The Guys on my Flat

Chapter Twenty One

We managed to go the right way and we walked in complete silence that was thick enough to cut through.

Guilt built up inside me, maybe I did go overboard a bit, but he went further. He basically called me a prostitute, and he should be glad I slapped him and didn't kick him in the crotch. I felt violated, I felt like crying and I felt my eyes sting. We managed to get to the lobby doors and were about to walk in.

"I work with that woman," I informed hating the silence.

He didn't say anything.

"And she's like a psychotic fan of yours," I added, "she finds out I was in the mere presence of her idol and I would never hear the end of it. And eventually she would figure out you lived in the area and maybe even find out you live here which would violate the contract thingy I signed for you."

He turned to me, his expression hidden behind his shades. "So I had to come up with something," I informed.

"So calling me crazy and weird was the solution?" he asked. I remained silent, I didn't want to apologise. He nodded, "at least I know what you think of me. If you didn't then calling me weird or crazy wouldn't have come to mind first thing."

"Why do you care though? I know people have called you much worse things," I informed, and I wasn't wrong. The newspapers had some shockers.

He didn't appear to have heard me. "I can't believe you think I'm just some weirdo, Katie."

I couldn't say anything. If that was his own version of an apology it wasn't working. At least he was talking to me. "What's with you staring?" he asked.

I broke the gaze, closing my eyes to do so. "Surprised you know my name," I informed, my voice nothing more than mere mumbles.

"You're crying," he said.

I went wide eyed as I pressed my fingers to my face, I was crying, and the knowledge of someone else saying that just made me want to cry even more. I sniffed as it started raining down my face, "here, just take these up with you. I'm not going back to the party," I informed shoving the bags into him. I was turning my face away from him so what remains of my smashed dignity still remained.

He claims that I see him as a weirdo... does that mean he just sees me as some sort of street girl?

Just some dancer or object for guys?

The idea of it sent shivers down my spine and made me want to cry even more. Was that true? Is that what I looked like?

I dropped the bags, he obviously didn't have a hold of them as they clattered to the ground, "where are you going?" he asked.

I dropped my arm and shook my head, "like you care. You just think I'm some sort of street stripper." I went to go to the fire escape but his voice stopped me.

"Why didn't you think I knew your name?" he asked.

I turned; I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks and could even taste a couple of them. "I thought you were only interested in making some sort of come back while on your break. That you're music is all that's worth thinking about in your head," I informed, "you're focused so much on that that you don't think about other things."

Like feelings...

"Like you probably don't even remember what I actually do for a living," I informed.

He pressed his lips together, but seemed to smirk, "How funny that you know my thoughts without asking. I just don't remember the things that don't matter."

I turned again to leave for the fire escape. "Hey, come on," he snapped as he grabbed my arm, "don't just ditch the party. Otherwise they'll think I did something to you," he informed.