Wicked Love

Hunter S. Thompson, an author and journalist credited for popularizing the style. Gonzo journalism totally disregards the detached, objective components of traditional journalism in favor of a more personalized, and yes, often biased style of reporting. But there's one quote from Thompson that is continuing to replay in my head like a closed-loop recording: "Paranoia is just another word for ignorance."
My first couple of weeks of classes have come and gone. I'm still here. All in one piece. No lurking shadows in the corridors; no phantom footsteps outside my door; and no mysterious packages or notes left in my dorm mail slot. But it doesn't matter, because I know somebody is watching me.
How can I know this you ask? Because I feel it each time I step outside, walk to and from a class, stop for a latte at Starbucks, or stroll the campus for some much-needed exercise. I sometimes feel the wind whip around me while walking, causing goosebumps to rise on my skin. As I anticipate a stranger's hand reaching out to grab me by the shoulder, I whirl around and . . . there's nothing. Just ordinary people going about their ordinary business. College kids talking on their cell phones, strangers bicycling past me, non-descript couples walking hand in hand in front of me, and a sprinkling of faceless joggers running by with their ear-pods in, oblivious to me and the paranoia that is my most recent companion.
I'm not crazy. I'm paranoid. But I have reason to be. Somebody is indeed watching me. I can feel it instinctually. And I have no intention of ignoring my instincts. There's no way I will allow it to be my ignorance.
So, it's the weekend now. And I have plans. I had another recollection, or maybe partial recollection would be a better word for the dream I had last night. Just bits and pieces making a kaleidoscope of confettied pictures. One of those pictures has a name that, up until this time, hasn't surfaced in my conscious mind. Until last night.
Shelby Parker.
My classmate in last semester's Communication II class and a quasi-friend at the time. She was in her junior year, and she'd be a senior now. I remember the recollection dream I had while in Coma-World. This is a repeat dream, but with more clarity and detail about our trip to the Sanctuary sex club. Shelby holds some answers, I'm sure of it. But do I really want those answers?
I need to go out. The early October weather is unusually chilly, even for New York City. The sun is shining, so I decide I need some Vitamin D.
I grab a jacket, my backpack and head out, walking the five blocks to the Eclectic Cafe, my favorite place.
I love the ambiance of the E.C. Tables spread out with charging stations at each, instrumental jazz playing softly to soothe rather than distract. The smell of coffee and freshly baked goods greet me as I enter. I place my usual order: a latte and a buttered croissant with apricot jam. Then I settle into a booth by the wall.
I fire up my laptop and pull up the document to finish my summary outline for interpretive reporting in my Journalism class. My topic is The Consequences of Hypnotherapy. I decided on that topic because of my sessions with Dr. Kingsley. I want to get objective evidence by interviewing actual people who have gone through the process, to decide if the risks outweigh the outcomes. It seems like a pertinent topic for the project.
The server places my order on the table, and without looking up, I murmur a "Thank you very much."
"You're welcome, Carson," a deep male voice replies.
My head shoots up to see a familiar face, but not a campus face. It's Krew Beckett, the physical therapist who put me through weeks of torture both as an inpatient and outpatient after my accident.
"Krew!" I greet, noticing how great he looks in regular jeans and a sweater versus the blue scrubs he always wore for my therapy sessions. "I see you took time out from your torture chamber. What brings you over to this part of the city?"
"Ah, I recently took another position. The pay and hours are much better," he replies, "and as luck would have it, near campus."
He slides into the other side of the booth, and I feel like a jerk for not asking him to join me.
"Really?" I ask. "At the Eclectic Cafe? I thought physical therapy paid better than that?" I take a sip of my latte, hoping he knows I'm merely teasing.
"Actually, I went into private practice. Just a couple of blocks from here. I'm getting a lot of referrals from the Columbia Athletic Department. It's a nice chunk of business."
I break off a piece of the croissant just as the actual server brings Krew his order of a banana smoothie and a plate of fresh fruit.
"Still a health nut," I see, rolling my eyes. "But hey, congratulations on your new gig. Private practice and you're what? Like twenty-seven?"
"Twenty-eight," he corrects, forking a chunk of pineapple and popping it into his mouth. 'His sensuous mouth,' I think to myself.
Okay, so let me 'fess up. Right from the start I'd been infatuated by Krew's extraordinary looks and build. Almost to the point where I didn't want to bitch about the physical therapy exercises and personal recovery plan he developed for me. Almost being the operative word. He dubbed me the nickname 'Princess', which I hope, after these few months, he's blessedly forgotten.
"So, how about you, Princess? I'm surprised you're back in the Big Apple, after well, you know with your injuries and all."
"You should know my stubbornness better than anyone," I volley. "I'm not about to give up my pursuit of a career in journalism as a result of my . . . accident."
His deep green eyes study me intently, and I can't help but notice the tick in his jaw after I mention my accident. "Glad to see you