Beneath the Boardwalk (Alex Turner) COMPLETE

14 {intimidation}

It happened again. 

This time, it was before class, so I was able to completely rule out the possibility of Matt slipping the note in my bag. I hadn't even seen him today. Yet, here was a note, tucked inside, with its same familiar writing. It gave me chills.

Turner can't be trusted. You shouldn't be talking to him. -N

The possibility of the note actually being from my ex was slim to none. I mean, he wasn't even here in this city. I moved. I got away from him! And now that these notes were showing up, I had been extra careful to watch out for him, but there was nobody that even looked remotely similar. Somebody was just messing with me, and had the same initial. 

The message was ominous. I didn't like not knowing where it was from. Who could be giving me the notes? And was there any truth to it--shouldn't I trust my professor? Maybe it was a bad idea, but it was a worse idea trusting graphite on paper. If N wanted to warn me, they could do it in person. 

I'd been a mess when I saw the note. I even forgot to put on lipstick.

Because I was a hundred percent sure now Matt wasn't N, I spilled a lot during art class. I just had to get it out of my system and get advice, and Matt was the closest friend I'd met in University so far. All of Matt's attention was focused on me. I liked that he was intrigued, but it was a little alarming just how much he was interested in Turner. 

* * *

English. What I was most nervous for the whole day. I put what happened yesterday deep in the confines of my mind. In the auditorium, I took a seat, trying not to draw attention to myself.

To all of our surprise Turner was perfectly on time. He wandered on about, talking about the Shakespeare assignment that we'd have to do since everybody but me finished the play. He didn't look at me. His hair was even messier than yesterday. Maybe I could get through this with ease, I thought. Everybody had a huge assignment to go with reading his book. Maybe it was easier my way. I'd have more time to focus on my other art classes. That's the reason I'm here, I remind myself.

I found myself frequenting this place after school a lot, and I didn't know how I felt about that. I was doing the same thing now after lecture. The moonlight filtered in through the tall windows and the building got very, very quiet, and Alex sat in his chair, letting the greys of the room filter over his hair and clothing. He was charcoal, heather grey, graphite, stone, and marble. Carved out perfection. 

He said nothing as I approach his desk and sat on the chair, pulled out my chequebook, and quickly wrote him a cheque. He was watching me in silence the entire time, his feet crossed, legs propped up on the desk.

I ripped the paper off and handed it to him. He didn't take it. My arm got tired and I put it down. I knew he was going to say something that would confuse me.

But instead, came out: "You're not wearing your signature red lipstick today."

I suddenly felt very aware of my lips. 

He paused, took a deep breath in and sat up, pulling his chair towards his desk and leaning over it onto his elbows. "How old are you?"

"Why would it matter," I mumbled, trying to get him to take the cheque again.

"It's a simple question."

I sighed, putting down the paper. "Twenty-five."

He nodded once, slowly.

"Why do you get to ask questions about me and I can't do the same with you?"

"You just ask all the wrong questions," he pointed out deliberately. His eyebrows were raised, tapping a pen on his desk.

"You're a mystery," I mused.

"Darling, I'm nothing but. Now about yesterday--"

"Don't. I don't want to make a big deal out of nothing. Just take the cheque."

"Do you not like me?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

"You have a habit of running away after we meet. Always look tense when you see me. Your palms sweat. I've see you walk out those doors, Greene, and every single time you give me a look before scurrying out those doors as if you're, say, intimidated."

"I," I shifted in my seat. No clue what to say. 

He stood up. Turner's heels clacked on the floor before he sat on his desk, right in front of me. The pant of his suit brushed against my leg. It tingled. His voice was rough."So I do intimidate you?" 

I swallowed. "Well, when you do that."

"Do what?"

"That." Everything about him.

"Specific," he drawled, sarcastic. "Before you go, I would in particular... like to know what you would have done yesterday before you got that call."