenager. I wish she didn’t have this hold over me. She was the only one in the world who made me feel this way and I was helpless to it. She was my Lois Lane and kryptonite all rolled up into one beautiful package.
Sidney nodded to the single red rose in my hand. “That for me?” Her smile widened.
She snapped me out of my trance and I passed the rose to her. “Yeah, it is.” She immediately brought it to her nose and inhaled deeply. I knew giving celebrities presents usually ended with them going to a nursing home or shelter, but I always felt the need to give her something. She’d given me so much without knowing it that it felt like it was the least I could do. I also slid a head shot of her towards her. It was a stunning black and white photo for her to autograph.
“So who do I make it out to?” she asked, setting the rose down onto the table next to her and picking up a silver marker.
“Elijah.”
“Elijah, I really love that name,” she said, looking back up and smiling at me again before continuing to sign her message. She said that every time I had her sign something for me.
“Thanks.”
“Are you enjoying the con?”
“I’m just here for you.”
She looked up again, putting the cap back on the marker. “That’s so sweet.” She cocked her head and eyed me a minute. I wondered if this was the time she’d finally remember me. “I appreciate you saying that. Have a great weekend, Elijah.” She extended her hand to me and I accepted it. Her hand was so tiny and delicate in mine and as we shook hands, the simple contact sent a rush of heat through me. But then it was over and her attention was being directed towards a teenaged girl behind me in line.
Walking away I looked down at the photo. It read To Elijah, lots of love. Sidney Lopez. xoxo. I had dozens of these now, all carefully put away in an album.
~*~*~*~
Sidney
“This way Miss Lopez.” One of the convention staff led me into a curtained corridor away from the convention-goers that led to the photo-ops area. I both loved and hated the photo ops. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated that people would actually pay money to have their photo taken with me, it was a terrific ego boost. But here’s the thing, when people spend hours in jam-packed convention centers, many people in plastic costumes, they can sometimes get stinky. And having to keep a smile pasted on my lips and pretending I didn’t notice the massive BO could at times be challenging, even for the best of actors. There was also the fact that some men – and women for that matter – got very hands-on. I’d lost count of the amount of times someone had accidentally touched my breast or grabbed my ass. I was an actress not a prostitute!
“Right in here, Miss Lopez.” The staff member directed me to a photo booth, which was a curtained-off area roughly 10 x 12 feet in size, where a photographer was already set up and waiting along with two bodyguards, one posted by the entrance to the photo booth and one in the opposite corner of me.
“Thank you.” I gave the convention worker a smile of gratitude. The staff and volunteers at these conventions were severely overworked. I really felt bad for them at times, especially when attendees started blaming them for things that were beyond their control. But, it was only for two days and then it was over and on to the next one.
“Are you ready for us to start bringing people in?” the security by the entrance asked.
I pasted a smile on my face, a smile that would be stuck there for close to an hour until my face hurt from holding it like that for so long, while hundreds of people came and went, and nodded. “Sure am. Let’s get this done.”
And so it began. Person after person was brought in, like an assembly line. Woman, men, kids, elderly, a vast variety of people. In. Smile. Flash. Goodbye. Out. Next. Less than thirty seconds per person.
But then he appeared. You have to understand that I usually do three conventions a month. I sign thousands of autographs and take just as many pictures with people all around the country. It’s impossible to remember everyone, especially considering how quickly people are pushed through. But the man who was walking towards me seemed familiar. I just couldn’t place him. I vaguely remembered him from signing an autograph earlier, he’d given me the rose – his name was… Elijah. But, I don’t know, he seemed familiar. Maybe previous conventions? I shrugged it off. If I knew him personally surely he would have said so. If I had a quarter for every time I heard, do you remember me from, blah, blah, blah… I could retire.
