Chapter 34: Same Old CrazyThat coffee house became my home away from home over the few weeks. On the days when I could escape my room, I invariable swung by the Bean Being to grab a cup of coffee. It became part of my routine. That cup of coffee became a necessary part of settling into the character of dy for the day.

  The days passed quickly. By early evening I could feel the tingle in my throat that suggested my voice would soon drop back to its mase levels, and usually made my way home. It was a bit like derel and the midnight bell, though at least I didn’t have some prissy prince chasing after me. This princess didn’t need resg, thank you very mubsp; Sihat spray was only good for six to eight hours or so, I was kind of forced to spend a lot of time indoors.

  Off days, I sat around the apartment and worked out, read and watched movies. I drank a lot. I also waited for the of Scooter’s torture sessions to take pbsp; These beauty sessions were never quite as intensive as the first day--except for the day the bastard decided I needed a Brazilian wax, the fucker--but remaihe focal point of the day. On the days I used the spray I took my time to tinue my exploration of the ic, both above ground and through the undergrouwork of tunnels, and otherwise took advantage of the geous setting. I’ll admit: I was amazed at how quickly I got used to walking in public dressed like a girl. With each visit of the beautis my fidence grew; the image reflected in the mirror became increasingly ving.

  Which is why, yeah, I started ‘making friends’ at the ibsp; Like I said, most of these people? Mostly I felt disdain for them, especially those living uhe umbrel of the Hygieia tre. But dy? Well hell, she’s a muicer person that I am, and she filled my days with inane versations with sad and b people. Oher hand, ead every person I met for a coffee or a short chat in a pleasant, sun-bathed arbave me the ce to put into use all the femieiques and habits I ractig at night.

  Because my evenings? I spent those in my room practig to be dy, learning who she uzzling out her past and perfeg the absp; Nah, not ‘the act’. Ag’s not enough for this kind of subterfuge. To truly vinvolves ‘being’ and so, yeah, that’s what I practiced at night: ‘being’ dy.

  The first week passed. At times I was beyond bored and painfully aware of every single sed crawling by. Other times disappeared in a blink. dy moments barely registered. Lost in the character, fog intensely on every gesture, pose, word I spoke and the way I said it--hours could melt away, leaving me exhausted and drained but surprisingly pleased by the end.

  Still, I was itg for a little fun, for some excitement, you know? My injured side couldn’t heal fast enough. I was going stir-crazy. I was getting bored; really bored. You only spend so much time practig femis you’ve got no iion of retaining; and articles on female ent and fashion got old, fast. It literally hurt my brain reading that shit. So vacuous, so frivolous—mindless erist bullshit, though I ’t deny a few times I wondered how I’d look in the products been shoved down my throat.

  I was drinking way too mud kept getting pgued by these infrequent but absolutely blistering headaches that would strike at the weirdest times. I really think I was starting to go a little nuts. Or maybe it was just the same old crazy, ing away uhe unusual pressure of being dy--and now bubbling to the surface, worse than ever.

  By far the worse symptom was a growing suspi of my surroundings. I mean, hell, even as David Saunders I was never all that rexed, you know? I was always a little on edge and more than just a little distrusting. But now? A week into my stay at the ic my growing unease developed into full-blown paranoia. Those first few days, fog entirely on learning the fi of being dy, I’d almost fotten that I was, in fact, in hiding from the hit-men of a corporate psychopath. But the more I felt that there was something just not quite right about the pce, the more vinced I became that somehow Steele’s agents had mao infiltrate my new home. Believe me, there’s nothing like shamefully pretending to be a girl while living over a secret underground medical facility to heighten that paranoid edge.

  That m, a week into my stay, I left my room early for a quick jog around the ic, bared legs sleek and lithe in the fortable jogging shorts I’d slipped on after sliding out of bed. This early I didn’t o worry about meeting anyone. The sun still lurked beh the horizon, the sky only just beginning to lighten into diffuse indigo. My hair, tied ba a high ponytail with a pink schie, danced in ter-point to my ever step. With minimal makeup and no corset I felt wonderfully free as I raced through the faint mist and early m chill. Yeah, it was stupid and sloppy but I really o just cut loose for a moment. From a distance basic shape and colour would be enough to make me look girlie; it’s only up close that I would’ve been hard-pressed to pull off a ving dy.

