Dude... Are You Stalking Me?

Disclaimer: If I owned My Chemical Romance, do you honestly think I’d be on some obscure website writing stories about them? No. I’d be in Japan somewhere, studying animation and flittering away my ill-begotten wealth on pocky, wrist bands and do jinshi. So don’t sue. All you’d get outta it would be ABC Dentyne Fire, and some pocket lint. And to be perfectly honest with you... I don’t even own the lint.

Chapter One

Rita Martinez sighed. There were a lot of things she hated about Mondays. The long line in the bagel store when she stopped in for a muffin, paper and her morning coffee. The way the entire exhausting week stretched before her, mocking her with its infinite possibilities of torture and telemarketing calls. The fact that it was Monday. But most of all, she hated the commute.

Rita’s small mouth contracted in a silent snarl as the oh-so-considerate business man standing in front of her once again jostled her hand with his briefcase. Which caused her extremely hot coffee to once again spill over onto her reddened hand. And once again, when she called it to his attention, he paid no heed.

Why did I have to go to school in Manhattan, of all the cursed places in this good-for-nothing shit stain of a city, she thought mournfully.

Rita was a student at the School of Visual Arts. Her dream was to write and illustrate children’s books, and so was taking a lengthy course to polish her not-inconsiderable artistic talents. The only problem was, to do so she had to take the goddamn train all the way from Bay Ridge in Brooklyn every day. Which meant she had to endure two hours of this wondrous euphoria every morning, and again every afternoon. And of course, she couldn’t go straight home. No, in stead she had to transfer to the 2 train and get off at Beverly Road so she could rush to her job.

And why, once again, did I take a job tending bar in Flatbush, of all hellish places, she moaned internally and sipped at her rapidly emptying coffee cup. Shit, I should just save the gangs the trouble and shoot myself.

She took another long sip of the hot, sweet, blissful poison Juan Valdez had been so thoughtful to hock to the White Man, and her tense shoulders just began to relax... when suddenly, that self-same poison was splashed over her tan face.

Blazing dark-chocolate eyes flashed open and found that once again, the briefcase had upset her cup. But this time, it wasn’t just her hand or copy of the Daily News that got scalded, stickied and sopping wet; it was her face. That was the last straw. The furious girl dropped her now mostly-empty cup and stood. The man who had been standing in front of and above her looked down in arrogant disinterest.

That is, of course, until she grasped his tie and yanked him down to her eye level.

“Now you listen to me, you arrogant gringo fucker,” she fairly bellowed in his face. “I was patient. I was nice. Fuck that shit, I was mother-fuckin Mother THERESA with your briefcase-swingin ass this entire ride. But now,” A slightly crazed smile stretched her rose-tinted lips and bared her even, white teeth. “Oh, NOW you got me pissed. Not only did you burn my hand. Not only did you wet my paper. But. BUT! You fuckin burned. My. Face. And do you know what you get for that?” The man, at first merely caught completely off guard, was now thoroughly terrified. He couldn’t even bring himself to shake his head. Not that it would have mattered, of course. Rita grinned. And although when she smiled it made her even prettier than usual, some had gone so far as to say gorgeous... this grin drove a stake of horror through the man’s heart.

“You get this.” She let go of his tie. Pushed him harshly backward... and gifted him with a good, strong right hook to his handsomely squared jaw.

The man staggered backward, his arms windmilling wildly. No one moved to steady him. After about four steps he crashed to the floor of the train, squarely on his flat ass. There was a brief moment of silence... and then the cheers. People clapped, laughed and whistled as the enraged Hispanic girl breathed heavily in an attempt to reign in her anger. One man went so far as to lift her right fist in a sign of victory, and this at least brought a small smirk to her face.

Her anger spent, Rita regained her seat. She fished through her bag for a napkin and wiped the now cool stickiness from her face. She sighed.

That was stupid, she thought wearily. She glanced quickly around the crowded car before sitting back once again. I’m lucky there weren’t any cops around, the last thing I need is for someone to have to come bail me outta jail. She looked around at the still-smiling faces adorning the train car, and some of the seriousness drained from her manor. Well, she thought lightly. If nothing else, I gave ‘em a story to tell their kids.

One man sitting almost directly across from her caught her eye. He had longish black hair which nicely framed a slightly pale face. He wore large, square black shades, a P-coat open over a black Iron Maiden t-shirt, and worn jeans. He was smirking at her, and Rita couldn’t help but slide her own shades down to the tip of her nose in response. She raised an eyebrow as he mimicked her. His shades slid down to reveal the most startling pair of hazel eyes.

“Nicely done,” He mouthed at her, and winked. She laughed and gathered her things as the conductor announced that hers would be the next stop.

I guess Mondays don’t completely suck, she mused as the train ground to a stop. She glanced around to where the mysterious man had been sitting just moments before, but he was gone. The doors whooshed open and when her Converse All-Stars hit the platform, he was already forgotten.

***

“I’ve told you time and again, Miss Martinez. When you shadow, you must keep all of your strokes uniform. If they go every which way, the eye is drawn to them. This is sloppy. Fix it, and bring it to me tomorrow with your finished assignment.”

For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, Rita sighed. This was the third time she had redone this assignment. And to tell the truth, it looked fine to her. She stared down at the offending drawing with a critical eye and frowned. Okay, so her lines wavered a bit here and there. But it wasn’t really that noticeable. In fact, she mused, you could hardly even tell unless you were looking for... Her frown deepened. Well, in this light it looked like... She heaved a despondent sigh and hung her head, her ebon curls falling about her face. Okay, so it was crap. It wasn’t her fault; Professor Ang expected her to be Picasso himself, when she had no formal training where art was concerned. She had taught herself with a stubby, chewed off pencil and a scrap of newspaper while watching Looney Tunes on Saturday mornings. She was trying; what more could he ask for?

Rita carefully slipped the drawing into her satchel and jogged to the stairs. At least she got out early today, that gave her just enough time to get home and change for work. She tugged absently at her waist-length hair and straightened her black Led Zeppelin t-shirt as she started down the stairs. Her faded jeans made a slight swishing sound as the flared bottoms brushed together. It was the only sound she heard until she reached the street.

She paused. The biting wind assaulted her senses; it cleared her cluttered mind, cooled her rising temper and bathed her aching brow. With a deep, cleansing breath she looked up to the shimmering slate sky of early November. The wind blew again, reminding her of the jacket forgotten around her waist. She smiled. With a quick movement she un-slung the satchel from her shoulder, pulled the black hooded jacket from her waist and slipped it on. She zipped it only to mid-chest and replaced her bag before she noticed that the sleeve had caught on the buckle of the wristband she wore on her left arm. Rita tugged lightly at the fabric. It came free easily, and she looked up as she prepared to cross the street to the subway.

Leaning against the wall of the Baskin Robins directly across from the school was the man from the train. He had one hand in the pocket of his jeans, his shades tucked into the pocket of his coat which, despite the cold, remained open. In his free left hand he held a milkshake. His silky black hair was blown back from a clear brow and his eyes, those startling hazel eyes, were narrowed against the rising wind.

They seemed to notice each other at the exact same instant. Their eyes met and with a smirk, he raised his shake in a saucy little salute. Rita laughed lightly and tossed her head in a return nod before she turned and trotted toward the train station. Before she started down the steps she slipped her own rimless black shades in place.

What are the odds, she mused. She was still smirking. She glanced back briefly, but the throng of strap hangers obscured the mysterious man from view. With an internal shrug, Rita trotted down the steps and toward home, fumbling for her Metrocard as the train rumbled into the station.

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