Head Over Heels
Craig Faustus Buck
Sometimes you know an idea is bad, but you’re still driven to pursue it. This first happened to me when I was a little girl, about six, I think. More than anything, I wanted to fly like Peter Pan. So, I asked my mom to buy me some pixie dust. She brought home something from Safeway in a spice bottle. I knew it might not be a good idea to sprinkle it on my head and jump off the roof, but I was the kind of tomboy who couldn’t resist the allure. The last thing I remember is praying for the pixie dust to kick in as the ground rushed toward my head with astonishing speed. I suffered blurred vision and headaches for three weeks after that one.
My occasional boss, a private detective who shall go unnamed, always warns me that my dare-devil streak will get me killed some day, especially when he sends me out to serve a subpoena or restraining order to a potentially violent man. If you don’t feel safe, back off, he says. But backing off isn’t in my nature.
Exhibit A: Shana. The debacle started at one of the public golf courses in Griffith Park. I was playing single, so they randomly paired me up with Shana, another single woman. I was immediately struck by her looks—long, untamed auburn curls, hazel eyes, curvy, and lithe. But what sold me was her smile. It could have lit a stadium.
When we got to the first tee, she took out a wood that looked about the right length for a basketball player, even though she was only about five-six. She took a few practice swings, then hit the ball with what I came to call her three-hundred-yard grunt. It was a trademark expression of energy with which she drove the ball farther than any woman I’d ever known. But once on the green, she couldn’t putt to save her life. Her personality seemed to mimic her style of play.
“I like to live large,” she said on the fifth hole. “Why mess with finesse?”
I missed an easy putt and said, “To finesselessness.” We bumped fists. A sisterhood was born.
After the game, I screwed up my courage and asked if she’d like to grab a drink. She seemed pleased by the invitation. We reconvened at a bar in Atwater Village, and I was happily surprised when she suggested we share a flight of IPAs. She took the first sip, then handed me the glass with an easy intimacy that was both thrilling and soothing. I imagined I could feel the warmth of her lips on the rim.
As the afternoon wore on, I was entranced by everything she said, no matter how mundane. She was an expressive storyteller with a flair for offbeat humor that had me falling off my stool. At one point, I laughed so hard I snorted beer through my nose.
By the fourth flight, our conversation had sunk neck-deep in the muck of romantic fiascos.
“You want to know the definition of catastrophe?” she said, holding up her phone to show me a picture. “Meet Derek Jamison.”
He was a head-turner—black hair, blue eyes, olive skin, tall, and toned.
“A classic catch,” she said. “Smart, kind, athletic, a good cook, and to top it off, he has a real profession. He’s a pharmacist. Practically a doctor!”
They met through Tinder and had instant chemistry. After a half-dozen dates, she thought they were on track for something meaningful. But as the weeks turned to months, he became increasingly controlling.
“When we’d go out, he’d tell me what to wear,” she said. “When we’d get to the restaurant, he’d order for me. The final straw was the last time we had sex. He went down on me and just when I started to come, he told me to stop moving so much.”
“What?” I was astonished. “Men always like their women fired up. It fuels their egos. That’s why women fake orgasms.”
“I know, right? But he just stomped on the brakes. ‘You’re bucking like a bronco,’ he said. I guess he was afraid I’d buck his teeth through his lip or something.”
I laughed, but I had to admit the image turned me on. Something about her was irresistible. Or maybe it was everything about her. I was smitten.
“I broke up with him,” she said. “And then he started stalking me. Following me, leaving notes on my car, slipping letters under my door, calling a million times a day, lurking on social media, picking fights with guys I went out with…”
“Did you file a restraining order?”
“I thought about it, but that just seems so over the top, you know? I’d have to call in the cops to serve it. That’s like siccing your dog on somebody.”
“You should file,” I said. “I’ll serve it for you.”
“What?”
“I work part-time for a private eye. I serve papers all the time.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You want to see my concealed carry license?”
She gave a sly smile like I’d said something bawdy. “Are you packing right now?”
“Does a one iron count?”
She laughed.
“But I am serious,” I said. “I’d be happy to serve him for you.” And worm my way into your heart, I thought. I could use a good bucking.
I sat in my car in the parking lot of Jamison’s Pharmacy, eating Cheetos with a blue rubber evidence-collection glove to keep my fingers from staining orange. The slight pressure of my waistband holster against the small of my back reassured me. Nothing like a Glock 19 to give a girl confidence.
A few minutes after closing, Derek walked out and locked the pharmacy door behind him. I peeled off my glove, grabbed the envelope and caught up with him as he was climbing into his black BMW.
“Derek Jamison?”
He turned, surprised. “Who are you?”
I thrust the envelope into his hands. “You’ve been served.”
I rushed away, not waiting for a response. I learned that lesson the hard way a few years back and have a crooked nose to prove it.