He was handsome. Very handsome and tall, maybe six or seven inches taller than my 5’8. He could easily be a celebrity heartthrob. I could actually picture him on the cover of a magazine. The only thing marring his handsome face was a two-inch scar along his jaw, but in a way the scar gave him an air of mystery and danger. It was very attractive to me. He was wearing a grey turtleneck sweater and faded blue jeans, all hugging his athletic build. His gait was strong and determined, but when his eyes locked to mine there was insecurity – just like there had been at the autograph table. Not that that look was unusual for convention-goers, many people were nervous around me, but it wasn’t something I would expect from someone like him.
“Hey again.” I flashed him a wide smile and when he got within reaching distance I stepped up to him and gave him a hug. I usually don’t initiate hugs with men. Usually I try to limit hugs to children and the odd elderly person who may pass through, but it seemed like the right thing to do and I kinda wanted to find out what it would be like to be held by him. I’m not sure why, but I did.
“How are you?” He held me tight to him a moment longer than necessary and released me, not even trying to touch me in an inappropriate nature. Normally I’d do a standard side-by-side picture with my arm around his back, but decided to try something different.
“Good.” I took a step back and surveyed him, pulling my lower lip between my teeth as I considered. He returned my stare, but not saying anything. I could see my scrutiny was making him uneasy though. “Wanna try something different?”
A smile spread across his lips. “Sure. What do you have in mind?”
“Pick me up.” I walked over to him and waited for him to do as instructed. He gave me an unsure look. I laughed at his hesitation. “Come on. We have to make this picture a good one right?”
“Sure, of course.” He laughed with me, his eyes lighting up as he shook his head, bent and effortlessly lifted me into his arms. I let out a little squeal and wrapped my arms around his neck. It felt nice in his arms. He held me securely, almost possessively. Yes, it was definitely a nice feeling being held tight to him.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” he confirmed, turning his attention to the camera and smiling. I took a second to appreciate his handsome features. Being an actor and living in L.A. beautiful people were a dime a dozen, but he had a little something extra. I couldn’t explain it. Maybe it was the shyness he had around me, it was kind of endearing.
As soon as my head turned and I looked at the camera, smiling, the flash went off and I was being set back onto the floor and he was stepping away from me. “Have a good weekend, Elijah,” I said, giving him a wave just as he was about to turn to leave.
He nodded. “You too Sidney.”
And then he was gone and the next person was standing next to me.
Say hi. Smile. Flash. Goodbye. Do it all over again. Elijah became a distant memory.
Chapter 2
Elijah
“Lookin
g for a good time, baby?” I groaned inwardly as I heard the voice behind me as I stepped out of my car in the parking lot of my apartment building. While I had a huge home in L.A., Santa Monica to be exact, when living in New York I rented a two-bedroom in Brooklyn.
“Come on, Tina. Are you so fucked up right now you don’t even recognize me?” I turned and faced the prostitute who worked this area, who also happened to rent the apartment two doors down from me.
Her blue eyes narrowed at me and then recognition dawned in her eyes. “Elijah, you’re back.” She gave me a quick hug and stepped back smiling.
I grabbed her arms and flipped them over. Sure enough. Track marks. “And you were supposed to be going to rehab. You were supposed to be clean by the time I got back.”
She snatched her arms from me and crossed them over her body, hugging herself. “I didn’t like it there. They all sucked.”
“And Christopher? Where’s your kid right now, Tina?” He was supposed to be going to live with his grandmother until his mother got herself cleaned up. It was the deal I’d made with her before I flew back to L.A. for the past month. If she got cleaned up and had her six-year-old living with his grandmother until she was sober I wouldn’t call child protective services on her. I suspected she had reneged on her part of the deal and the kid was by himself in the apartment while she worked the streets.
She shrugged looking down at the ground between our feet.
“Tina. I want the truth. Where’s your kid?”
“At the apartment.” When a scowl formed on my lips she quickly added, “He’s sleeping. He’s okay.”
I gave my head a shake. I had no idea what to do about her. She was hardly my responsibility and God knew my life would be a hell of a lot easier if I just minded my own business, but I couldn’t. Not when there was a child, alone, waiting for his drug-addict mother to come home.
