I'm at work and Amelia is just the best boss a person could possibly have. Where has she been hiding all these years? She's quite understanding and not overbearing at all. A very stark contrast to her predecessor. I've tried several times already this morning to avoid thoughts of Bruni Santos and what could possibly have put him in whatever condition he currently is in. Not because I have a sensitivity to his pain and suffering, but because I have a sensitivity to unknown men threatening to kill someone I know by sending me texts.
Amelia Thorton gave me a personal brief after the orientation she had with all the staff. She also asked me for a general overview of our branch, since she found things a bit different from the other branch she used to head. I was happy to help. I should thank Bruni Santos for making us best friends... Except, I'm not sure Bruni wants to see me... ever.
I would avoid me if I were him, so I understand.
But I'm glad I won't have to deal with the jerk anymore. Good riddance.
I have been making calls for scoops and beats as soon as I left Amelia's side and now, in my small cubicle, I'm ready to do some work bringing the information together into news pieces. I will be leaving the office soon to go out to the field for eye witness reports and governmental statements, but before that, I'm sure I can get a lot of work done. As I settle in front of my desk and pick up a plain A4 and a ballpoint pen, a text buzzes into my phone.
I rush to pick it up and take a look at the ID of the texter. It's an unknown line, but I know who it must be. The only person whom I don't know that knows me. Too well.
Strange line: I'm drunk on the taste of you. I want another.
I stare at the text.
I haven't responded to the other text he sent that pointed to my irresponsibility last night. But if he thinks I'm going to let him send texts like this- texts at all- unchecked, then he should think again, whoever he is.
My fingers glide over the typing interface of my phone as I prepare to respond.
Me: Stop texting me. And stay away from me.
Lame, I know. But it's not like we're sexting each other or this is an ideal relationship situation. This is most probably the man who has been breaking into my house and stalking me. He's probably after my brother too. He must have sent that other text about Bruni as well. Which might prove that he is a dangerous person.
I wish I didn't run on assumptions. Wish I knew just what was going on. But caution is key.
A thought drifts into my brain and I'm really considering it. But will this man be willing to tell me the truth- the real truth? He knows what's going on and I just know he is front and center in the whole matter. If he could just tell me… so I know just what I'm dealing with…
Before I push that thought further, a text buzzes into my phone.
Strange line: If I could, I would have. I can't. Haven't you got the memo yet?
I respond instantly.
Me: What do you want from me?
He doesn't send a reply text. I stare in frustration at my phone as the minutes tick by. Oh, now that I want answers, he has other better things to do? I stare at the blank sheet of paper in front of me and I'm glaring.
I can't concentrate on my work.
As I try to gather the last shreds of my concentration together, a text pings into my phone and it all evaporates.
Strange line: Why were you drunk last night? I don't like you drunk senseless.
Outrage brims somewhere in my brain. He is not just evading my question but is now trying to dominate my life. He doesn't like me drunk? Like I care. Not like getting that drunk is the right thing to do. He just doesn't have the right to tell me what the right thing to do is, especially if it ties down to his own personal preferences. Like I'm his property. He's nothing to me in the first place. Why should I care what he thinks?
Me: You can take your opinions about what I should be like and shove it. You don't have a right to tell me what to do with my life.
Almost immediately, he responds. Looks like someone has my time now that I'm being liberal with my tongue.
Strange line: Don't ever get that drunk again, Nicole.
He even addresses me by name, my subconscious screams at me. The overfamiliarity! Just who does he think he is? I'm not even questioning how he knows my name, because at this rate, he probably knows my bra size. Fear has given way to outrage and my fingers are furiously dancing on my phone screen as soon as the text drops.
Me: Make me, creep.
He gives me a few minutes before sending me a response-text. Also, thirty minutes is gone and I haven't done any work yet.
Strange line: Maybe I do like you drunk. Less talkative. Very sweet. I like your moans the most.
I'm staring at the text and telling myself to not fall for the trap. If we continue like this, he's going to have us discussing yesterday night and how I made out with him. Like it was consensual. Okay, fine, it's not like he forced me and I totally know within my consciousness that whatever it was, it was one of the best kisses I've ever had. A couple of aspirin tablets later and my head is not pounding madly enough to let me think and some of the memories of last night are beginning to flood back.
But then it's not like I had wanted to make out with a creep that has been stalking me for reasons best known to him. So it is safe to say that he deceived and seduced me last night. He also broke into my house- with me- and may or may not have put Bruni Santos in a critical condition. And this is going to gnaw at my conscience, because even if Bruni Santos is a stupid asshole and has no conscience, I do.