  I didn’t bump into anyone. he end of my jog, as I warmed down from my effort, I had this sudden, intense sensation of being watched. As I stretched out front of the Cos residence I surreptitiously sed my surroundings. Nothing. Reason told me I was being insane; my instincts told me something was wrong. I trusted my instincts.

  Ba my room I dressed for the day, marvelling at how sed-nature the whole process was being. I went for something sexy but sensible that day: a loose, flowing skirt and a light purple blouse with wide, fred colr, over which I pulled on a fitted turtleneck sweater. Even with just trainers and small studs in my ears, I looked damn fine.

  I spent the day doing the usual things: a coffee at the Being Bean, followed by an hour hanging out in the library followed by lunch with one of the acquaintances dy had made, this sternly-dressed middle-aged woman called--get this--Crystal Dawn. Seriously. She was a bit fky and her questions were a bit personal at times, but she was fun to hang out with. There was something weird about her I couldn’t quite pce--probably the reason I liked chatting with her. Everyone likes a puzzle.

  So, yeah, the day was all fine and good--except that by te afternoon my normal paranoia had blossomed into near lunabsp; It took incredible effort to not look over my shoulder as I walked about, and I felt this incredible o retreat to my room, close all the blinds and huddle in the dark. In a final act of desperation I gave up ao the Bacchus Bar. I wanted a drink.

  I ordered a stiff scotd pou bad got myself a sed. I kept half-an-eye ohin crowd but nothing caught my attention. Except--by my third drink, at which point I remembered that dy wasn’t a Scotch drinker and I switched to wine--I was struck by an intense, powerful certainty.

  Somebody was watg me again. Somebody was following me

  After a forcefully rexed sip of my wine I pulled a pact from my purse. As I powdered my nose, so to speak, I used the mirror to covertly look over my shoulder. Nothing. More paranoia? As if going out in public dressed like a girl wasn’t enough to make me a bit twitchy. I gestured for the barteo e over.

  “Yes miss?”

  Being called miss still brought a wry smile to my lips. “Could you watch my drink?” I asked. “I have to go to the dies’ room.”

  “Sure.”

  “Where are they?” The bartended poihe dire out to me.

  I made my way across the bar at a leisurely stroll, flig back my mane of hair as I went. A door led to a corridor with the women’s toilet on one side, the men’s opposite and further down, and ended with a shut door marked ‘employees only’; a supply closet, I guessed. I was ag like a right paranoid fool, like a flustered, silly girl. Looking over my shoulder, I not only wasn’t watg where I was going . . . I walked through the wrong door.

  I smmed into some guy’s chest. He stumbled babsp; Too jittery, too on edge, I found my footing faster than dy should have and nearly smashed my fist into the stranger’s fabsp; “Watch it!” I snapped.

  The man rubbed at his chest, but his eyes twinkled from beh a mop of blue-bck hair peppered with grey. “Whoa there,” he said. He hesitated then added, “Little dy. You know where you are, yes?”

  I finally noticed the urinals and fought down a rising blush. “Yeah, yeah,” I answered, gng bato the corridor. There was nobody there, of course. I cursed myself for an idiot.

  “In a bit of a rush?”

  I took a deep, settling breathe. “Sorry,” I started to say, finally turning to get a proper look at the guy. My voice died in my throat.

  “My name’s Harry,” he said. Dark eyes watched me with amused and casual expecy. Genuinely, almost embarrassingly star-struck, I kind of lost track of the few minutes. I’m not sure what nonsense I stuttered, but eventually became vaguely aware that he’d just offered to buy me a drink. He opehe door for me auro the bar. When we went our separate ways thirty mier, I realized to my own bemusement that I’d just been talked into a date--with a man.

  Author's Notes:

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