by Liv Bennett
When he gets out of the car to switch seats with me, I follow suit, hoping he’ll stop me to steal another kiss. He doesn’t. I do my best to hide my disappointment as I settle back in the passenger seat.
On the way back, Austin puts up-tempo yet melancholic Latin tunes on the car’s stereo and hums along to some of the songs. I close my eyes and listen to the lovely rhythm of his voice. If he also plays the guitar, I’m toast!
Ch 8
A Facebook Stalker
It’s a battle to keep my eyes open and my yawns to myself on the ride back to the hotel. It’s past midnight, and I have a one-hour taxing workout session and a ten-hour workday behind me. I’ll be lucky if I can actually make it to my bed without falling asleep on the floor.
Austin, on the other hand, looks like he just woke up from a rejuvenating sleep and is ready to conquer the world. His eyes are alert and bright every time he flicks them over to me, his moves smooth.
The only thing that’s keeping me from sleeping are his random touches, a pat on my knee here, a finger brush on my cheek there. It’s as if he can’t keep his hands off me. My cheeks are in a constant blush because of him.
When he pulls up in the parking lot of the hotel and gets out of his car to open my door and walk me into the hotel, I feel my heart slamming against my chest.
Does he expect me to invite him to my room? Should I even? Will he lose interest if I don’t?
I don’t even remember how I left the room. It was definitely untidy—which may be a pet peeve for him—and Tara’s journal may be out and open, or a photo of Ruby might be on the floor. For all I know, Tara will make a midnight call.
He may find out why I moved to Boulder, not for a change of the scenery but to discover the real reason behind my sister’s death.
As we approach the door, I notice that the reception area is totally empty, not a single guest or employee in sight. I let out a yawn as we enter the hotel, letting him know how bone-tired I am. It comes out louder and longer than I intended and makes him laugh.
“You look like you’re ready for sleep.” He turns to me in the middle of the lobby and lifts his arms, taking my face in his big hands. His hold is possessive, natural, loving. I reach for his wrists and circle my fingers around them, trying not to avert my eyes from his deep gaze.
“Thanks for coming out with me tonight. I know you’ve been tired.” He leans closer and closer to me until our noses touch, sending my heartbeats into a frantic rush.
I smile and quickly lick my lips, making myself ready for the delicious mouth I’ve been longing for since our first kiss. “It was incredible. Thanks for—” His lips stop me mid-sentence, his mouth taking mine, swallowing my words.
His tongue isn’t gentle or exploring like in our first kiss but a dominant force, devouring and claiming. I moan into his mouth, savoring his taste, his desire.
Our kiss is long and intimate. My hands leave his wrists and move along the rippling muscles of his forearm and biceps up to his wide shoulders. He can’t get enough of me, just as I can’t of him.
Heat pools in my belly, scorching, bewildering. I want his hands on my breasts, around my waist, between my legs. I want to wrap my legs around his hips and grind against him. I want to touch him there and see him shudder. I’ve never had such thirst for a man, such pull.
I don’t care about being discovered or tired. I need him in my room, in my bed, naked.
The hold of his lips softens, and slowly he lets go of my mouth, pressing our foreheads together and staring into my eyes with longing. “I guess that’s good night.”
I feel my heart split in two. “Okay.” Wait, should I have said no?
He leaves a peck on my nose before releasing me. With that trademark wink of his, he turns around and heads for the exit, leaving me cold and hot at the same time watching after him.
I approach the front desk and ring the bell to alert the receptionist. A young man, possibly a teenager in an oversized jacket walks out of the office and greets me with a tired smile. “Hello, how can I help you?”
“I’m Ashley Elwood from room 315. Are there any messages for me?”
He goes through small squares of papers in a box before returning to me with a beam on his face. “Yes, indeed, from a Tara Evans.” He hands me the note and wishes me good night as I leave.
Your new phone will arrive early tomorrow. Hopefully, it’ll get you to keep us posted regularly.
I smirk at Tara’s message. If she thinks I’ll be at her beck and call just because she bought me an iPhone, she has a major letdown coming. I’ll report what’s necessary at convenient times. That’s all.
Ripping the note in two, I throw it in a recycle bin and hop on the elevator. The room is messier than I remember, clothes all over the floor, comforter hanging down the edges of the bed, but the journal is safe in the closed suitcase. I should tidy up for Austin’s next visit to the hotel, but right now, I only have enough energy to take off my clothes and boots.
I fall on the bed like a tower collapsing from an earthquake and wake up the next day a little after eight with a knock on the door. “A package for you, Miss Elwood.”
I nearly trip over while running with my eyes half closed to the door. I listen for the footsteps before opening the door, positioning my naked body behind it. The package is lying on the floor without anyone else in sight. I grab it and place it on the table before heading to the bathroom for a shower.
After my shower, I’m wide awake and rip open the package, feeling an instant disappointment at the sight of the phone. A Samsung when I clearly asked for an iPhone? It’s not even the latest model. I shouldn’t be surprised at Tara’s stinginess when it comes to me. I hook up my SIM card and start charging the phone before connecting it to the hotel’s WIFI.
