Washed
Right Out, Chapter Nine.
Prompts used: give me a kiss, now see that's a problem.
The idea
came to Riley later that night, long after Sonia had cleared out with
her bag of legal papers (but not before she ordered him dinner and
then stood watch for the delivery person, as if expecting Jonathan to
sneak in under the guise of a Korean restaurant employee). In
retrospect, he should have seen it coming, but he’d been distracted
up until that crucial point.
He sat
hovered over a Styrofoam bowl of spicy beef pho,
with a pair of disposable chopsticks, eyes fixed on the HD screen as
he watched Viola Davis remove her wig and make-up on prime time
television. His attention was wholly given to the last scene of the
newest episode of his Thursday shows, but somewhere in the background
of his mind, a series of gears were slowly rolling around with his
current real life dilemma.
Minutes
later, Riley was hastily texting back and forth with his fellow
Shonda followers about the end of the show, slurping up noodles and
meat with one hand and handling his mobile with the other. It was
when he dumped the empty bowl and dirty chopsticks into the kitchen
trash can that the idea hit him in its fullness. He stood in the
middle of his kitchen in his sweatpants and T-shirt, bare feet glued
to the cold tile floor.
Clarity,
for the first time in forever, was his.
He wanted
to have more faith in what Sonia was doing to make him safe, but he
didn't. Sonia hadn’t seen the look in Jonathan's eyes, the pure
desperation so uncharacteristic of him. His ex had crossed over to
the other side of sanity,
and the only person who could protect Riley was Riley.
It was
late,
and he knew he should spend his time getting ready for bed, but that
didn't stop Riley from turning on his Macbook and opening up a
browser window with his search engine of choice already loaded.
Searching
for "how to get away with murder" didn't give Riley
anything to work on, much to his surprise. The related searches that
popped up underneath his results were interesting—a lot of people
looking to dispose of bodies and exact revenge upon their loved ones.
He almost clicked on one,
but thought better of it. It wouldn't look good in his search
history, having "how to kill someone and hide their body"
amid everything else. Viola Davis would be disappointed in him.
Just in
case, his next search was "hashtag nine words viola davis",
just to throw off the scent. He then spent ten minutes reading
hastily thrown together think pieces on Alfie Enoch and the art of
wig snatching. That was just curiosity on his part.
All of his
experience watching "Scandal" and "Law and Order"
told Riley he couldn't exactly look online for a 'how to' article on
rolling someone's body up in a carpet and throwing it in the river
without looking guilty. Between the digital paper trail and the
amount of security videos at the docks, he’d be walking into a life
sentence, and that would be a problem. But he couldn't do this by
himself.
"Wait,
what am I doing?" Riley asked to an empty room. He had no idea
what he was doing. For the time being, he admitted defeat. He shut
off his laptop and quickly went to bed. Somehow, his sleep was as
peaceful as it had ever been in the past week; he only woke up once.
He woke
Friday morning to a slate-colored sky,
and rain hitting his bedroom window in thick sheets. The morning
routine of getting ready for work now included finding his favorite
overcoat—a plaid number in brown,
with shiny black buttons that came down right above his ankles, and
his black knee-high
Wellingtons. His usual sprint to the bus stop was performed under the
protection of his umbrella.
Even with
the rain coming down fast and hard, Riley took ten seconds at his
apartment building's front door to look for Jonathan. The relief that
swept through him when he realized his ex was nowhere to be seen was
short-lived.
At work,
Riley had just enough time to hang up his overcoat and slip out of
his boots and into the spare pair of Dr. Martens he kept at his desk
before trouble reared its head again.
He’d
scarcely begun diving into his work inbox when he felt an overeager
presence nearby. A stack of folders shifted on his desk. He looked up
to see Eren perched on the edge of the desk, his thin hair drenched
and plastered to his scalp.
"If it
isn't my favorite favorite in the world," Eren drawled. He
picked up a spring-loaded pen that said Belle Facce in fancy script
from Riley's utensil cup.
and played with it between his fingers. "Busy much?"
Riley
sighed. His chair squeaked in protest when he leaned back. "Observant
much? And good morning to you, too."
"And
to you! By the way, higher-ups
loved your re-shoots from yesterday. Thanks for that. I had business
elsewhere, had to take care of it, you know how it is."
"With
you? Yeah, I can imagine." Riley began mentally rescheduling his
entire day. He could already tell that Eren was planning on hijacking
his Friday work plans. "So what's up?"
Eren looked
around,
as if making sure no one was listening. It was futile, since at that
time of the morning on a Friday barely anyone was awake, much less in
the office. Aside from them, there were only a handful of people
working the morning shift in the layout and photography sections.
He leaned
in. "Listen, Riley, can I ask you a favor?"
Riley
frowned. "Depends. What's the favor?"
"I
need you to follow me into the downstairs lobby and kiss me."
Here are my fellow bloggers who are also flashing this week:
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