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Everything I knew about Ben Allen was good and selfless. Even when he was drunk, he had nothing but nice words for me. There was a deep well of loneliness in him that I felt drawn to, perhaps because it matched my own.
It was absolutely ridiculous that I was second-guessing my own opinions based on years of evidence because of one sentence uttered by a man I didn't know and whose reputation hardly recommended him.
I just had to do my best to avoid him until after the funeral. Then he would be gone for good and things could go back to normal.ThreeAmeliaI got up early the next morning, throwing on another sundress in white, and got the heck out of the building way before anyone else would be up and about. I didn't really need to be at work early, but there was always something to do if you looked for it. Besides, even boring office work was better than having another run-in with Johnnie Allen. As it was, I had been tossing and turning all night. First, because he was loud as heck over in his apartment. It sounded like there was a party going on even though I knew he was alone. There was banging and shuffling and crashing. Then, of course, there was the blaring music that I was shocked old Aggy across the hall didn't pitch a fit about. If I let my TV go above a whisper, she was banging on my door. But also, second, because, well... I couldn't stop my brain from thinking about him.
I wondered about what had caused him to up and leave one day, never to look back. From what I understood, no one ever heard from him save for a call to his grandmother on her birthday each year (along with some sort of extravagant present, as if that could make up for his absence). I wanted to know what on Earth could have led him to a life of crime. He seemed relatively well adjusted, calm, laid back. That didn't exactly scream "killer", but that was exactly what he was. That was what he did. He killed people for money. And, seriously, what was with the scotch? Was he being ironic? Was it some kind of jab because Ben named him after a brand of scotch?
During all of this tossing and turning, there was not a single thought of how attractive he was. I didn't get a full-body shiver at the memory of him touching my cheek. I didn't feel a blush at remembering him saying that... pussy comment. I didn't wonder about how he earned his reputation with women; what he was capable of doing to them. Nope. Not me. I was not that messed up.
I let myself in through the back of the building, walking down the old stone hallways and opening my small, dark, windowless office. It really was one depressing place to work. Not even the stark white desk and light throw rug could warm the place up. I pushed the button for the coffee pot, not adding grounds because, well, I hated coffee. I brewed hot water for tea. Yes, hot tea... in August. See, not only was my office figuratively cold, it was also quite literally cold; I guess because it was buried in the basement. I dropped a teabag into a mug and walked back over to my desk, tidy to the way of compulsive. I liked things in order. Actually, I liked them not only to be in order, but color coordinated and alphabetically or numerically sorted. I was, and always had been, a bit of a control freak. I had a psych student once tell me that people who were crazy about orderliness were that way because it was the only thing in their life that they could control. It had been a comment that had been all-too true at the time. Of course, it wasn't that way anymore, but it was a habit I didn't even think about breaking.
Sometime around lunch time, I heard voices a floor above me. It wasn't unusual for that to be the case; people were in and out all day long. But what caught my attention was the fact that the voices sounded agitated and raised. I got up out of my chair and walked into the hallway, shamelessly trying to eavesdrop near the staircase. When the voices seemed to get even louder, I found myself moving up the stairs, worried that whoever was working upstairs might be in some kind of trouble.
I pushed the door open and walked into the front of the church with a pit in my stomach. Father Sanders was standing in the aisle between the front pews, holding his hands up like he was trying to silence who he was talking to (yelling at).
That person was... oh, lordy... Johnnie Allen. Of course. That was just my life.
"Are you raising your voice to a priest?" I heard myself ask as I moved further into the room.
Johnnie's smile was on his face before his eyes even lifted to find me. "Heya angel," he said, inclining his head at me.
"It's alright, Amelia," Father Sanders said in his rough voice that always kind of rubbed me the wrong way. He always seemed (because he was) dismissive of me.
I looked from him to Johnnie who was wearing another pair of black jeans, plain black creepers, and a white v-neck tee that showed a generous chunk of tattoos that were on his chest, thereby satisfying my inappropriate curiosity. "What's going on?" I asked him, ignoring Father Sanders' none-too-subtle dismissal of me.
"Father Sanders and I were just... discussing my father's arrangements," he supplied with a shrug.
"And that resulted in raised voices... why?" I asked, more than a little annoyed that someone like him, someone who didn't give a spit about Ben got to be the one to make his final arrangements.
"Amelia that is hardly..." Father Sanders started, but was cut off by Johnnie.
"We simply don't see eye to eye on my part in the process."
