Packaged

by S. E. Hall

  20/80: Fuck, you really peg me for a psycho, don’t you? Smart girl.

  Spine painfully rigid, my fingers grasp so tight around the stem of my glass I’m waiting for it to shatter.

  I snap. Smart girl? Shit, shit, shit! No time to change his ID from 20/80 to 100% lunatic, I quickly type a reply.

  Me: Goodbye.

  20/80: You are a smart girl, Amelia. That’s not to scare you but an endearment. I’m not looking to bury you alive. That would be a new one for me. And not my thing. I enjoy watching a woman walking away on wobbly legs, thoroughly fucked.

  Now’s the time to block him, but instead I’m typing again.

  Me: Have you ever been arrested, called in for questioning in a murder and/or missing person’s case?

  10/90: No.

  Me: Ever hit a woman?

  10/90: Only when they begged for it. You like to be spanked?

  Me: Idk. Never tried it

  20/80: Gonna change that

  Me: Have you ever done speed dating?

  20/80: No

  Me: Gone into a naughty internet chat room, had phone and/or Skype sex?

  30/70: Yes

  Me: Yes to which?

  30/70: All the above.

  Me: Met a woman in person after meeting her on the internet?

  40/60: No. You?

  Me: NO. Definitely not. 100% hetero, but no to a man either ;)

  40/60: See-> Smart girl!

  Me: Yes, on the speed dating tho, once. Nightmare. And no on chat room! Ewww. I rarely use the internet except at work.

  40/60: My turn?

  Me: Why not

  40/60: Are you lonely?

  Me: You are NOT coming over. OMG, talk about one step forward, forty-five back!

  40/60: I meant in general, Amelia. Are you lonely?

  Did my “no dating because of high expectations and expected low results, thus reading of men who don’t exist” disclosure not answer this?

  Me: I think you know the answer to that one.

  40/60: Top 5 criteria for a man you’d give a chance?

  Me: Hmmm. 1. Meeting him in person. 2. Completely single, unattached with no crazy ex-wives or children. 3. No record. 4. Polite, a gentleman of sorts. I’m capable of opening my own car door, but remembering special dates would be nice. 5. No wandering eyes or other body parts. Absolute, unfailing monogamy and faithfulness. U?

  40/60: 1. Same. 2. Compatible sexually. 3. Moral, honest character. 4. Not high maintenance (which opening her car door every time is not) 5. Same.

  Me: Well, who knows, maybe one day you’ll man up and come say hi. In public tho please! Still not convinced you’re not gonna dispose of my body when you’re done with all those dirty things you’re supposedly planning. For now, I’m off to bed. HAGN.

  40/60: Perhaps. Pleasant dreams, Beauty.

  With the whole Friday off, I have grand plans to sleep the morning away. Of course, I toss and turn in bed, and though I will my body to take advantage of the chance to sleep in, I’m up by nine, just like the weekend.

  Lucy weaves in and out of my legs mewling like she’s starved, so I get her fed, managing not to trip, then fire up the coffee pot.

  What to do all day?

  Two cups of java, an indulgent shower and extra attention to my appearance later, I’ve decided to get out for a bit, already knowing full well where I’m headed.

  I pull up to the bookstore, lightheaded with excitement. For the first time ever, I have all day to peruse if I so choose! The bell chimes above the door as I enter, music to my ears, and I beeline for the fiction section. Finished reading the back of my new “coming home with me” selection, I scan the shelf some more, the name literally jumping off the spine and catching my eye. Marquis de Sade.

  Looking both ways, I pull Justine off the shelf. The cover’s a painting, obviously historical, and romantic…so I tuck it under my other book and move on quickly to the romance aisle.

  Easy choice here, knowing exactly what new release I’ve been wanting, but as I go to grab it, something warm tickles the back of my neck. I startle, jerking forward on instinct, and twirl around.

  “Amelia.” A young man is standing behind me, way to close, face serious and hard. He pushes his thick, black glasses up his nose. “Can I help you find something?”

  “Huh?” I ask, heart racing from the spooky approach. His leer darts to the bookshelf behind me. “Oh, no. I’m good.” I hold up the stack in my hand. “Three books is plenty for one day.” I offer a polite smile, an awkward bubble of laughter following it.

