Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery 8

Knock Knock. Who's There? 9/11. 9/11 Who? You said you'd never forget!
Knock Knock. Who’s There? 9/11. 9/11 Who? You said you’d never forget!

I finally got a hold of a friend from Jersey, and he said he’d let me stay at his house, since there was no way I could get back uptown. He wasn’t home when I made it to his place, so I used his spare key hidden under the mat in the back. I turned on the TV. They were showing the towers blowing up, over and over again. And the plane crashes. The Pentagon. They were all saying “Bin Laden, Bin Laden, America under attack.”

I made a fateful decision that would affect the rest of my life. I turned off the TV. I would never turn in on again. I wanted to preserve my memories; what I had actually witnessed. What I had actually seen. I did not want my memory of the day’s events to be spoiled, ruined by whatever lies were coming out of the boob tube.

I knew someone was lying, but I didn’t know who. I used my friend’s landline to call up just about everyone; family, friends.

Patty.

Patty. I still feel so guilty about her. She was “the one that got away.” I had met her at work, the year before I moved to New York. There was some problem in the HR department with my recent signing bonus, and my boss, a hot headed white Mexican who fit just about every stereotype in the book, walks over with me and starts chewing out Patty’s boss, screaming and yelling and cursing and embarrassing the guy. So when my boss leaves, the guy pawns me off on Patty, the new girl. The poor thing looked like she was scared out of her mind, she was literally shaking a bit, just having her boss get chewed out like that.

Patty
Patty

So I reassured her. I smiled. “I’m so sorry about this, he can get out of hand sometimes. It’s no big deal, I’m sure we can figure this out.” Another smile. I whisper to her, “he’s like that with everyone, don’t worry.” I laugh. She laughs. She starts relaxing a little bit, we make some wry comments about the company, and then I notice she’s being kind of flirtatious. A few days later everyone is out at happy hour at the place a few blocks away, I notice she’s there, so I sit down next to her. We talk, flirt a bit. I suggest we go out sometime, get her number. We make a date, it’s wonderful. She winds up coming back to my place, for everything but sex. I didn’t mind. She was super hot with an amazing body. Blonde haired blue eyed Irish Catholic girl. Sweet as can be, with a sarcastic sense of humor. She wants to get home, so I call her a cab, but it never comes. She winds up waking up at like 3:00 and I’m apologizing, calling the cab place back, and she finally goes home. She lived with her parents, who were kind of religious. I’m sure some rules were broken, she wasn’t supposed to spend the night out on weekdays.

A few dates later, I take her out on the town and rent us a room in the fanciest hotel in the city. We go “all the way” for the first time. I felt like a teenager again. We mostly tried to hide our little office romance, but we became the talk of the company in short order. We would take our breaks together, and she would do this little routine that brings a smile to my face, to this day. She would email me first thing in the morning a color: red, blue, yellow, etc. Then, when we would meet up to take our break in the morning, we’d get in the elevator alone. I’d just attack her, pull up her skirt or reach down her pants to verify the color panties she was wearing. She would squeal with delight. Then a few seconds later when the elevator reached the ground floor, we’d put on our serious work faces again, and walk out like we were just two co-workers picking up coffee. We’d got to some bench that was partly secluded and make out like horny teenagers.

It might be Catherine Two
It might be Catherine Two

I was planning on marrying her. We made a perfect couple. We got along great. I just needed to get set up in New York, get stable in the job, and I’d propose and move her out there. There was only one thing that made me hestitate about her; she was a TV junkie. More hardcore than most. She wanted the TV on at all times.

She didn’t have “it” either. A sense of the tragic. She was sunny. Extroverted. Cheerful.

So when I’m talking to her Tuesday night, she had spent all day long watching TV. I’m trying to explain to her that something’s wrong, they aren’t telling the truth. She thinks I’m just shook up, that I’m acting crazy. That’s the treatment I – and everyone else – would get, from that day forward. “You’re crazy. You’re a conspiracy theorist. You have PTSD, you can get free drugs and therapy in your sign these papers. Put yourself on the health register so we can keep track of any long term complications.”

I never signed the papers. I never took the drugs. I never went to therapy. I didn’t trust them. Still don’t.

But it cost me Patty.

Mystery

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