Notes: I had writer's block for this chapter and it's been a while since I've drawn an absolute blank - it got so bad that I turned to my room-mate (I've never talked to someone I know in real life about writing before!), gave him a brief synopsis and asked for his input. A few of his suggestions were: 'they hear a noise in the basement', 'a picture falls off the wall' and 'a handsome stranger enters'. Somehow he helped me get out of my funk but I'm probably never going to ask for writing advice from him again.
Disclaimer: Cobras are Stephen King's, everyone else isn't.
Chapter Eleven.
Obviously being left alone in the house with Ace Merrill and remaining in your bedroom – or anywhere else for that matter - could only have undesirable outcomes, so I pretended to finish reading my page – authentically slipping in a bookmark and gently placing the book on my bedside table - and got off the bed.
"You wanted some of those cheese twists," I confirmed, walking over to the door and trying to act natural.
Stood at the doorway, I saw Ace hadn't moved from his laid back position on the bed. I knew he was giving me a choice: either escape him but leave him with free reign in my bedroom, or invite him to join me in the kitchen and suffer his company.
Irritated that he was making me the one who had to initiate further time spent together, I begrudgingly asked, "Are you coming?"
Without answering, he raised himself off the bed and I, not wanting to be caught in a door-frame with him again any time soon, walked out into the hall hoping he'd follow and not dawdle in my room. We silently walked down, through the hall and into the kitchen after he promptly joined me at the top of the stairs.
Whilst I was turning on the oven, fiddling with the knobs, I heard Ace say, "Your mom's pretty cool."
It was a statement I'd heard a lot over the years and had always taken at face value, but this time I immediately interrupted it as 'Finally, a parent who'll leave me alone with their daughter.'
"Hmm," was my ambiguous response, and only because I didn't want him to take advantage of my ignoring him again, as I went to find the Tupperware container of leftover picnic goodies in the refrigerator.
As I went about reheating the twisted cheese snacks, I couldn't help but remember the last time we were in the kitchen together and I wondered why he wasn't hovering around me and being a nuisance this time. Ace was sat at the breakfast table, watching me with some disinterest as I lingered around the counter, and I thought that maybe he was just out to annoy me with his teasing and wasn't interested in pursuing me as a conquest at all – though I firmly believed that Ace Merrill had no standards when it came to the opposite sex.
With nothing to occupy myself with – the rest of the job being up to the oven – for the next ten minutes, I realized I was once again trapped in an awkward silence with Ace Merrill – who had just helped himself to a soda from the refrigerator. Deciding to fill the quiet, I began an attempt at small-talk – as long as he wasn't the one setting the tone, talking to him was less uncomfortable than standing together in silence.
"So," I began, clutching for mundane topics he couldn't somehow reword or turn into euphemisms, "you've tiled before?"
Ace nodded, "Back in March, the Jackson's, the Ripley's, a few other small jobs here n' there."
Jackson.
The name set off alarm bells.
Molly Jackson.
Quiet and likeable Molly Jackson who lived up on Castle View. Molly Jackson who was absent from school and society for two weeks after she was given a ride to school by Ace Merrill back in spring. How else would Ace have gotten close to her with their difference in social status? Particularly when no one had even seen them anywhere near each other before that morning she stepped out his Ford. It couldn't be a coincidence.
I questioned how much of what had happened between myself and Ace Merrill had happened between him and Molly Jackson in March. I was certain the events couldn't be that dissimilar, and looked about the kitchen for a means to distract myself with.
"Ah, shit." My distraction came as easily as that.
Ace, still stood by the refrigerator, had split at least a third of the soda bottle's contents onto his t-shirt. Now, Ace Merrill did not strike me as a klutz - if anything he was the opposite; the meticulous way I'd seen him paint the house, how his hair – even when I'd seen him working in the garage – had always been perfectly in place, so of course, I could only think he'd done it intentionally.
I quickly offered to wash the t-shirt, thankful for the opportunity to keep myself busy - not so thankful for his comment about how 'eager I was to undress him' or for the slow way he chose to peel the damn thing off.
Purposefully looking down at the floor – I'd made the mistake of looking at his chest before – I was at least pleased to see that none of the beverage had spilled onto the floor – I did not want to have my head the same height as his groin if I'd had to clean the floor too. His damp t-shirt was dropped into my outstretched hand, and I went over to the sink to occupy myself with cleaning it.
Ace left the kitchen, saying he'd go 'clean himself up', and I hoped the bathroom would be the only place he was going to visit whilst he was upstairs. I tried to concentrate on scrubbing the stain, but my focus kept drifting back to Molly Jackson and back to the games Ace kept making. There was a wave-like feeling of nausea in my gut, and I wasn't sure if it was because I was being forced to play those games with him or the thoughts of all the other girls he'd played them with.
