Our Sick Obsessions | 3: Restless

There was a restaurant in Boston that he and Stacey used to frequent when they were dating. Now, he found himself sitting inside it, across from her. He watched as she brushed her black bangs back behind her ear and stirred her drink with a straw. Her pale olive skin looked soft, matching with her olive green long-sleeved shirt. Draped across the back of her seat was her white wool coat.
          I recognize this. This is the last time I spoke to her . . .
          She looked so beautiful, still very much the prettiest girl in Boston. When her bold-lashed hazel eyes flicked up to meet his, he twitched. He watched as her luscious pink lips stretched out into a smile. Then, she laughed before taking a meek sip of her drink.
          Stacey . . . Oh, God, Stacey. Why did Cameron have to kill you, of all people?
          “You know, I’ve missed you, Max,” she said, voice solemn. A sad voice with a happy undertone, like a blessing to his ears. It sounded so real. Through his silence, she stared at the ice cubes in her drink.
          It was impossible to know what woke him up. Was it guilt? Grief? Or something uncontrollable on his part, like a knock at the door or a sound in a neighboring room? Regardless, he took a moment to gaze at the wall�"at the unmoving curtains in the dark room. He felt alone, so he sat up and looked to his right. Cameron was lying there, back turned to him. Judging by his deep, steady breathing, he was asleep.
          At least I didn’t wake him for once. When’s the last time I woke up on my own like this?
          Max took a long moment to gaze at Cameron as he slept. He leaned over in bed to see his face.
          He looks so innocent when he’s asleep . . . I could do anything I want right now. Run away, free myself from him that way. Or . . .
          His eyes fell onto his pillow. He pictured it.
          It’d be so easy to smother him. It’s not too late to avenge Stacey�"to avenge August and Val, and everyone else he’s killed. To avenge myself.
          It wasn’t until he’d gripped the pillow that he tore his hands away, as if the covers burned him.
          Bloody hell! What am I doing? I can’t kill him!
          The Aussie got out of bed, being careful not to wake Cameron. Then, he reached around blind until he found his pants.
          I need to get out of here for a bit. Take a walk through the hotel or something, get my mind off of this . . . I’m afraid what I’ll do if I stay.
          He pulled on his dress pants, but then changed his mind. Using what little light seeped into the room, he moved through the dark. As silent as he could be, he stripped, then slipped on his jeans, hoodie, and jacket. Now feeling a lot more comfortable, he carefully pulled open the door. Then, he stopped.
          Almost locked myself out like a twat. Where did Cameron put the keycard?
          The first thing he decided to check was Cameron’s blazer, as it was closest to him. As the door drifted shut, he made his way to the leather chairs. Hardly able to see a thing, he rummaged through the pockets. When he found a mysterious plastic bag in one, he didn’t investigate.
          Whatever’s in that bag is his business. Who knows what kind of trouble I’ll get myself into if I stick my nose into it?
          Finally, he found the keycard, in which pocket he wasn’t sure. Into one of his hoodie’s pockets it went. Then, he returned to the door. After opening it again, he paused for a beat. He half expected to hear Cameron stand up or say something after him. Instead, there was only silence.
          I’m still in the clear. He’s fast asleep . . . or, at least, pretending to be.
          He took his time closing the door behind himself as he stepped out into the hallway. Its dark marble floors made the crème walls pop in the orange lighting. His body language became reserved, shoulders tensed and hands dug into his pockets. At first, he didn’t want to move away from the door. Part of him wanted to return inside at once. The other reminded him of his worrying thoughts.
          If I go back in there right now, I might hurt Cameron, or make him hurt me. But I’m scared to be on my own . . .
          Ugh, shut up. I’m a 21-year-old man . . . Given, a 21-year-old man who’s pretty small compared to most. But that doesn’t give me an excuse to act like such a bloody child. I need to stop being so bloody dependent on him! I can handle myself. Did that for at least a couple of years before all this, anyhow . . .
          Max straightened himself, holding his head up and chest out like he’d watched Cameron do. It tended to make the writer look bigger and more confident, so why couldn’t it do the same for him?
          I feel like a kid seeing his dad do something and mimicking him . . . God, this is stupid.
          With his faux bravado, he made his way down the hall and to the elevator. Once inside, he pushed the button for the lobby. Then, he stood still in the center of the lift as the doors closed and it started to move down. It was quiet but for the faint jingle playing through speakers above him. Max didn’t pay much attention to the tune.
          There were a few people sitting at the tables in the lobby. The Aussie made a point of avoiding looking at any of them, picking an isolated table near the back to sit at. Once he’d sat, he pulled out his phone. It was half past midnight. As usual, no texts nor calls from anybody. The only contact on this device was Cameron. At first, Max had thought it was a mistake on Cameron’s part, to trust him with his own cellphone. After a few days, though, he realized he still didn’t have the balls to call the police. If he did, it’d have to be to turn himself in: he’d had a hand in the deaths of August and Val. Not to mention, he was likely the main suspect in Stacey’s murder. As far as he knew, he was the last person seen with her. His motive: she’d broken up with him a few months prior.