“Hey!” I heard running footsteps behind me as I jumped into my car. Derek started pounding my window with his fists. I jammed my key at the ignition slot, but my hand was shaking from adrenaline. Somehow, the key finally seated. I tore out of the parking lot, watching in my rearview mirror as he raged in my wake. You’d think a healthcare professional would show a little more restraint.
I was still shaken when Shana opened her door. She was wearing a terrycloth robe, her hair still damp from the shower.
“You look beat,” she said.
“Tough day at the office. But the deed is done.”
She allowed a sad smile and waved me in. “Take a load off.”
I dropped my purse on a chair by the door. “He was pretty upset,” I said. “I’d watch my back for a few days.”
The siren call of the couch finally unleashed the full force of my fatigue from the tension of Derek’s attack. I stretched out, soothed by her residual warmth on the cushions. She’d been lying there reading a paperback called Queenpin which sat open, face down on the coffee table, beside a half-drunk glass of wine. I watched her pour another glass of Sauvignon Blanc and bring it to me. She perched beside me on the edge of the couch. I must have looked exhausted because she brought the glass to my lips to feed me a sip.
“Roll over,” she said. “I’ll give you a back rub.”
I was a high school senior when I first learned where a guy’s back-rub eventually led, but I wasn’t sure about a woman’s. I rolled over anyway, figuring I’d enjoy it no matter what. To Shana’s credit, she spent a half-hour kneading my knots and strains before working her hands up my inner thighs. I was pretty turned on by then and when she untied her belt to let her robe fall open, she was wearing nothing underneath. I felt like a little kid on her first roller coaster ride. It wasn’t my first time with a woman, but I’d never experienced anything close to this intensity before with anyone. This was clearly meant to be.
Afterward, we soaped each other up in the shower, kissing in a slippery embrace until the hot water ran out.
I awoke with the dawning light and found myself staring at her face. I lay motionless, not wanting to wake her, watching her eyes dance beneath their lids. Her legs twitched under the blankets as if she were running in her dreams. I imagined running with her, hand in hand, through a rolling field of warm-hued wildflowers as far as the eye could see.
I was startled back to reality by street sounds. Two cars screeched to a stop, blasting their horns. I was amused that the sharp noises didn’t seem to disturb Shana’s sleep.
That night, we decided to go out on the town. We raided her closet and dressed up in cocktail attire, had a ball doing each other’s makeup, and headed out to the Valley Inn, a classic steakhouse that had been around since 1947. Shana loved their dirty martinis. The place reeked of nostalgia, red leather booths, and the fragrant smoke of grilling meat.
As we walked in, a young couple was leaving, crowding the doorway. Shana put her arm around my waist and pulled me tight to let them pass. Our bodies meshed like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, sending a tingle through my nervous system that seemed to terminate in my crotch. She buried her nose in my hair and inhaled.
“I love how you smell,” she said. “I wish I could bathe in it.”
If we were alone I would have kissed her.
The bar was intimate, in the darkly wooded style of a British gentlemen’s club. As we settled onto stools, someone called her name.
I turned to see Derek.
His face was lit up as if he had sparklers in his eyes. Loathing swirled through me like black smoke filling a burning warehouse.
Shana turned to me with a quizzical look, as if searching for the proper etiquette.
“Get out of here,” I said to her.
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“Who knows how much he’s had to drink? Let me handle this. I’ll need the car, so Uber home and I’ll meet you back there.”
“But—”
“No buts. Just go.”
Disappointment clouded her face as she glanced at Derek and then nodded her assent.
I headed toward the corner table where Derek sat drinking alone. The fury in his glare didn’t make this any easier. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Shana walk out.
“Where’s she going?” he asked. He had a fresh martini and two empties in front of him.
“None of your business.”
“You told her not to say hello to me, didn’t you? It wouldn’t kill her, you know.”
“You’re bound by the order.”
“I was already here. She’s the one who violated the order.”
I sat down across the table and leaned in for privacy. “You’re the only one restrained. Not your victim. There’s nothing for her to violate.”
“But she can walk in here and entrap me?”
“She didn’t know you were here.”
“I turned her on to this place.” He picked up his martini and chugged the whole thing like a shooter. “If you weren’t here, she would have come over.”
“She’s over you. Get used to it.”
“She loves me. No court order can change that.”
“If I were you, it’s not the court I’d be afraid of.”
“Is that a threat?” He smirked. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?”
“If I have to.” I felt like a clichéd gangster’s moll.
The waitress swung by but my gaze remained fixed on Derek. He threw a twenty on her tray and stood.
“Go fuck yourself,” he said, and walked out. The waitress gave me a raised-eyebrow look. I shrugged and hustled out to tail him.