I was rinsing out the detergent when he finally came back downstairs and propped himself against the counter next to me. I offered to go get one of my dad's old shirts for him – partly out of politeness, partly because I knew as soon as gave the slightest glance towards his naked chest he'd pounce on it in a heartbeat and partly because I did not want to tolerate him being shirtless again.
He waved the comment away, "I think we're both happier like this."
My instinct told me to ignore him, but that failed last time, so I sarcastically asked, "Really?" Wringing out his t-shirt and pretending it was his neck.
His arm brushed against mine, his voice low, "Maybe you should take yours off too, for old time's sake."
My grip tightened on the cloth, the last drops of water dripping into the sink. I thought of Molly Jackson and Barbs, girls with tear-stained faces who'd lost everything because of Ace Merrill. I did not want to be one those girls just because some hood didn't know how to take a hint.
To really drive the point home I would have told him I wasn't 'stupid' enough to get involved with him, but I remembered the knife and instead, in my sternest voice told him, "I'm not interested."
It was clear, by the look on his face, that no girl had had the nerve to say that to him before. There was a change in his eyes, a sudden spark of something – anger, perhaps – but it went as quickly as it came and he returned to his relaxed demeanour. Before he had a chance to respond, I quickly took his t-shirt and walked out the back door towards the washing line.
Ace, trying to hide how pissed he was that I'd managed to get the last word in, followed me outside and stood only a few feet away from me as I pegged his t-shirt onto the line.
"You keep telling yourself that, Babydoll. You're not fooling anyone." His tone matched my own in severity and I wanted to think he was saying it partly to reassure himself too, but there was nothing in his eyes but that endless self-confidence, that unshakeable self-assuredness - everything that made him admirable and despicable at the same time.
I could only think, like I had earlier, that he mistook my looks of contempt as attraction. But his confidence made my own waver and I began to question whether or not that I had thoughts - because I was not prepared to consider them to be 'feelings' – that he was more aware of than myself.
His spotless t-shirt was now hung on the line, and I kept my head down as I walked back into the house. I didn't say anything, couldn't say anything - I didn't like the idea that the more I denied any interest, the more he would interrupt it as interest. I was also increasingly aware that anything I could say would just spur him on even more, so I busied myself, turning off the oven and taking the tray of heated pastries out and sliding them onto a plate.
Ace returned to the kitchen as I was placing the plated snacks on the table, I left before he could say anything - striding out into the hall and nearly running up the stairs. Shutting my bedroom door behind me, the doubts and fears circled my mind, and I grabbed my desk chair and angled it underneath the doorknob.
Satisfied with being locked in, I slumped onto my bed, knowing I wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything whilst he was still in the house. I laid on my stomach, staring at the door, replaying all the encounters we'd had, trying to decipher them and wishing there was some formula that'd give me the answer I needed.
I told myself that 'He's just trying to get to you', 'He gets off on it', 'It'll be over soon, after you've picked up the car, he'll go back to tormenting some other girl' but couldn't quite shut out the small voice, that was undoubtedly Ace Merrill's, saying 'You don't want that now, do you, Jude?'
Hearing footsteps on the stairs, I stared at the doorknob, waiting for it to twist. I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until I heard the clik-clik-clik of tiles and let out a heavy sigh. Still, I couldn't bring myself to move off the bed or move my attention from the door. Even when mom came home nearly an hour later I found myself in the same position, and I didn't move until I heard the front door again, two hours later, to signal the departure of Ace Merrill.
Rolling off the bed, I crept up to the window, feeling like I had to see him leave to believe he'd actually gone. Pathetically, I hid behind the curtain and peeped like a housewife who had nothing better to do with her spare time.
Looking towards the driveway, it appeared that mom had given him one of dad's shirts – an old chequered thing that he only wore when he was gardening. Ace had rolled up the sleeves and tucked it into his jeans, if it wasn't for the shock of blonde hair, he'd have looked like a completely different person from where I was watching.
Mom was making, what I assumed to be, idle chatter with him as he placed his tools into the trunk of his Ford. Their conversation continued as Ace leaned against the side of the car, and I had some inkling, since I had made myself scarce for the past few hours, that mom was apologizing for how 'rude' I was being since I wasn't 'seeing him off'.
Whether my assumption was right or not, Ace Merrill's attention was suddenly directed at my window. Caught by surprise, and uncertain if he could see me, I tried to move without disturbing the curtain. I didn't need to – he waved before I'd even taken a second step.
Without hesitation, I returned to the sanctuary that was my bed, glad that no one – especially Ace Merrill – was there to see the heat that was sweeping over my face.
"Just one more day." I solemnly muttered into my pillow, "Just one."
This chapter was brought to you by JUSTIFIABLY PARANOID JUDE.