the more you ignore me Who: Rafe & Bryan [NPC]. What: Isobel's stalker widens his circle. Where: Newport Beach Municipal Beach; beachfront property in front of Pax Letale. When: April 9, morning.
The cabana was one of many along the municipal beach; each were privately owned and operated, their menus varying wildly as they fought to remain ahead of the competition. The little beachfront stores served anyone who was swimming the sea or walking the sand; hot dogs, hamburgers, heavier drinks if you had the correct ID, and simpler fare as well. This particular one was mostly empty; only one man sat at the barstools provided, his back to the ocean. He was nursing a bright blue drink, low conversation with the store keep occupying them both until a third party wandered into their midst.
Sand and salt gleamed on his bare chest, flecks of silver glitter against bronze flesh. His hair was wet and windblown, both his board shorts and the shortboard tucked beneath his arm dripping onto the beach below. He waved to the bartender, who immediately began preparing a Caipirinha for the newcomer. After propping the board in the sand, he took a seat next to the lone visitor at the barstools.
"Beautiful day, huh," he said, unable or unwilling to curb the bright smile on his face.
"Incredibly," the fresh-faced young man returned, lifting his drink in Rafe's direction. He was clean-shaven, the skin around his mouth newly pink to say it had not been exposed to the sun in a long while. He wore beaten shorts that cut off around his knees, and a flowery button up shirt. Black shades covered his eyes, and close-cropped hair made him look like any other machismo 'dude' hanging out at the beach in lieu of an actual job. He nodded in reference to Rafe's board. "How's the surf?"
"Smaller than I like, and a little choppy," he said, "but workable. Any day on the water is a good day." Rafe's drink arrived. He curled a hand around its base and raised it to the stranger in answering toast. Then he tipped it up, savoring each small sip. "Do you surf?"
The stranger shook his head. "No, at least, not yet. I'm thinking about it. I don't live around here -- still apartment shopping. What about you?" The glass and its black straw came back to his lips, which he sucked gently as his brows rose in question in Rafe's direction.
"Oh I'm just nearby." Rafael pointed with his glass to the tall, elegant building right against the waterfront. "I moved in recently. It's a nice place. I'd recommend them, but they seem very particular about residents." He shrugged, taking another lengthy sip and crunching on an ice cube. "It wouldn't hurt to speak with the concierge, at least, right?"
The man's brows drew together across his forehead, curious; one hand wrapped around the base of his glass, condensation running across his knuckles as he put it back down on the counter. "Picky, huh? What's the place?"
"Pax Letale," Rafael answered. "If you go in, Stephan Waters is the concierge's name. As far as I can tell he holds the keys to the kingdom." He smiled, pausing to sip at his cocktail. "He's odd, but he's always been kind to me. I don't mean to give you a bad impression of the place. Just… reasonable expectations."
Rafe's answer moved over the man's face in a wave of emotions; first surprise, then realization, then a slight helping of sadness. He shook his head, a hand rising over his head to scratch at his nape.
"Naw, not that one," he finally said. He looked vaguely sheepish. "I mean, I've seen it from the outside, it looks awesome. Just... an old flame of mine lives there. With the guy she left me for, and..." He shrugged, Turning to lean one side of his torso against the bar, a foot on the bar along the bottom lip of the bar for such gestures. "It'd be awkward, you know? I don't wanna make it any weirder than it already is." His mouth bent downward, and he reached up to pull his glasses down over the bridge of his nose, revealing vividly blue eyes.
"Hey, though, you might know her. A chick named Isobel?"
Short though the story was, it struck a chord with Rafael even before his friend's name came up. A bright smile broke over his face, tempered as he tried to be mindful of this jilted stranger's feelings. "I do," he said. "She's a friend of mine. You know it's very… big of you, to consider the situation like that. I'm sure she would appreciate the thoughtfulness. Sometimes it's, um…" He braced himself with the last sip of his drink, jingling the ice in the glass to request a second. "It can be difficult to be so close to be someone you used to be close to."
The man paused, one corner of his mouth tapering up as if to say, 'ah ha.' Then he nodded, either feeling comfortable enough to continue with the line of conversation or reeling Rafe in even further.
