Page 45 of King of Hollywood
I wanted to know every last, intimate detail about him.
In my life, I’d often lost interest in things. People were boring, their stories repetitive, their emotions confusing and uninteresting. I learned skills because I needed them and not because I cared. I observed, because to stop was to risk revealing myself.
There was no losing interest in Felix Finley.
Every time I saw him, I only wanted to know more.
The only other thing I’d ever cared this much about was killing—and that was saying something.
When it was finally time for Felix’s shift to be over, I began making my way through the crowd to meet him. A couple, dressed in matching couple shirts—horrendous—blocked my way. Irritated, I tapped my foot at them, waiting for them to move—only to catch the tail-end of their conversation.
“He looks familiar, don’t you think?” One of the men asked, clinging like a horny koala to his partner’s arm. “Super familiar.”
“Huh,” the other agreed, a thoughtful frown on his face.
It was odd. I’d had the very same thought. That was the only reason I paused to listen at all—to see if they would have any more relevant, somewhat helpful information. They didn’t. Instead, they started talking about clocks—or apps—or some other drivel I cared very little about. So I moved on.
Once again, someone got in my way.
“Christ,” I muttered, more than a little annoyed. Could they not see the flowers? Had they not seen the looks Felix and I had been sharing? It was very obvious where I was trying to go—and yet everyone was determined to get in my way.
“Who is that?” one horribly dressed, brunette woman asked, right as Felix moved out of the little changing booth that was parked next to the dunk tank itself. My eyes were immediately drawn to his damp hair—pushed back and away from his face, and the way the light played across his rather perfect cheekbones.
“My god, it’s Felix Finley.” The other woman—who wore a pair of khaki overalls and a smart watch she couldn’t afford—cackled, clearly delighted. “You know it’s odd to see him out like this.”
“I’ve never even seen him before.”
“I only recognize him because of Barry’s party last summer—”
Jesus god, could I not go a day without someone mentioning the damn party? It was like the general population was determined to punish me.
“You know there’s rumors about him—”
“Oh, I know.”
“They say he never leaves his house.”
“I heard he’s on the run,” The second woman laughed, and I was officially annoyed. Well, I mean, I’d been annoyed before that moment too. I lived in a constant state of annoyance. It was my comfort zone, and I liked it there.
“Excuse me,” I said, aiming for pleasant and landing somewheeeere close to murderous. “But I am trying to get through, and if both of you don’t shut up I am going to scream.”
“Hi, Marshall,” both women swiveled to face me, clearly not cowed.
“Goodbye, Marshall, you mean.” I waited, foot tapping, flowers still clutched in my hand. Their eyes widened and they both laughed again, glancing at me, then the flowers, then me again.
“Are you here on a date, Marshall Warden?” Khaki woman asked. Was I supposed to remember her? Because I definitely didn’t.
“I am trying to be,” I countered, foot still tapping. Arching a brow, I waited for them to get the hint. Was I being subtle? I didn’t think so. I thought the whole goodbye-Marshall bit was rather obvious—especially when paired with me very clearly stating that I was trying to get through.
“With who?” Brunette’s eyes were wide. She glanced over me, her gaze falling to my chest and the muscle there. She bit her lip, staring rather offensively. “Do I know them?”
“No, but apparently you know of him,” I was quick to respond, “as you are gossiping about him like a couple of nosy hens.”
They laughed, once again not cowed.
Was I not scary anymore?
Was it the sweater vest?