  The guy is barely my height and best guess late twenties. His hair is as dark as his eyes and trimmed in a buzz cut. He’s wearing camo pants and a black tee with matching army boots. He has the whole intimidating military thing down pat.

  “You smell good. What is that, lavender?” he asks as though it’s a completely casual question.

  “Uh, yeah. Supposed to calm nerves.”

  “Lotion or body wash?”

  Is this conversation really happening? I try to keep it casual and go along with it while moving in hurry to my retreat. “Both,” I reply, then step to the side, but he moves with me.

  Despite his grim features, his lip quirks up. “Very nice,” he says.

  My brows pinch as my smile fades. I lower my eyes to try my retreat in the opposite direction and notice he’s wearing a store lanyard around his neck with a name tag that says “Reid.” Okay, so at least he looks like a genuine employee, but not one I’ve met before.

  He just stands there, slowly pissing me off, when luck takes his side, saving him from meeting my inner bitch. The door chimes, signaling new customers. He looks that way and I slip past, stepping around him to rush to the counter.

  I can’t see him but can definitely feel his intense gaze on my back and hear his heavy footsteps following me to the front. I see the woman that had walked in grab a flyer from inside the door then walk back out, leaving us alone again. Reid moves around the counter and behind the register, holding his hand out for my books.

  “Are you new?” I ask, uncomfortable in the silence while feigning fascination by the impulse buys, strategically placed at checkout, as he rings me up.

  “No. My father owns the bookstore. I just cover a few shifts when he needs me. I work elsewhere full time.”

  “Oh, Walt’s your dad?” My body relaxes, feeling better. “He’s such a nice man. Is he here? I’d like to say hello.”

  “Nope, just me,” he glances around the desolate store, “and you. Interesting selection.” His head remains down, staring intently at my book, then gradually those dark eyes peer up at me as he holds Justine in his hand.

  “Yeah, um. Thought I’d check it out.”

  “It’s a…captivating read. A favorite of mine.”

  Oh, God! I laugh nervously and subtly reach to the letter openers displayed in front of the counter, a heavy metal one, gripping it instinctively.

  He scans the barcode, eyes glued to mine. “I’d recommend starting with—”

  “No, I’m good,” I interrupt, slapping the opener down on the counter. “I’ll take this too. So, what are you reading?” I shift, attempting to change the subject until I can get the hell out of here.

  “Nonfiction.” His smile, sneer; I can’t decide, spreads, as does my anxiety level. “A biography on Jack the Ripper. Fascinating. He was never caught. Perfectionist.”

  I swallow hard, pulse racing, forehead breaking into a sweat. This is the guy! “All right, well, t-tell your dad I said hi,” I stammer, tossing enough cash down and grabbing the bag he holds out to me.

  I clutch it tightly in front of my chest and reach in, gripping the letter opener concealed in the bag in case I need it when I turn my back to him. “Have a good day,” I say, unable to control the shake in my voice as I head to the door.

  “I look forward to hearing what you think of the Marquis. The man doesn’t hold back. As he shouldn’t.”

  I don’t reply in my haste out the door, jump
ing in my car and immediately locking the doors and retrieving my new letter opener from the bag with shaky hands.

  It’s him. The letters.

  It all adds up…he knew the Marquis, exactly which book he wanted me to read, my name…and he’s reading up on serial killers! Goosebumps rise on my clammy skin and it takes every ounce of resolve I have in me to make the drive home.

  I get inside my apartment as fast as possible, slamming the door and triggering all three locks as fast as I can, able now to take the first full deep breath in what seems like forever.

  At least now I know who it is, I try to console myself, unsurprised I’ve never noticed him at work, his obvious real full time job. He’s a creepy, abhorrently unattractive little man and he was right about one thing—approaching me would have gotten him nowhere.

  As a safeguard, I shoot a text to Mabry.

  Me: If anything happens to me, tell the police their top suspect is Reid from the bookstore on South Avenue.

  I feel a bit better. At least if he does kill me, he won’t follow in the unidentified footsteps of his friend The Ripper.