"Believe me," he said, a self-deprecating smile on his lips, "It's not just for her sake. The whole thing ended pretty messy, and neither of us got out unhurt. And if you go by my estimation, she's not doing half bad now, you know? The guy she's with had a lot of money..." He stopped, one hand raised. "Not making a judgement, promise. It'd just be hard, to see her happy with him instead of with me, you know?"
Rafael nodded, ice clinking in his raised glass as he did. "I do," he said. "I do. And there's no reason to make it hard on either of you if you don't have to. Just try not to dwell on it." A shadow of a smile appeared against the rim of his glass; he drowned the melancholy expression with another lengthy sip. "Easier said than done, I know."
The man's head bobbed, his brows rising and falling in agreement. "Sounds like you know what I'm talking about, right?" He reached out, slapping one of Rafe's bare shoulders with a hand. Then it slithered back to his drink.
"You know, I've got a bunch of pictures of us. I don't know what to do with them; can't just throw 'em out, you know? And I've been thinking... I dunno, do you think it's weird, that maybe she'd want a copy?" His words seemed timid, but the look beneath the sunglasses was anything but.
That sad smile twitched on Rafael's lips again. He realized he was allowing too much of himself to bleed into this conversation, and yet he could not help himself. He finished his drink before he answered, telling himself with each sip to give any answer other than the one he so desperately wanted. But when he spoke, what came out was what he would have wanted to hear.
"You never know," he said. "She might want them. She might throw them out. But if you want her to have them, you should give them to her, and realize they'll be hers to do with as she pleases."
"Oh, I get that. I just... She doesn't seem to want to see me, or I don't know, I think she changed her number and I don't know her address. It's not like I could just mail them to her, you know?" The man sipped his drink again. "Even I was hurt, but I still hang on to the photos. It's not like it was all bad. But it seems a little creepy to just drop them off with the concierge."
After a beat, he dug into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, withdrawing from it a several times bent and faded photo of two much younger looking people. The woman, after some careful study, was clearly Isobel, though her head was thrown back in laughter and angled away from the camera. She had her arms around the shoulders of a man, possibly the one sitting next to Rafe right then, who was laughing as well and looking outside of the frame.
"Hey," he said, looking at Rafe with a new curiosity. "I know this is gonna sound weird, but do you think you could give her this? She still has all my contact info. Maybe if she does want the photos, she could reach out to me. I mean, what's it gonna hurt, just having you give her this one thing?"
For the first time that morning, Rafael hesitated. He looked over the photograph, reading the joy on the young couples' face, finding in it something once familiar, now lost. He swallowed down the knot that had risen in his throat. Though he did not know Isobel's fiance as well as he knew her, he felt some fleeting sense of loyalty to him all the same; this all felt questionable at best, but still he could not entirely convince himself not to give in.
"I guess," he said, uncertainty drawing out the word. "I… I really can't promise anything, okay? I'm not going to make your case for you. But I can give this to her, at least." He reached out, tanned fingertips pulling the photograph toward him.
The man let it go, carefully applying a small amount of hesitation to his own movements.
"I'm not asking you to advocate for me. Just that she gets this," he replied. "I think it can speak well enough on its own." Then his fingers were gone from the photograph, a promise extracted in exchange. "I'd really appreciate it, man. You're doing me a huge favor. And I mean, it's just a photo; no harm done." He took a longer sip of his drink, watching and waiting to see if Rafe might change his mind.
But Rafael seemed convinced by the young man's soft-spoken mien. He nodded, offering him a reassuring smile. "Okay," he said. "You got it." He carefully picked up the photograph in his now-dry hand, holding it delicately. His drinks were added to his tab, and he waved a cheerful farewell to both bartender and stranger.
He had called Isobel as soon as he was back in his apartment, unwilling to hold on to something of such sentimental value any longer than he must. He had made a promise, besides, and he intended to keep it. So he gave her little enough detail, promising to answer everything the moment he got into dry clothes. After a quick shower to rinse off sand and salt, and an even quicker change into a white wifebeater and khaki cargo shorts, he shuffled up to Apartment D3, photograph in hand. He rapped at the door in a merry little rhythm.