I can finally start my detective work on Austin.
His Facebook page is set to private, his posts aren’t visible to the public, but the profile photo of him with a heart-stopping grin jolts me, and the memories of last night rush back to me. My hand flies to my lips, the taste of him still fresh.
My eyes pop when I check his friend’s list that’s thankfully not private. He’s connected to over four thousand nine hundred people. He wasn’t joking about wanting to be in a place where no one knows him. To my absolute dismay, the majority of his friends are women.
I search for Lena’s name and find her profile on Austin’s friend’s list. Her profile photo is of her in a bikini lying on a lounge chair on the beach while sucking a lollipop and could easily inspire a contest for the ultimate slutty caption award. She has about a hundred more profile photos, each with an alarming degree of nudity. Thank God Facebook doesn’t allow full nudes. That’s probably the only thing stopping Lena from going full frontal.
Another pang of jealousy hits me when I notice Austin liked some of those embarrassing photos.
Do they have a history?
I shouldn’t care. I’m not in Boulder to hunt for a boyfriend.
Surprise, surprise, I also find Fran on Austin’s friends list. Her profile photos are PG-rated, and the others are mostly views from the trails she hiked. She’s an outdoorsy type with not much else going on in her life according to her profile.
Erin’s profile makes me laugh with a picture of her reading a textbook while wearing her reading glasses. She has posts about political news, science, and technology and has her own blog where she reviews the sci-fi books she’s read. I scroll through the titles she’s read and find a few of my own favorites listed there, including my all-time favorite, The Gods Themselves by Isaac Asimov.
When my stomach starts growling, I leave the phone to charge and go through my suitcase for a pair of black jeans and a blue blouse.
The cardigan I borrowed from Austin last night is lying on the floor and the stink coming from my gym clothes from yesterday makes me gag. Hanging the cardigan neatly in the closet, I collect the dirty clothes in a plastic laundry bag, tie it tightly, and hide it in the closet just in case Aus
tin wants to come up to my room tonight.
Grabbing my phone, jacket, and purse, I forego the Do Not Disturb sign so I can get the room cleaned.
It’s only a few minutes before ten a.m., the end of breakfast time. I pile up pancakes on my plate and pour myself a cup of coffee with half and half. My internet search continues as I mindlessly binge on pancakes. My eyes take frequent breaks from my screen with glances at the entrance to check if a certain someone is going to surprise me today too.
Maybe he’ll show up at the restaurant!
God, I love my optimism.
I pop a big slice of pancake into my mouth. Nothing like carbs to put things in perspective. My focus returns to my online investigation. But, when I take a sip from the coffee—remembering the exact moment I had Austin’s mouth on mine—a keen sense of longing washes over me. It’s disarming. I can’t push back my need for him anymore. I already miss him.
I push the cup of coffee away to be able to continue with my search. I should investigate Max to see if there might be a connection between him and Ruby. I should but I can’t. The urge to find out more about Austin is too overwhelming. I’ve become addicted to him in just three short days.
I google his hamburger joint business that went bankrupt. The keywords Austin Knight Hamburgers don’t get me anywhere; neither does closed-down hamburger joints in Boulder.
On the other hand, his father’s name is everywhere. Stanley Knight is indeed a successful business guru, having companies in real estate, technology, investment, and construction fields. It’s as if everything he touched turned to gold. And, now he’s going for the town mayoralty, using his immense business success as his motto.
At last, I type Max Bruno into the search box, my fingers reluctant. He’s not as massively popular as Austin (no surprise there) nor does he have thirsty followers drooling all over his profile like Lena.
His friends list is modest with about five hundred people, and his profile photos are of him with some Hollywood celebrities and political figures. If I hadn’t experienced his disgusting ogles in person, I’d have pegged him for an ordinary, harmless dude with a deep liking for famous people.
Memories of the moments with Austin yesterday morning flood my mind when I check the time. It’s only nine-thirty. I let out a sigh of longing. I won’t have to hurry to be on time at work, but I don’t have Austin to drive to work with, either. His hold on me isn’t healthy.
I shake my head to resume my focus and grab my purse and jacket before heading to the hotel’s business center. Firing up the internet browser on the computer, I log into the Boulder County Sheriff’s website and print out the form to request the police record of my sister’s suicide.
When my father and Tara found out about Ruby’s death, they only got the preliminary report from the attending officer. While at that time they thought it should be sufficient, an official report may have details they may have missed or misunderstood in the midst of their trauma.
Unfortunately, I have to submit the filled-out form in person, as they don’t accept online applications. I fill it out by hand, not trusting the computer to be secure. Identity theft is real, and this computer looks about as secure as a house with an open door.
The sheriff’s office is ten minutes away, and no one is waiting in line for record requests. A middle-aged woman with raven-black hair greets me with a warm smile and puts on her reading glasses as she takes my form and my driver’s license.
She reviews my form silently then moves to her computer to type the information from the form into the system. Her eyebrows pull together at the end of her typing, and her eyes flick back and forth between my form and the computer. “The person named on the form you submitted doesn’t seem to be registered in our system.”