  Mabry: Um, wtf? Are you alright? Do I need to call, come over?

  Me: I’m fine, taking a bath and heading to bed. Just keep it in mind. Creepy dude at bookstore weirded me out is all.

  I bend down and scoop up Lucy my guard cat, who nuzzles her head in my neck. I’m heading toward the bathroom when my phone chimes in my hand. Expecting another response from Mabry, I glance at it casually, then drop Lucy from my suddenly cold hands.

  40/60: Enjoy your day off?

  What a fucking weirdo. You just saw me, you know how it was! Didn’t I tell him the mind games were tired? I shake my head at myself, reasoning over what amuses a psycho; I’m losing it.

  Me: Listen, I know who you are now, and while flattered, I’m just not interested. Not because of you, but my boyfriend and I just recently got very serious. In fact, he’s here now, so I have to go.

  There. He knows that I know who he is. I’ll be watching at work and I’ll very nicely, non-insultingly let him know there’s a big, huge, ready-to-kick-your-ass boyfriend in the picture. I lift my assured finger to block his number when it chimes again.

  40/60: No escape, Beauty

  Fuck you, little man.

  BLOCK.

  I wake up Saturday with a refreshed outlook. I know who my “admirer” is, thus an actual face to be on guard against, so I’m no longer second-guessing every shadow. He’s a peculiar little man, it turns out, with army boots and camo; a “tough” façade. I’m confident I could take him down, or at least inflict enough damage to afford myself time to run if need be. He can hide no more, I’m wide-eyed and aware of who I’m watching for.

  Still spa-day fancy and less jumpy than I’ve been in weeks, I get ready for the party with a confident, excited vigor and a glass of white wine. Taking great care to curl and put my hair up with gold pins, leaving a few ringlets framing my face, I apply exaggerated yet elegant makeup before donning my costume.

  Okay, so maybe the outfit appeared a bit more tame in the picture on the bag, but as the last of my chardonnay slides down my throat, I embrace it. Twirling in front of the mirror, I shamefully appreciate the way the royal blue corseted bodysuit perfectly kisses every curve, while the black netted leggings flawlessly compliment the getup.

  With much difficulty, I manage to attach the colorful fan of feathers directly above my butt, slip on gold high heels and strut a few practice prances. Pretty as a peacock.

  Shoulda waited to put the tail thing on—that was an interesting drive—but I make it, handing my keys over for valet parking.

  The approving perusal I earn from the handsome young valet only boosts my confidence, and I use the surge of empowerment to walk into the party with my chin and peacock tail held high.

  The scene inside is splendid, despite being somewhat chaotic and indecipherable. With so many in masks or shrouding costumes, I’m not positive who anyone is or isn’t.

  Not quite ready to freely mingle, I take a seat at an empty table littered with party favors and people watch. The room is a fascinating masquerade of bodies and colors, music and laughter.

  “This is for you.”

  I glance up as a waiter stands before me, offering a flute of what I assume to be champagne. “Thank you.” I smile as I accept it, taking a bubbly sip.

  “And this.” He hands me a folded white note.

  Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!

  My poised expression holds steady as I watch the waiter move back to the bar. I fan the letter in my hand anxiously, debating finding a trashcan. Might as well see what Micro Army Man has to say.

  Amelia,

  Interesting choice. The male peacock is biologically programmed to use his colorful covert to lure in his peahen, but once again you’ve managed to change what I thought I knew. Magnificently.

  Save me a dance, Beauty.

  -Yours

  My eyes dubiously search the room, but with all the disguises, the effort’s futile. He sees me, though. Well, watch this. I stand, striding confidently to the ficus in the corner and hold out my drink, hoping he’s within viewing distance as I water the fake tree with my possibly roofied beverage.

  Returning to my table, indignation radiating off me, I grab the attention of a different waiter and order my own stiff drink, tossing the balled up letter on his tray before he disappears into the crowd.

  I can’t help myself from scanning the room once more for any sign of my stalker, knowing I’ll come up blank. He’s here. A note written and delivered the second I walked in proves that much, and suddenly I’m not nearly as comfortable as I was on my trip here.

