3.0 The Chronicles of Us - Choas & Clarity

Chapter twenty-five

•★ Tex ★•

Vomit has a nasty taste. Unfortunately, it's coming up my throat and into my mouth. I really don't wanna look at this video again, but I need to find something. Anything that leads me to this girl. Anything that tells me there's more to it than a drunken mistake.

Just like the other times I watched it, there's not much to see. The clip only lasts a couple of seconds and the lighting is bad. Obviously clear enough to make out that it's me lying on the bed with my pants down and my shirt up. The girl, though, I have no clue. Not once does she show her face.

If I don't find anything this time, I'll call that private investigator I Googled. 'I.C.U. Investigations' sounded promising.

I zoom in. There is absolutely nothing distinctive about her. No tattoo, no weird birthmark, not even a faded scar. Besides, she still has her dress on, only a little hiked up. She's just a run of the mill porn-blond. I mean, this is L.A. for fuck's sake! Looking for a specific blond with fake double Ds is like trying to find a clean needle on the streets of Skid Row.

What was that?

I turn up the volume and play the video again. Her moans are so fucking annoying and ... fake? That is not what I meant, though. I try to ignore her sickening sounds.

There it is again ... I said something. The mumbled words are barely intelligible. What was it? Babe? Baby? No, I never use those words. I listen again, more intently, and my heart freezes.

Birdie.

I said Birdie. I'm fucking sure. Of course I did. The little jolt of surprise quickly settles for disappointment. It doesn't matter. Even if I fucked this girl pretending it to be Ellie, it won't make it better. In fact, it's even worse.

Show me something useful.

I watch it again from the start, focusing on the items in the room, and sure enough, there it fucking is. I quickly hit pause. In the corner of my screen is the clue that I've been looking for. How the hell did I miss this?

From her bag hangs a keychain. What's on it? I lean closer to my laptop. A windmill? The fuck does that even mean? Maybe it's nothing.

I sigh and notice the time. Fuck! I need to pick up Ellie for our date. If I'm late, I'll have to explain why, and telling her that I was looking at the video is a very bad fucking idea.

After shaving that shabby half-beard I purposely grew and sliding on a black dress shirt—she fucking loves that—I drive to Ellie's dump of an apartment. If I have my way, I'll charm her fine ass back into our house before she's due. I can hardly believe she offered to spend time with me again. I mean, I hoped for it and I was determined to make it happen, but I figured my chances were nowhere near as good as they apparently are.

I had a strategy, of course. A risky one; pretending to let her go; acting as if we could be friends. Like fuck that would ever work. No, I had to give her the idea of losing me for real in order to force her to hold on for dear fucking life.

Distasteful? Maybe.

Manipulative? Absolutely.

I don't give a shit, though. All is fair in love and war. Especially when love itself has become a war zone. Besides, it fucking worked! Even sooner than I imagined.

My plan was basically the opposite from what she wanted, which was for me to fight. In my defense, she's stubborn as fuck and never listens. Reversed psychology seemed the best course of action. Christ! I deserve an award for that performance. I nearly slipped up my sad act when she got all pouty-mad. Thankfully, I was smart enough to give myself a moment to smile like a motherfucker when I was making tea.