My rallies had been increasing in attendance the more known I was becoming, the more my message was being spread and reaching the public of Brookfield Heights. I’d even gained a few dedicated fans, a group of young women who turned up at every event I hosted and even went so far as to dye their hair a blue similar to my own in a sign of solidarity and their loyalty to my campaign.
As I was speaking, feeding on the public’s fear and making the promises to assuage them, my eyes traveled to you as I was scanning the crowd, letting my eyes make the connection with everyone. You were new – I hadn’t ever seen you before, and I could note almost everyone who had turned up at one of my rallies, separate the newcomers from the old friends.
Plus it was the expression on your face and look in your eyes that gave it away. Your eyes held the skepticism of someone who was relatively new to the platform, yet glimmered with the interest and fascination that kept them with me.
My eyes locked with yours as I continued. I let the contact linger for a moment before continuing to deliver my speech, finally flicking my gaze out to the rest of the crowd once more.
It was a breezy fall day. I shivered, regretting not wearing a coat—instead, all I had on was a plaid flannel button down over a plain back T-shirt, accompanied by jeans and soft brown moccasin boots. My long brown hair swirled around me as I picked my way through the crowd.
I smirked disdainfully as I shoved my way through the gaggle of blue-haired girls to get closer to the front. Desperate whores, I thought to myself. I smiled as I saw you make your way onto the stage to a round of cheers and applause. They probably only care about your beautiful face instead of what you have to say. My heart swelled as the crowd died down and you began to speak. I, at least, care about both, I admitted sheepishly.
I continued to watch you, enthralled. Your faded blue hair pulled back in a neat bun. Your voice, charismatic and warm. Your face, handsome, yet fierce. Your hands, large and strong. You were everything most politicians weren’t, and that’s why I loved you.
I snapped back to my senses when I noticed your intense dark eyes bore into mine. A flicker of a smile ghosted your lips. Despite the chill in the air, I felt a heat from the pit of my stomach creep all the way up to my face. You had noticed me.
But as quickly as it had come, your gaze had left mine. Disappointment gripped my heart. I wanted more of you. Impatiently, I waited for your speech to end. Did I dare try to approach you after the rally?
I did. As the final applause faded away and you began to exit the stage, I hurried forward and called after you, “Mr. Anderson!”
The rally had gone off without a single hitch. People were impassioned, attentive, inflamed as I riled them up. The cheers and applause that had carried through the town square were those of a campaign well on its way to success.
A call of my name captured my attention. It wasn’t unusual for my attention to be grabbed after a speech. Fans would rush forward to greet me and to ask for autographs like I was some sort of celebrity – a flattering thought, really – and reporters would practically kick their way through the gathering crowds just to ask a few more badgering questions to follow up what I had spoken about on the platform.
But this one was somehow different. It was less like the demanding call of the news station or the excited shrill of some young blue-haired woman, and it was more like someone genuinely interested in something. What that “something” was, I could only guess, but nevertheless it effectively captured my attention.
As I stepped off the stage, I was immediately swarmed with the typical crowd, but my eyes sought out the person who had called my name so urgently. Finally my gaze caught you weaving your way through to reach me. I continued tending to the usual crowd, answering a few questions here and there and signing a couple of things and snapping some photos with the fans to help keep up the personable image that would eventually seat me as Councilman.
When you reached me, I turned to you with curiosity and a diplomatic smile, teasing lightly, “You must have something important to say with that much urgency. What can I do you for?”
A few things caught me off guard. One, you had the most adorable dimple when you smiled. Two, you were even sexier up close, if that were possible. Three, you had said “what can I do you for”, which was probably a mistake on your part, but you said it so smoothly that I couldn’t be sure.
“Well Mr, Anderson,” I began innocently, “I was simply going to compliment you on your passionate and captivating speeches, but if you are offering yourself up so freely, then take me out for dinner and I’m all yours.” I bit my lip and smiled coyly at you, the heat rising to my cheeks once again at my boldness.
Your response was admittedly unexpected. Normally the women who approached me at my rallies weren’t nearly as bold as you were. Of course they were typically younger, just out of their teens with minds that begged to be molded, and you were clearly more mature. More around my age, if I were to guess, but with a simple beauty that could rival that of any twenty year old.
Yet your audacity was rivaled by the blush that rose to color your cheeks. You were bold yet modest. That was an intriguing combination. It was almost rare to find in today’s society, where modesty had been tossed out the window in favor of blatant promiscuity.
You were – dare I say – interesting… and we had yet to truly talk.
A single eyebrow lifted in response to your returning statement, though a smile still tugged at the corners of my lips. “I’m flattered, but maybe we should start with coffee.”
I watched you deliberate. You looked as if you were almost appraising me or sizing me up. You weren’t much taller than me, and also a lot thinner I was, yet I still felt intimidated by you. Charming, yet intimidating—it was a dangerous combination. A dangerous combination that I wanted to get caught up in, no matter the outcome or the consequences.
My heart pounded as I awaited your answer. Outwardly though, I remained cool. I didn’t want to seem like an awkward spaz.
I watched you raise your eyebrow and smirk slightly as you delivered your answer. Cocky little shit, I thought to myself, biting my lip as I felt my heart flutter.
I sighed, picking at my fingernails and trying to seem disinterested to fake you out.
“I don’t like coffee—but I like you, so I guess I’ll have to compromise,” I said nonchalantly, my eyes flickering back up to your face as I shot you a smirk of my own. “When?” I demanded.
My Type is Homicidal 