          Max sighed, felt tempted all of a sudden to try calling Stacey. He still remembered her number by heart. What would happen if he sent a text? Would it be a recycled number now, or only out of service?
          One day, when I have even less to lose. One day, I’ll try texting her number.
          Someone cleared their throat right next to him. Startled, he whipped his head up. Standing beside him was the handsome mystery man. The sight of him caused Max’s heart to get caught in his throat.
          “Hello,” he said. “Is this seat taken?”
          Max stared, blinking sporadically.
          Wow, his voice. It’s a lot higher than I expected. For some reason, I thought it’d be deep. But I like this better, actually. Surprising, but . . . somehow fitting.
          “Are you all right?”
          The Aussie snapped from his trance. “Huh? Oh, s**t, sorry. No, it’s, uh . . . I’m not expecting anyone.”
          With a friendly smile, the man pulled out the chair to Max’s right and sat down in it. He was still wearing his suit, but this time the blazer was open, orange tie from before missing.
          “Sorry about barging into your personal space like this,” muttered he, “but I recognized you from before and couldn’t help myself. We’ve been sharing looks all day. Can’t be a coincidence that we see each other again at such an odd hour.” He looked a little flustered himself, smile turning coy. Max found this a bit cute, try as he may to deny it.
          “Right,” replied the Aussie. “Um, no worries. I understand.”
          The man held out his hand for a handshake. “Name’s Ashton Oliver Sinclair. You can call me ‘Ash’, though.”
          Max reluctantly took Ash’s hand in his. It was soft, like he’d never worked a day in his life. This wasn’t foreign to Max; his and Cameron’s were more or less the same. Ash’s felt somehow silkier, though.
          Does he use lotion or something?
          Ash’s grip was firm; as he shook Max’s hand, he placed his other palm on the back of it. A few seconds later, when the handshake was over but his hand was still held, the artist finally realized why.
          “Uh, Max. My name’s Max.”
          Another brief but firm shake. The man’s eyes squinted through his professional grin. “Nice to finally meet you.”
          Finally? Max cocked a side of his mouth up in an awkward smirk, but didn’t say anything. Finally, Ash let go of his hand, only to lean back in his chair. It took Max a second to realize he did so to match him. Definitely a businessman, then. Don’t they tend to mimic people?
          “So, what brings you to Zürich, Max?”
          The Aussie moaned in thought, then shrugged. “Holidays, I guess. Travelling. No real reason.” At least, I don’t think Cameron has a reason. It’s a good question, though. I should ask him. “You?”
          Ash shrugged as well. “Business.”
          Could’ve guessed that. Would it be rude to ask what he does?
          Before he could ponder this, Ash answered the unspoken question on his own: “I’m an auditor. Internal, for a financial branch back in Massachusetts.”
          Max cocked his head a bit. “Massachusetts? I used to live in Boston.”
          Because of his bangs, Max could only tell that Ash raised his brows due to the widening of his eyes. “Is that so? Well, I guess I know now why I always had some weird fondness for that god-awful state.”
          Max felt a warm bubbling in his chest, which then evolved into laughter. Seeing him laugh, Ash joined in. For the first time in a long time, the Aussie felt giddy, like he was talking to an old friend�"a true kindred spirit.
          “I’m curious. You’re staying in one of the suites, right?”
          Figuring there couldn’t be much harm in telling him, Max answered: “Yes.”
          “Which one?”
          Then, out of the blue, anxiety.
          Don’t trust so easily. The last time you did that, you befriended a serial killer and got your girlfriend killed.
          But . . . Come on. What are the odds of him being a killer, too? He’s charming, more so than Cameron was. I feel like I can trust him a lot more than Cameron.
          “Park Junior. Or, uh, something like that.”
          Ash whistled. “Not bad. I’m in the Park Executive Suite, myself. Second most expensive king bed suite in the hotel. Almost two and a half thousand dollars a night.”
          The words “king bed” echoed in Max’s head like reverberations in a large tunnel. “Oh, so . . . You’re here with someone?”
          Ash raised only one brow this time, again only visible due to his eyelids.
          “Girlfriend, perhaps?”
          “No,” the auditor snapped, sea foam eyes narrowing. Then, as quickly as it’d shifted, his face returned to its casual expression, as did his tone. “Girls aren’t really my, uh . . . ‘cup of tea’, so to speak.”
          “Oh. You’re . . . ?”
          “I don’t see a problem in admitting it to a fellow homosexual.”
          It was Max’s turn to narrow his eyes. “What makes you think I’m gay?”
          Ash blinked. His eyes fell onto Max’s left hand, on the table. “I saw you with another man, who made the reservations. Then, I saw you two having dinner together. To be honest, I wasn’t sure, though; you’re not wearing a ring, so clearly you’re not married. But you didn’t strike me as boyfriends, either. Only lovers, if anything. I realized I was right when you told me you’re saying in the Park Junior Suite. That one only has one bed, as well”�"his eyes met Max’s�"“a king bed.”