  “Amelia!” A scantily dressed cop, guilty of indecent exposure herself, scampers over to my table. “I’m so glad you came!” The officer is Ashley, the sexy pirate with his arm around her waist Dylan Porter, her fiancé.

  “Hey there. Wow.” I give her a blatant once over, then shift my gaze to her man. “Hi, Dylan. You guys looks amazing.”

  “We do, don’t we?” Ashley beams, leaning up to press a kiss against Dylan’s lips, quickly but definitely not chastely, then turns back to me.

  A bubble of laughter erupts as I watch Dylan swing her around in his arms until she crashes into his chest, attacking her lips. She feigns a struggle—it is a work function after all—but I catch the way her hands grip his shoulders before she finally breaks free, gasping for air.

  Thankfully, the waiter has perfect timing. I chug the champagne in a completely unladylike fashion, the jab of loneliness cutting deep.

  Ashley’s glued to Dylan’s side again, cheeks flushed red. “Sorry, my pirate’s a bit feisty tonight.” She leans forward and stage whispers, “Not that I mind.” She slaps a hand over her mouth, wide-eyed, apparently shocked at her boldness but alight with frenzied bliss. “I’m so inappropriate tonight. It’s the costume! Brings out another side of me.”

  “One I love, by the way,” Dylan chimes in, looking pleased as he sips his drink.

  “I’m happy for you both,” I say genuinely. “And great party. Gotta love an open bar.” I hold up my drink in salute and finish it off.

  “Then why are you just sitting here? Let’s dance!” She’s pulling me from my seat before I can politely refuse, shaking her leather-clad butt the whole way, handcuffs jangling on her belt.

  I actually really like this song, “Sweater Weather,” so I acknowledge the alcohol flowing through my bloodstream and cast aside all but the beat, “getting down” with my boss. It feels good to be all dressed up, laughing and cutting up to a great rhythm, surrounded by countless bodies who’d undoubtedly notice if a chloroformed rag was shoved over my mouth.

  Unfortunately, as I do a sexy spin, I meet the sight of Max dead on, sucking the filler out of the lips of a naughty nurse. How original. Guess that means there won’t be a second date…a quick chat about such woulda been nice.

  A vibration tickles my sternum and I giggle, not expecting it
. Ashley’s head snaps my way, staring with a raised brow as she booty pops with two other employees. Yeah, the minx has come out to play tonight. I pull my phone from my stash spot and swipe across the unlock screen only to be greeted by a text from an unknown number.

  I swallow, suddenly paralyzed when I open the message to find a picture of myself. My hands begin to tremble. He’s right behind me, too close. He snapped a shot of me dancing with my ass shaking his direction.

  Of course he got a different phone to text me from. Not surprising me in the slightest.

  My stomach lurches when another text pings to my phone.

  Unknown: I have plans for the night, Beauty. Get ready.

  With the fast song ending, I shove my phone away and force myself to spin around. Considering that the room is dark and most everyone is masked, I start looking at shoes. Army boots—would he wear them here? I rack my brain, searching for the visual of his build, more lanky then bulky. He was barely my height, so that rules out half the men in the crowd. His hair, look for that, I tell myself, fighting to squelch the panic.

  I need to leave. Maybe Dylan will walk me to my car. I’m in the middle of the dance floor, adrenaline surging, when I spot Ashley being carried out of the room in Dylan’s arms.

  So much for that idea.

  I could ask Max if he’s wasn’t dry humping Nurse Ratchet in the corner.

  I have to start socializing with my coworkers more often. Let this be a reminder. Out of all these people, I know very few. Mabry should be here, but I haven’t seen her yet, and she’s not exactly the best bodyguard. I make a mental note to stock up on mace then snatch another flute of champagne from a passing tray, fueling up on liquid courage. I head off the dance floor, eyes set on the ominous hall leading to the parking garage, when my path is blocked.

  “The honor?” A tall, broad shouldered man bows, then rises and offers his hand.

  His immense build is the complete opposite of my stalker, relieving a shred of panic. Maybe he can walk me out. For the first time since the creepy text I can breathe evenly.

  “Phantom of the Opera?” I blurt, unsure of his costume, all black, cape, and white mascre mask.