Page 81 of Triggered By Love
It had always felt safe and comfy, as if hearkening back to a time when a man’s handshake meant his word. When common decency was taken for granted. When heroes were heroes and villains twirled their Daliesque mustaches while gloating, “Muahahahahaha… Muahahahahahaha…”
Instead, here she was, post-Brando, in a state of suspended animation, pusillanimous, looking over her shoulder and indecisive whether to step forward or backward or cower under the covers in her bed and never wake up.
What was she doing waiting for the predatory cop who insisted in butting into her life? She shouldn’t subject herself to his kind of nosiness, especially since he didn’t care a whit about her feelings.
All he was concerned about was tracking down an unknown assailant—one he imagined was after her. Could all of these so-called attacks be coincidences?
Every person she’d come into contact with or knew was being made into a suspect. He was suspicious about Ivanna having a key to her place. He was probably suspicious of Damon too, as well as Chase and her family at this rate.
An old friend, Richie, wanting to meet her at The Manor was overblown by Jason into World War III. True, she shouldn’t have panicked and hidden behind the apple tree. Except she had no idea it was him because he changed cars so frequently.
She wasn’t going to get drawn into this.
There were innocent explanations to all these events.
Ivanna was mugged by a random hoodlum. Alida could have staged the attack on Matt for publicity’s sake. Wasn’t she the one who said all attention, good or bad, was good? Matt sure had milked the attack for all it was worth. He’d posted all over social media and had given interviews to anyone who’d stick a mic in front of his mouth. He’d let the world know his girlfriend, Avery Cockburn, was under his protection and threatened the unknown assailants with lawsuits.
She’d silenced her phone and stopped looking at social media. Her text messages were overwhelmed by her design school friends and other acquaintances who wanted to know the details about her dating the football star.
Not to mention her frantic family. Only Damon’s assurance had kept Chase from fetching her back to The Manor. And now that she’d left his office building? What if her parents were to show up? What would she tell them? That she couldn’t be left on her own without getting into trouble? Or even worse, suffering a relapse?
She shouldn’t be waiting in her apartment, knowing Jason was coming over. The problem was, she’d automatically called him, as if he were on her team. That was on her. It was a moment of weakness.
He’d turned pushy, as expected, and he was dangling pupusas to get her to go along with his paranoid investigation.
She had to cut this madness now before it was too late.
What if she left? She hadn’t agreed to a date with him, had she?
But if she wasn’t here when he showed up, he’d think something happened to her. In his fertile imagination, he’d believe she’d been kidnapped or worse.
What to do? What to do?
She caught herself chewing on her fingernails so she dug out a drawing pencil and picked up her sketchbook. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and forced herself to sit at her drafting table.
She flipped through her sketchbook to a blank page and let herself go. The lines spread themselves across the page and gradually took shape. She let the curves flare out while smudging shadows into place.
Somehow Jason’s face scribbled itself underneath her pencil. She was about to erase it when a sharp knock on her door startled her, and she broke her pencil point.
It had to be Jason. The man could talk himself into the building without using the intercom. She marked her page with the pencil and shut the sketchbook.
Running her fingers through her hair, she tucked away stray ends, pressed down her clothes, and opened the door.
Saul stood at the door. “Hey, sorry to barge in on you, but I heard you might need a photographer for a private show.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Avery’s voice was sharp with alert.
“Overheard someone talking at The Big Bean.” He flashed her a pleading grin. “I’ll do it for free. I only need a chance.”
“It’s hard to get a foot in the door,” Avery conceded. “But I don’t need photographers for private events. Who was talking about me?”
“Not sure. I had my head down serving customers and heard your name. If you don’t need a photographer, maybe you need a model?”
“Already have one,” Avery said. “But if you’d like to come to Manhattan Fashion Week, I could give you a ticket to the show and after-party. Would that help? Maybe you can get in a few shots of me and Matt Swanson.”
“Yes! You’re the best.” He shuffled from one foot to the other, as if he were either high on drugs or needed to go to the bathroom.
Avery dug through her desk and found the complimentary tickets each designer was allocated. “Here you go, and a pass to the after-party.”
