“Needless to say… I got angry. Real angry. I shut myself off. I poured myself into school, sports, painting… everything… so that I could avoid these strangers that I had once called ‘parents.’
“And in my own way, I rebelled. Before, I was in love with my camera; now, I was obsessed with it. I took secret photos of the neighbors, capturing their deepest and darkest moments.
“I placed my lens in their windows, catching infidelity… abuse… crime. Until one day, I caught a neighbor undressing. I was mesmerized.
“The camera was like my little filter: a wall separating me and the object of the photo. As long as I was taking the picture behind a viewfinder, I could pretend it wasn’t really me. That it wasn’t me that was spying. That it wasn’t me that was snooping. That it was the camera.
“I wanted to expose my neighbors. I wanted to unveil their secrets… the way that mine had been uncovered. It wasn’t fair that my life be laid open for everyone to see from a photograph. It was only right that theirs suffer the same fate.
“And I was a hormonal teenager on top of it. Two years went by… while I spied on my neighbors. The sexual twist took place when I passed fourteen. I would forego relationships with actual girls so that I could continue to get my kicks through my photography.
“I’d go from house to house, searching for a hint of bare skin, just a flash… of naked flesh. I was sick.
“Finally, my parents caught me. Dragged me into therapy for months. I got better. Let go of my defiant craze.
“I put the camera down and picked the paintbrush back up. We became a stronger family because of it.”
He stopped at that moment, removing his hands from underneath his head and running them down his face.
He dropped them at his sides onto the bed, no longer moving.
Saturday’s heart quickened pace, but she asked the question she’d been waiting for.
“And your birth mother?” she inquired, her voice small and meek.
“Long gone,” he replied, keeping his eyes shut. “My mother and I went looking for her as I underwent therapy. She was young when she had me. She was still young when she came to see me. She still wasn’t ready to be a parent. A moment of guilt propelled her to my parent’s house, where she tried to give me a birthday present.”
“And now? Why has this come back to…?” She let the question trail off, unsure how to finish it.
He opened his eyes again, focusing them on her face. He sat up this time.
He bowed his head for a second, and then raised it to look straight at Saturday.
“About two years ago, I picked up a camera again. I was having fun again, exploring that side of me that I had abandoned so long ago. But I was afraid… afraid that I hadn’t abandoned it all. Not the bad parts, at least.
“I avoided romantic relationships while I rediscovered my artistic license, but I just… didn’t want the blotches of the past to bleed into my current existence.
“I was still terrified. Terrified that the damage would return. Or maybe I was even more afraid that I might never have been fixed in the first place.
“When I met you…” he narrowed his eyes. “Given the way that I met you… I almost didn’t trust myself. My guilt was reawakening demons that weren’t even there to begin with anymore. I struggled with whether or not to…” He grit his teeth, hiding his eyes.
She touched the shadow of a beard on his face, lifting his jaw to face hers.
“To… what, Mark?”
“To let myself love you.” He shook his head slowly, raising a finger to trace her delicate jawline.
He let the extended hand drop.
“I was an idiot. I blamed my mother…my parents. After you and I met, I lashed out at them. Thinking that their secret about my adoption had created this… shell of a man… who couldn’t maintain a normal romance while expressing himself at the same time.
“So, I hid all parts of myself from you. And I suffered because of it… God, how I’ve suffered.”
They stared at each other for several long seconds with more tenderness than they ever knew that they were capable of giving.
Saturday glanced down at Mark’s full lips, wanting to kiss them.
She wanted to make love to him: she wanted to kiss and lick and caress away every bit of pain that sat in those beautiful green eyes of his.
But that was not what he needed.
He needed love; he needed intimacy.
She jumped off of the bed suddenly, walking toward the end of it where she reached out and tugged on his black shoes.
She removed them, placing them at the foot of the bed.
Next to go were his jeans, which she unzipped and shuffled off of him as he lay there glancing amusingly at her.
She slipped off her own shoes, sliding back into the bed where she reached down for the blankets and dragged them to cover them both.
“C’mere,” she beckoned to him, placing her arms under his to hold him tight.
She kissed the small scruff under his jaw and nestled herself under his neck, inhaling deeply.
They went to sleep then, wrapped up in each other’s arms, chasing each other’s pain away with their love.
***
The next morning, Mark was gone.
Saturday had rolled over lazily in the bed before realizing that she had the entire expanse to herself.
Upon feeling the empty side of the bed, she jumped up frantically, thudding her way into the tiny hallway.
When she reached the living room, the sizzle of cooking eggs caught her off-guard.
Mark was in his boxers in that same cream shirt, flipping eggs on the stove in a black skillet.
He turned his head when she came in, winking coquettishly at her, before spinning back to the pan.
She had no dining room in which to sit, so she made a beeline for the edge of the loveseat where she plopped down in relief, watching Mark fry breakfast for the two of them.
When he finished with the eggs (and toast!), he sat a plate of food in her hands before picking up his own.
