Chapter Eight

Sitting in the Jeep, I shake my head, clearing away the intrusive thoughts depicting odd metaphors of figurative pendulums with truth sharpened blades… and decide to give Kyra a call. I barely slept at all last night, causing my overly tired brain to conjure up some rather bizarre ideas. Maybe I'll suggest a nap to Randy when he comes back. Some sleep will probably do both of us some good.

The phone scarcely makes it through the second ring before Kyra picks up, speaking with an anxious, grave tone. She doesn't bother to answer with a hello or any sort of greeting.

“Leslie! You saw what she posted didn't you?” Kyra blurts out.

“Saw what who posted?” I inquired, feeling a sense of dread wash over me.

Releasing a long exhale before clarifying, Kyra fills me in. “Oh God. Leslie, I’m so sorry girl. Katie posted pictures of her and Randy all over each other online. It’s on F******k, I*******m, and TikTok. She tagged Randy in them as well.”

This actually isn't all that shocking to be honest. Katie thrives on chaos and what better way to create chaos than by posting pictures of yourself all over another girl's boyfriend? The issue at hand is that I have zero personal social media profiles. I only use social media to promote and post updates for my YouTube channel. Randy has a personal F******k profile that he never post on or does anything with.

“That's just freaking wonderful, but also not in the least surprising that Katie would do that. I swear this whole situation is going to put me in an early grave.”

“Don't say things like that, Leslie. I know it seems like it right now, but just remember it's not the end of the world. How did your talk with Randy go? You guys did actually talk right?” Kyra's implication in wondering if we actually talked isn't lost to me.

“Yes, we talked. Quiet a bit actually and in doing so uncovered some details about last night that ended up with Randy going to the clinic—.” Kyra doesn't let me finish.

“What? Why did he go to the clinic? Did you break his nose again?”

Switching over to speakerphone, I logged into F******k for my YouTube page, searching for those pictures Katie posted. “No, I didn't break his nose again! He swore he barely had two beers and that he couldn't understand how that made him so drunk. Long story short, it sounded more and more like he had been drugged. We drove to the clinic so he could get tested to be sure, and he tested positive for GHB Kyra. Katie drugged Randy last night.”

Kyra is speechless for several seconds, which for her is an eternity. “That psychotic bitch!” She blurts in disbelief. “What’s her angle on drugging Randy? Is he pressing charges?”

“Yeah, this entire situation went from being really messed up to really fucked up. Randy is apprehensive about pressing charges because of who her father is. We’re working on that, however.”

“So you’re not mad at him any more then? Leslie, you should know a little more about the pictures Katie posted online…”

“What in the actual fuck?” I bite out, cutting Kyra off before she can finish, swiping furiously through the pictures Katie posted online.

“I take it you found the pictures?” Kyra states softly.

Yeah, I found the god-damn pictures. She posted them as an album with a caption stating; ‘Catching up over a game of poker with Randy Turner and friends. Seriously, forgot how much fun we used to have back in the day until he reminded me last night!’

The first several are clearly from last night, showcasing a new picture of Katie taking turns sitting comfortably on each guy's lap around our dining room table, holding up her hand of cards and wearing her barely there black tube top mini dress. Except in the photo where she’s sitting on Randy’s lap, her hands are holding each side of his face with their lips pressed firmly together.

From that point on, the photos become progressively worse. Katie never leaves Randy’s side, as documented in the pictures. She's leaning her head on his shoulder, kissing him on the cheek, has her hand constantly on his knee or upper thigh or whispering in his ear with him smiling or laughing. Although Randy doesn't reciprocate the behavior in return to Katie, he doesn't seem at all uncomfortable with her all over him either. I also notice scrolling through the pictures that she doesn’t behave in this manner with any of the other guys there. Randy is her target.

The next couple of pictures are alarming and disturbing. It’s obvious Randy is really messed up and barely coherent. His eyes are droopy, and his expression appears off, almost slackened. The pictures are a close up of their faces leaned against each other in our bedroom on our bed. These photos are captioned with ‘Seven minutes in heaven?’ I growled out loud looking at these pictures, seeing in real time that the GHB Katie slipped Randy had fully hit his system at that point in the evening.

It’s when I swipe over to the next few photos that I truly understand why the phrase ‘seeing red’ is used to describe someone experiencing extreme rage. Because that’s all I can see is Katie’s red blood all over herself and my hands, as I sit horrified inside the Jeep visualizing myself repeatedly stabbing her over and over.

“There are pictures of them sitting together at the bar he sometimes goes to on the weekends…” I pointed out quietly.

Kyra stayed quiet at the other end of the line while I went through the photos. The photos I'm currently staring at are from one specific date I know of. Back in early spring of this year, Randy attended an old buddy of his from high school a small bachelor party held for him at a bar. Randy never said a word about Katie being there with them. He especially didn't say anything to me about her hanging on his shoulder, sitting right beside him with her arm hooked in his, or that he bobbed for multiple shots from between her cleavage with his mouth while she's arched back on the bar.

Randy never said a word about any of that. This is comical because he told me the following day after coming home after 4 am that night and blacking out on the couch, that the bachelor party was pretty low-key and uneventful. It was just a few guys hanging out together. What a crock of shit!