I wince inwardly. At least, she doesn’t outright reject my inquiry and call out for the next person. The best way to go about this is to give her more information on the case. “It should be in the system. It’s about my sister, who was found dead in her apartment on Pennsylvania Avenue two weeks ago. Officer Ronald Murphy was there to investigate and contacted my father afterward to inform him about the case.”
Her frown deepens as she types some more. “We don’t have anyone named Ronald Murphy on our team.”
“Oh, but there must be a mistake. My father talked with him. The incident happened on Pennsylvania Avenue in Boulder, which is under your jurisdiction.”
“Yes, it is. What was the reason for your sister’s death?”
“Suicide.”
She types and turns the screen toward me. “Here are the latest cases with suicide listed as the cause of death.” She lifts her finger to the top of the screen and descends it along with the list, coming to a halt on the last case. “It seems the last case involving a suicide is from September 2016—a Natasha Royal. I assume that’s not your sister.”
“No. My sister’s name was Ruby Evans.” I point to her name on the inquiry form.
She nods, pondering for a moment, her eyes on the screen before turning them to me. “What’s the date of death on the death certificate?”
“I haven’t seen the death certificate, but she died on October 2nd, 2017.”
She types again, without a single glance at the keyboard, and then turns to me with a shake of her head. “Unfortunately, there’s no death case registered in the system for October.”
“Is there another incident registered for that date?” I ask.
“DUI, cruelty to animals, shoplifting, marijuana possession (more than six ounces), forgery, and theft.”
None of them sounds even remotely relevant to my sister’s death. “Can there be a delay in reporting?”
“Yes, but only a couple of days, one week, tops.”
Running out of options, I feel helpless, like I’m going around in a circle with no way out. “But, she died here in Boulder. There has to be information about her death in your system.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you further. I’m only responsible for data inquiries. Would you like to talk to the sheriff? I can set up an appointment for you for tomorrow.”
“Yes, please.”
“What time works best for you?”
“Any time before 10 am,” I say, disappointed for not getting anything out of my inquiry.
She schedules me for nine thirty the next day and asks if I need anything else.
“Yes. Can I please get the report for Natasha Royal? The last case of suicide in the system. I’ve already paid for a police report. I might as well get a police report, even though it’s not my sister’s.”
She types something and immediately the printer behind her starts coughing up some papers. Her eyes watch me intently as she hands me the report that’ll likely get me nowhere. Still trying to wrap my head around the fact that my sister’s death is nowhere in police records and that there is no record of Officer Murphy, I thank her, fold the two-page report, and shove it in my purse to read in the evening when I have time.
The clock on my new Samsung shows fifteen before eleven, and the restaurant is on the other side of the town. It’s not exactly a big distance, only four miles but the traffic in downtown Boulder can easily double the time required to drive it.
On my way to my car, I dial my father. He picks on the first ring. “Hi, Dad.”
It’s Tara who answers. I should have known as my father usually takes his sweet time to put on his glasses and read the caller ID. “Hi, sweetie.”
Sweetie? Really? Now she calls me sweetie? “Hi, Tara, is Dad there?”
“He’s in the bathroom. You can tell me what you wanted to talk about.”
She’s probably lying. She must have stolen his phone to get my phone call right away to have first-hand access to any information I might have. I sigh. “I really should talk to him. I’ll call later.”
“Wait. Don’t hang up just yet. Whatever it is, you can tell me. Please.” She’s never been one to give up easily.
Running out of time, I quickly give her the
rundown of my police report inquiry and start the engine of my car.
Ch 9
Where Is My Money?
Despite the lack of time, as soon as I park, I pull out the report of the last suicide in the county before my sister’s and skim it for any similarities.
The report is full of details about how Natasha Royal was found, but basically, she was twenty-seven when she overdosed on Fentanyl with the intent to kill herself. Close friends and family claimed not noticing any suicidal tendencies. I sigh in disappointment as I shove the report back into my purse.
I don’t know what I was expecting to find out in her report. Both Natasha and Ruby were young girls whose suicides shocked their friends and family. The similarities seem to end there.
Even if there were more similarities that’d make me believe they were linked, the one-year gap between the two incidents would change my mind.
So much for my detective work.
I make it to the restaurant again at the very last minute, all the while, my eyes searching the streets on my way for Austin. My shoulders sag when I arrive at the restaurant’s door without sight of him.
My phone buzzes in my hand with an incoming call from my father the moment I take my place behind the front desk, exactly when Max chooses to strike up a conversation with me.
He stretches his arms out on the desk, his hands laced together just inches away from my boobs. His eyes are puffy, and his voice is groggy when he says “Hey, Ashley, are you settling in ok?” At least, he doesn’t smell of alcohol, which must be running in abundance in his veins right now.
As much as every fiber in my body wants me to step back to put a safe distance between us, I stay put where I am, while casually keeping my hand with the phone behind me and give Max a bright smile. “Everything is great! I love it here. Great colleagues, great work environment.” If I say great one more time, I’m going to puke.