She answered it, expecting him. Isobel looked haggard, clearly tired; she was dressed for the weekend in faded jeans and a black shirt, her feet bare inside her living space. Long hair was tied up in a loose bun, and she obviously had to work to look as happy as she felt to see him.
"Hey," she said, ushering him into the apartment. "So what's all of this about?"
Rafael paused just inside the door to step out of his flip flops. He turned back to her, withdrawing a small, folded, glossy sheet of paper from his shorts pocket. "I won't keep you long," he said, misinterpreting her mood as directed at his intrusion. "This morning I stopped for a drink after I went surfing, and I met someone who said he knew you. I told him I wouldn't promise anything, and I do feel a little guilty…" He held out the folded photograph to her. "But I told him I'd give you this."
Isobel's semi-happy demeanor wilted entirely at Rafe's simple explanation, and she froze. Her gaze dropped from his face to the folded photo in his hand. She made no move to take it.
"Who did you get it from? Did he give you his name?"
Rafe frowned, his gaze darting toward the ceiling as he thought back on their brief meeting. "He didn't, no." He looked to Isobel, taking a single step to close the distance between them. He pulled the photograph back toward himself. "Blue eyes, short sandy hair…"
Her grimace widened, and she gingerly took the photo from his grasp. She took her time unfolding it, and it was clear that whoever the source was, was someone she did not want to see again. Isobel stared at the photo for a moment, then started tearing it into pieces. Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked to hold them back.
"If you see him again, you should report him to the police. His name is Bryan Stations, and he's dangerous, Rafe. I didn't... I didn't think he'd start going after other people around me." She let the pieces of the photo flutter to the floor, one hand rising to wipe at the bottom of her right eye with the heel of her palm. "Was this the first time you've seen him? Has he come around here before?" Anxiousness underlined every word.
"No," he answered, quickly. He knelt by Isobel's feet, scooping up the shredded portions of the photograph into his palm. He closed his hand around them, removing them from her sight. "No, I've never seen him before. Here or anywhere. I'm sorry, Isobel. I didn't know…" His eyes met hers, her worry reflected there. The flush of embarrassment rose to his face. "What… I don't want to pry, but dangerous how?"
She immediately moved to help, then put a hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to rise. "It's not your fault. Just... He gets angry, and he can get physical. I don't want anything to happen to you." She took the rest of the shredded photo from his hands, disappearing into the apartment to dispose of it. Isobel returned quickly, her expression a combination of apology and guilt.
"If you see him again, please don't speak to him. Just... I don't know. Calling the police is probably a good idea, but I don't want to make you any more uncomfortable than I already have."
He raised his hands, immediately shaking his head in dismissal of her concern. "No, no. Please don't worry about me. I'm sorry I put you in this position." Rafael frowned, shame still deepening the color in his tanned cheeks. "I hope I don't see him, but if I do, I'll report him. What… is there something in particular I should tell the police when I call? If I do see him?"
Isobel's jaw worked for a moment, one part of her brain telling her she was being silly for her reaction, the other half wanting to just curl up in the tub and hope all of it would disappear. Thankfully, an angrier part was starting to grow in the middle, exhaustion pumping up her irritation with the whole scenario.
"I have a restraining order against him, and if he's here, he's violating it. They can arrest him."
Rafael's stomach dropped. Color drained from his face. What had begun as shame had progressed to full-scale fear; if he had put Isobel in any danger, he would not forgive himself. He raked a hand through his still damp hair. "Okay. I will. I'm so sorry, Isobel. If I think I see him again I'll call the cops. I swear."
He took a step back toward the door. "I'll let you… deal with this. If you need anything, Isobel, please let me know. I… I'll try to make this right."
"Please, don't... It's all right, Rafe," she offered. She could easily see his wish to leave; and, frankly, she wanted to be alone in that instant, so she moved around him and opened the door. "I just want you to be safe." Somehow, it was easier to worry about others than herself. She tried to smile at him, even while her mind was wondering where her phone was, if she should text or call Obed or leave all of this alone.
Once Rafe had passed out the door (his expression still making her feel overwhelmingly guilty about dragging another party into her problems), she leaned against it as though the inanimate object might lend her its strength. It was just a photo...just a photo... She kept chanting to herself, for all the good that it did.