“Leslie… I don’t know what to say other than that some of the information you're getting isn't exactly lining up with what's actually happening.

“Sure seems that way, doesn't it?” I deadpan while saving every single photo of Randy and Katie onto my phone.

Even though the hurt cuts deep, at least the photos of last night make it evident that something was majorly off with Randy. But the ones from the bar? He's thoroughly enjoying himself, grinning from ear to ear looking up at Katie with his mouth between her big boobs fishing for the shot glass.

I typed out a text message and attached a couple of the photos posted from last night and the ones with him practically lapping up bourbon off of Katie's bulging cleavage at the bar. Grabbing my cotton tote bag off the jeep floor, I threw the half door open, hopped out of the truck, and hit send as my feet hit the pavement.

Fuck. You. Randy. Turner.

“Are you OK, hun? Want me to come over or pick you up from somewhere? Drive around until we find somewhere nice to talk about all of this? Maybe over a few margaritas and chips and salsa?” Kyra gently offers.

Not even bothering to close the jeep door behind me, I took off jogging across the parking lot towards Main Street. Bar Harbors Main Street is lined with quaint two and three-story brick buildings with small alleyways in between, some that are utilized as seating areas arranged with benches and bistro tables off of the main strip. Hopefully, the seating spaces aren't too crowded.

“No, that's OK. For right now I really could use some time and space to think. I'll call you in a little while, okay?”

“You sure? Call me if you change your mind. I'll come looking for you if you don't.”

“I will. Talk to you later.” I ended the call a little out of breath, jogging across the street. Hanging on the right, I continue jogging down a narrow one-lane road that runs along the backside of the buildings on Main Street.

My phone started ringing with Randy’s ringtone. I end the call, and it immediately starts ringing again. This scenario plays out two or three more times until Randy realizes I'm not answering my phone on purpose and sends a message.

Where are you, Leslie? Please tell me you are OK. The door to the Jeep is wide open. We can figure the pictures and all of this out. I'll leave if I need to. Just please let me know you're OK.

I mutter curses at him under my breath and don't respond, shoving my iPhone in my bag. My heart is slamming against my ribcage and the warm summer afternoon air suddenly feels thick and suffocating in my lungs.

Reaching one of the small alleyways I know to have a few benches and chairs set up, I dip in and release a huge sigh of relief, discovering it's empty. Placing my hand over my chest, breathing heavily, I stepped forward and braced myself against the brick wall, feeling weak in the knees.

Steadying my breathing, I collapsed down on a bench tucked between two tall planter boxes flowing with lime green potato vine plants and colorful cascading pink and yellow flowers. Digging around in my bag for something to eat because the only substances I've consumed so far today are several cups of coffee and water. Nearly 5 pm now, my sugar levels are no doubt low.

Removing a slightly smashed peanut butter chocolate chip protein bar, I chomp away mindlessly at it, staring at nothing in particular on the red brick wall across the alley in front of me, stewing over the fuckery that my life has become practically overnight. Randy's text notification tone chimes again. Retrieving my phone, I read his message and snorted.

I know those photos with me and Katie at the bar look really bad. It's not entirely what it seems though.

I just need you to let me know that you're alright. Even if it's to tell me to fuck off again or that you hope I get hit by a semi-truck and die.

Please, I'm begging you, Leslie, just tell me you're OK and haven't been kidnapped or worse.

Curling my knees up to my chest in the corner of the bench, I rested my head on the brick wall, glaring down at the messages on my phone.

Your right Randy Turner, hanging out with your long-time ex-girlfriend at the bar behind my back looks bad because it is. I can't wait to hear his excuses and explanations for sucking shot glasses from between her obnoxiously pushed up boobs. I bet the reason their arms are hooked on each other was a complete accident as well.

He can say whatever he wants at this point, because I don't ever want to see or go near him again. Good luck to him for getting entangled with Katie again. That's probably why he is too much of a coward to file charges against her. Doesn't want to cause a commotion or upset anyone. Except he's perfectly fine with hurting, upsetting and taking advantage of me. He can have all of that hot mess and her gigantic boobs. I'm done.

Before Randy calls the police and reports me missing due to suspicious circumstances, I hastily reply to his text messages.

I want you and your shit out of my apartment by 9 pm tonight. If I get there and any trace of your crap is left, I'm setting it on fire.

His reply is nearly immediate and doesn't acknowledge that I've demanded he move out, which is annoying.

Thank you for letting me know you're OK. I’m so sorry about all of this, Leslie.

I don't bother with a response and toss my phone back in my bag. My head is still swimming and aching terribly now as well. Probably dehydrated. Chugging several gulps of water from my water bottle, I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes briefly, wishing this dizzy-headed sensation would stop.

A familiar strained male voice from behind startles me awake. My eyes fly open, and I notice that daylight is beginning to fade, dimming the alleyway into shades of lavender and muted blues. Apparently, I fell asleep for a couple of hours at least and remained curled up in a ball at the end of the hard wood and metal bench.

“Thank God, I found you baby girl... Come on, I’ll take you home.”