          Max stared at him for a long moment. Realizing he’d sat up in his chair, he decided to lean back again. “Well, you’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?”
          Thankfully, Ash took that as a compliment and let out a flattered snicker as he leaned back, too. “Hey, do you want a coffee or something?”
          “Nah, no thanks, mate. I’d like to go back to sleep sometime this decade.”
          “You sure? You look exhausted.” Max nodded. “Decaffeinated tea, then?”
          This offer was a little bit more tempting. He looked away in thought as he considered it.
          “Yeah?” asked Ash, grinning.
          I mean . . . I might as well, right? It might make me tired as long as it’s decaffeinated.
          Finally, the Aussie nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”
          “Splendid.” Ash jumped to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
          As he walked away, Max reached out toward him a bit. “Hey, wait, don’t . . .”
          . . . leave me on my own here.
          He watched as the auditor made a beeline for the kitchen area for looking away, back to his phone. It was 12:35 AM now.
          Was that really only five minutes? It felt longer.
          When the clock hit 12:37, Ash returned with two elegant-looking teacups in saucers. He offered one to Max, who took it, meek.
          “Thanks.”
          “You’re welcome.” Ash took his seat again. The tea was much too hot for Max to drink yet, so he blew on it. Meanwhile, the auditor took a sip of the scalding liquid like it was already lukewarm.
          “Wow. Doesn’t that burn?”
          Ash shrugged again, this time in a dismissive way. “I’ve been drinking hot coffee most of my life. Guess I’m used to it by now.”
          “Guess so . . .”
          Ash placed his cup back into its saucer, then the saucer onto the table. As he leaned forward, he placed one leg over the other. “I don’t mean to pry or anything, but what do you do for a living?”
          This question made Max’s blood run cold. “Um . . . Well . . .” A nervous titter. “Nothing. I’m . . . unemployed.”
          It seemed like a bad answer. “Hm. What about your lover?”
          “He’s a writer, but he’s in medical school, so . . .”
          Dismissing the added post-secondary education, Ash leaned back again. He had a snarky, amused look on his face. Sort of snobbish. “A writer? Heh. Not much money to be made in that, is there?”
          “I, uh, suppose not . . .”
          “I assume he’s contracted with someone? What publishing agency does he write for?”
          Max fidgeted with his sleeve a little. He gave his head a small shake. “I don’t know.”
          “Is he not?”
          “I don’t think so. I think he’s independent.”
          Ash rolled his eyes so hard that people across the room might’ve seen it, were they looking. “And he doesn’t do anything on the side?”
          “Well, he does charity work sometimes . . .”
          “Where does he get his money from, then? No, wait, let me guess.” He pouted his lips, then crooned, “Daddy dearest?” Then, he beamed in amusement.
          This time, Max decided not to answer. Noticing this, Ash laughed. He reached over and patted Max’s shoulder in a friendly manner.
          “I’m only teasing. At least he’s not broke, right?”
          “I guess . . .”
          The auditor’s expression sobered. “Sorry. I can tell I’ve made you uncomfortable.”
          Max gave him a troubled smirk. “No, it’s fine. It’s just, before I met Cameron, I”�"he snapped his mouth shut.
          S**t. I didn’t mean to tell him Cameron’s name.
          “Yes?”
          The Aussie raised his hand and waved so as to dismiss the subject. “Never mind.”
          Ash pulled back his sleeve, turning his attention onto the expensive watch on his left wrist. “Hmm. I’d better go back to my suite. I’ve got some work to finish.” His eyes returned to Max. “Any chance I could get your number?”
          Bewildered, Max blinked before asking, “My what?” When he made a discreet glance toward the phone in his hand, he tensed a bit. “Um . . .”
          Cameron checks this every so often. What would he think if he saw a new contact?
          “Nah, you know what?” From the inner pocket of his blazer, the auditor pulled out a notebook with a pen in its coil. He set it on the table, wrote something on one of the pages, then ripped it out. After folding it, he handed it to Max. “In case you want to talk before we happen to bump into each other again.”
          Max reluctantly took the paper. “Thanks.” I guess . . .
          Ash stood up again, leaving his teacup on the table. “Don’t worry, I already paid for these.” Then, he gave Max a casual wave. “Until we meet again, Maxie.” Before the nickname could sink in, he’d made a brisk-walked escape from the lobby.
          Max sat still for a few moments, processing everything that’d happened in the past ten or so minutes.
          “Maxie”? Bloody hell, sounds like the pad brand.
          He looked at the paper in his hands and unfolded it. There was a cellphone number written there. Above it, “You’re welcome to text me anytime. ~ Ash”.
          To be honest, he seems like a bit of a rich snob. Definitely got tickets on himself. I used to hate his type. Was it Cameron who changed that? Whatever the case . . . I kind of like this bloke. He folded the paper and slipped it into one of his coat’s pocket. Realizing that he was blushing a bit, he tried to shake it away. Then, he picked up his teacup and finally took a small sip.
          Nope, f**k that. Still too hot.