I figured he’d head for Shana’s. Instead, he went back to his house. This made no sense. Since when do stalkers take a night off? I watched the place for almost an hour in case he went out again. When he turned off the last light, I headed to Shana’s, feeling vaguely disappointed. I’d expected him to violate his TRO, as most stalkers do. I had hoped to bust him doing it.
Shana was ready for bed when I came in. I undressed and snuggled in behind her, spooning into her back side.
“He went home,” I said. “Taking a break tonight.”
“Maybe he’s over it.”
“Stalkers don’t just get over it on their own.”
She rolled over to face me as she thought about this. She stroked my cheek. Her touch made me tingle all over.
“Do you think I’m nuts for dumping him?” she said. “Maybe I’m being paranoid. Making a huge mistake. He’s got so much going for him…and he really loves me.”
“There’s a big difference between love and obsession.”
“Sometimes I wonder. Haven’t you ever been so in love that you’ve done stupid things? Your logic circuits just shut down? Like some kind of love blindness?”
She rolled back into the spooning position. I kissed her neck. Of course, Derek was infatuated with her. How could anyone not be? I held her tight, like a little girl hugging her teddy bear.
“When I was in my early twenties,” I said, “I had a fling with this carpenter. I thought we had a real thing going. But then he dumped me. I went OCD on the guy. Calling, texting, sexting, tailing, background checking his dates. I even GPSed his car. So I get where Derek’s coming from. I know what it’s like to be driven by that kind of desperation. It’s unrelenting, all-consuming. But it isn’t love.”
“What is it?”
“Some kind of delirium, I guess.”
“Sounds like you got over it.”
“I fell in love with someone else.”
She shivered, as if hit by a chill. “I hope Derek doesn’t do that.”
“It would get him out of your life.”
“I’m not so sure that’s what I want.”
“Jesus, Shana.” I rolled away from her and stared out the window. I imagined Derek out there in the dark, staring back with that same adoring look I’d seen when he’d spotted her at the bar.
I felt heartburn, both literally and figuratively. Two things were becoming screamingly clear: I was falling hard for this woman, and if I wanted her to reciprocate, I’d have to remove Derek from the equation.
The next morning, when she finally opened her eyes, she smiled at the sight of me. It made my day. We kissed good morning, cuddled for a few minutes, shared the bathroom, checked email and had coffee and toast. It felt comfortable and oddly familiar, as if we were a long-married couple. The gods were smiling.
And then she said, “Don’t hate me, but I’m having second thoughts about Derek.”
I wondered if she noticed the blood drain from my face. “That ship has sailed,” I said.
“Not necessarily. You saw his reaction to me at the Valley Inn. That kind of crazy in love doesn’t come around every day. Especially from a guy who’s got his act together, who I could make a life with, have kids with. I can’t shake this feeling that I’m throwing away my destiny.”
She twisted a strand of hair around her finger.
A chill wind of gloom constricted my veins. If it came down to her choosing between me and Derek, I had pretty slim claiming rights. Shana and I had tried out a little golf and a few nights of passion. The two of them had tried out an actual relationship.
“Look, Shana, think hard about this,” I said, trying to sound as if I were concerned about her interests instead of my own. “Derek is still bound by your restraining order. You need a judge to lift it. You can’t just change your mind on a whim. If you really want to risk getting back together with him, you’ll have to file to terminate the order. It’s not an automatic thing. You’ll have to explain to the court why you all-of-a-sudden don’t feel threatened anymore. If they think your original filing was frivolous, they could charge you with perjury. They put people in jail for that.”
The threat was highly unlikely, but I was desperate and flailing.
“But what if he’s truly the love of my life?” she said. “I can’t just let him go without a fight.”
“He’s a stalker.”
She was twisting the strand of hair around her finger so tightly that her fingertip was turning white. “It’s been days since he’s called. Or even texted. He hasn’t slipped any notes under my door. I haven’t seen him in the street. I think he’s over the stalking thing.”
“Once a stalker, always a stalker.” I didn’t mention that I knew this through self-reflection.
“Are you jealous?” she said. She was onto me. I felt cornered. I kept my mouth shut, but my trembling lips betrayed me. “You are, aren’t you?”
I couldn’t breathe. I felt a tear roll down my cheek.
“Jesus. We had a couple wild nights. But that’s all it was.”
She couldn’t possibly believe what she was saying. I’d felt the power of her hunger for me when we’d made love. And my need for her was just as strong. Why couldn’t she open up to that realization?
I mustered all of my strength to hide my feelings, petrified that the depth of my love would scare her off. “What kind of a rube do you take me for?” I said, impressed by how authentic I sounded. “I know we’ve just been messing around, but that has nothing to do with Derek. This guy is dangerous. I’ve served hundreds of TROs in my time. And a lot of these guys seem like puppy dogs until something flips their switch. Then they grab a chef’s knife or a shotgun and all hell shakes loose.”