She grinned widely at him, feeling so contented: so comforted that he was still here.
“You? You actually cook?” she joked.
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call over-medium eggs and toast cooking, but yes, I can feed myself,” he said, smirking knowingly in her direction.
They ate in silence for two minutes before an envelope was slipped under Saturday’s front door.
Upon noticing the white packet, Mark placed his plate on the counter and walked slowly over to the door, bending over to pick the pouch up off of the ground.
He opened the envelope, removing a slender white page.
Curiosity caused Saturday’s eyes to narrow at Mark’s back, but she didn’t have the leverage to see over his shoulder.
The longer he stood there, the more anxious she became.
What’s he looking at?
“What is it?” she asked, lifting her head to steal a peek.
Without warning, Mark hurled the envelope to the floor, unlocked the front door and jetted unexpectedly out into the hallway, his head snapping back and forth rapidly, as he stared down either side of the outside hall.
Pausing for a split second, he spun and made a break down the right end of the passageway, the muffled sound of his tread fading rapidly as he ran.
Saturday shot to her feet at his reaction, knocking over the breakfast plate in her lap.
Yolk and butter went spewing everywhere as she sped toward the doorway, peering around its edge in search of Mark.
He was gone. He was almost impossibly fast; he had already made his way to one of the building’s staircases.
She’d never seen him so panicked.
She gripped the scattered pieces of the delivery from the floor, skimming the note that came along with it.
I guess you don’t appreciate a good thing when it’s staring you in the face.
I had hoped that you would come to your senses…but I
see that you haven’t. Now we’re going to do things my way.
Trust me. This is for the best, baby. I love you.
Dizziness fell over Saturday suddenly, leaving her short of breath: almost wheezing. Air was now rushing in and out of her nose in quick, frenzied spurts.
She was almost positive that she was having a small anxiety attack.
This had been her most disturbing delivery yet.
The messages had been warped from day one, but this declaration of love?
This was new… and all the more terrifying.
People in love did crazy things.
And she should know. She had been one of them.
In love, she did things, accepted things that her rational mind would have never allowed.
But if I hadn’t been such a “fool,” I would have never found my way back to Mark…and I would have continued believing that he was behind all of the gifts, all of those letters.
And furthermore…I was wrong to call the author of these messages “a person in love.” This is a person obsessed… and there’s a huge difference.
Whoever was writing these letters did not have a grip on reality… and it showed.
Who was this person? Why was he so fixated on Saturday? What did he want from her?
By the time these thoughts had run themselves ragged through the hamster wheel in her head, Mark was reappearing in the doorway, his brow sweaty and his face flushed.
“I don’t know where they are,” he huffed heavily. “But they’re gone.”
He pointed wearily at the note.
“That letter wasn’t delivered by any mail carrier, Daisy. That was hand-delivered. Somebody just dropped that off themselves.”
Chapter Ten
Darkest before Dawn
The taxi ride back to the airport was shockingly short.
Or maybe Saturday was just way too excited to get there.
She had known, after stepping out of her last airport terminal from her trip to Washington, that if she saw another commercial jet plane, it would be too soon.
But at least the reason behind this airport visit was a happy one.
Kara was returning home: back into the city after an extended fashion assignment that had dragged her from the streets of New York and into the heart of L.A.
The day after the last note had been delivered to Saturday’s door, Kara had called, excited and out of breath.
“Daze!” she had exclaimed. “I’m back!”
“What do you mean, you’re back?” Saturday responded.
“I meaaaan…I. Am. Back. I’m coming home. Back to New York.”
Saturday nearly fell out of her seat.
“Like, ‘back back’? So soon? What happened?”
“My part in the project was cut a little short. They thought that they might need me for the last couple of photo shoots, but it turns out that things were running smoother than expected, so the head creative director stayed… and now I’m on way back to reality!”
Saturday laughed.
“The city is not what I would call reality, Kara.”
“Oh, but it is!” she replied. “My reality!”
Saturday chuckled but the sound was hollow then.
Her own reality in the city had been dreary because of this… stalker, and she was beginning to feel uncomfortable in the only city she had really grown to love in her twenty-five, short years.
“Listen, Kara… things have been… weird for me back here. I’ve gotta tell you something...”
“You do? What’s going on? Wait, hold on… Shit! My boss is calling me. I’m supposed to return these dresses to the shoot before I leave. Let’s talk when I get back, Daze. I’m here for you, babe. Don’t worry!”
That was two days ago, and now Saturday was traveling to the airport during her gallery shift, preparing to escort Kara back onto the familiar little island that they called home.
Mark had given her the cab fare, and even if he hadn’t, she’d had a little extra “change” in her pocket from Clairvoyage, courtesy of Vicky DeLuca.
After that night at the gallery with Cristiano, Vicky had apologized profusely to Saturday every time she saw her face.
Vicky had blamed herself personally for putting Saturday in danger, and she was doing whatever she could to make it up to Saturday.
She had begun the process of submitting a restraining order against Cristiano from her place of business and to add the cherry on top of that… she was divorcing the filthy sleaze.
And although she had money for the taxi to the airport, Vicky had still forced actual dollar bills into Saturday’s hand for her transportation costs, threatening her with physical violence if she refused.
And after seeing what Vicky had done to Cristiano, Saturday decided that she wanted noo parts of Vicky’s wrath.
When the cab finally made it to the airport, Saturday hopped out eagerly, trotting all the way to the baggage claim until she was able to stand by Kara’s respective carousel.
When she spotted a blonde head bobbing up and down between the throngs of sullen travelers, she rushed immediately towards the person, knowing that it was Kara.
She almost knocked the flaxen-haired figure over with a bear hug, clutching wildly and affectionately for the curvaceous blonde sprite before the girl could say two words.
She clung to the fair-haired woman for several long, silent seconds before realizing that she never got an actual look at the lady’s face.
She pulled back, thinking she had grabbed the wrong person, when a huge smile broke out on the woman’s face.
Kara’s smile.
Saturday sighed in relief, stepping back and smacking the arm of her now laughing friend.
“Jeez, Kara, you were so silent I almost thought that I was hugging the wrong person!”
“Serves you right!” the blonde answered on a giggle. “I could have been a stranger!”
“No, you couldn’t,” Saturday declared. “I know you. I could’ve spotted you from a mile away.”
Kara’s face radiated with giddiness.
“Come on,” Saturday motioned to Kara. “Let’s get out of here. I’m sick of the sounds of jets.”
***
The first place they headed after the airport was Kara’s apartment. It wasn’t much bigger than Saturday’s, but it was in Manhattan, and it was decorated a hell of a lot better with much nicer amenities.
When they walked in, they dropped Kara’s suitcases simultaneously, stretching their tired muscles from the long haul of purses and bags and carry-ons that Kara had always insisted upon bringing.
Kara placed her primary pocketbook on the kitchen counter.
She walked over to the red sectional couch in her living room, removing her white sweater as she strolled and sitting it on the back of the seat.
“I need a shower,” she drawled. “That was the longest flight of my life.”
She continued disrobing, climbing out of her jeans and white tank-top until she stood nearly stark naked in the living area, with nothing but a thin strip of underwear to separate Saturday from seeing everything on which the sun never shone.
Saturday was sort of shocked by the unashamed act (she had never seen Kara this way), but she played it cool while Kara sauntered all the way to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
Soon after, Saturday heard the shower running behind the closed space.
She picked up the phone to call Mark, letting him know that they had arrived safely back at Kara’s.
It was dark outside now, the evening sun now a distant memory when they finally arrived back at the apartment.
The phone rang only twice before Mark picked up.
“Hi,” he stated plainly.
“Hi, yourself,” she responded, smiling shyly at the sound of his voice.
“We’re home,” she confirmed.
“Good. I’m guessing Kara’s happy to be back.”
“Happy isn’t the word. She’s ecstatic.”
“Yeah, I c
ould see that. You told me about how depressed L.A. made her. I don’t really understand it; I really like L.A. but…then again, I really don’t know Kara all that well so…”
Saturday leaned against the kitchen counter, switching the phone to her other hand.
“You mean you didn’t get a chance to get to know her… not even a little bit after all those times you guys ran into each other at James’s place?”
Mark paused on the phone, taking longer to answer than was necessary.
“All what times?” he asked.
“You know what I meaaan…” she said, drawing out the words. She placed her elbow further back on the counter, knocking over Kara’s big black purse. The contents went scattering and clattering all over the tiled floor.
SHIT.
She picked up the objects one-by-one, placing them carefully back in the bag.
Lipstick. Mascara. Wallet. Keys.
Her fingers hesitated on one of the last items.
A journal.
It was beautiful; its exterior was made of weathered brown leather with a strap to hold the pages in place.
The strap wasn’t attached to keep the book closed, so the pages laid open, each sheet crinkly and creased from frequent use.
Saturday picked the diary up, deciding not to place it back in the bag, but back on the counter.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I got distracted. So, what was I saying?... Oh, yeah. I meant all those times that you saw each other at James’s apartment? When we split up? Well… when we split up the first time.”
She sat her elbow back on the counter near the journal, realizing that the brown notebook was still open.
Inquisitiveness (maybe more like nosiness) prompted her to take a peek at the entry on the showing page, and when she did, her blood ran ice cold.
Not a regular cold: a bone-chilling, frost-bite-inducing, thirty-degrees-below cold.
She mouthed the words as she read them.
My love. My passion for her. My Saturday.
A gasp escaped from her lips as Mark continued to speak.
“I’m confused, babe,” he started. “I never saw Kara while I was gone. I never even saw James. The only person I even talked to during that time was Dr. Walt… and my parents, on occasion.
Behind the Blindfold: A Sexy Mystery Duet Page 27