She sighed and put her arms around me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have gone off on you. You’ve been a good friend. Forgive me?”
She gently kissed my lips.
“Of course,” I said, struggling to prevent the electricity of that kiss from lighting my eyes and revealing my desperation.
It’s grueling to lead a double-life. Serving papers by day, guarding Shana by night. Not much time for sleep. My plan was to shadow him while he stalked her, allowing me to tail two birds with one stone. But by the second night, it was apparent that my best laid plans had gone to shit. Shana had been right about Derek. He’d stopped stalking her. If this was his play to quell her concerns, I was toast. I could never offer her the lifestyle he could, or the biological children.
If only she could see that his restraint was an act. My only shot was to find a way to trigger his psychotic stalker self and make sure Shana was there to see it. Once her hopes of a happy life with him had burst, I’d be there to soak up her tears, caress her brow, sweep away the shards of her shattered dreams, and wallow in her love for me, a hidden love set free by his departure.
Shana kept to herself the rest of that week, and I hid in the shadows, standing guard outside her house, hoping Derek would show up uninvited. On Sunday we played golf again. Shana was maddeningly distant. I knew she was simply in denial, but my brain was too exhausted to figure out how to shake her out of it. I was so sleep-deprived that I dropped my clubs on my foot. The excruciating pain was a wakeup call. We were both suffering, and it was pushing us apart. I had to make something happen.
That night I sat in my car, waiting for Shana to go to sleep. When her bedroom light finally went out, I let another half hour pass before making my way to the casement window by her back door. I took out the stainless-steel credit card I use as a jimmy and slipped it though the crack between the steel frame and its jamb. It took all of ten seconds to flip the vintage casement latch.
I swung the hinged screen inward, reached around to unbolt the kitchen door. I paused. Was I flying on Pixie dust again? I shook off the doubt and walked in.
The house was silent as I crept up to her bedroom. I found her sleeping like an angel, awash in moonglow through the skylight. I waited several minutes for her eyelids to start twitching, knowing she slept deeply in REM. Only then did I dare take her phone from the nightstand and press her finger to the reader to unlock it. Her screen awakened, but she didn’t.
I went down to the kitchen to double-check the setup. The jimmied window would make it look like Derek had broken in. I used my sleeve to wipe my prints off the casement window and the door.
I loaded her SnapChat to communicate with Derek in her persona while leaving no digital trail from her phone to his. I sent him a shot of her door ajar, adding, “Can you come over to talk? The door’s open. I made a huge mistake.”
I sent the snap, then went back upstairs and replaced Shana’s phone on her nightstand.
Finally, I headed into the living room to wait. I felt for my phone to light my way, then realized I’d left it on the charge cable in my car. I moved slowly across the drape-darkened room, hands outstretched like tentacles feeling for furniture in my path. I took great pains to be careful, but I tripped on the edge of a rug. My elbow hit an end table, sending a lamp clattering over.
I lay silently, holding my breath, hoping Shana was still asleep. Ten long seconds passed. Silence. Then another ten. No sounds of movement from upstairs. A wave of relief rippled through me.
My thoughts turned to Derek. He’d be arriving soon. I slipped my gun from my holster and checked the load. When he came in, I’d be ready. I wasn’t planning to shoot him, just keep him at bay until Shana could be roused to find him in her house. But I’d be ready to plug him if I had to.
In theory, after it was all over, I would tell Shana—and the police if necessary—that when I’d spoken to Derek at the Valley Inn, he’d threatened to “make Shana pay.” Wanting to protect her, I’d kept an eye on her house to make sure he didn’t carry out his threat. When I’d seen him break in, I’d followed him into the house to prevent him from hurting her.
As I rehearsed my story in my head, the light went on over the stairway. Shit! My stumble had awakened her after all. Now she was coming downstairs to check for an intruder.
“Hello?” she called down. “Whoever you are, get out now. I’m armed.”
I was pretty sure she was bluffing. She wasn’t the type to own a gun. But if she caught me lying in wait, my plot would be blown. She’d hate me for my insidious scheming and cut me out of her life, a prospect worse than getting shot. I had to get out of that house. But if I tried to run now, she’d see me.
I heard her creeping down the steps. My only hope was to slip behind the drapes.
At the same time, I heard a car drive up and park in front on the street. Derek had arrived. His timing couldn’t have been better.
With Shana downstairs, she’d see Derek enter the house and know he was still stalking her. Then Derek would be the one she loathed. If I could stay hidden, I wouldn’t even have to get involved. This was far slicker than my original plan.
I couldn’t see her as she entered the living room, but I could hear her breathing. I held my own breath, so she couldn’t hear me.
Through the glass I watched Derek head up the drive toward the back door. Shana took a few steps toward the kitchen and I quietly pulled my hood over my head. If I had to make a break for the front door, there was a slight chance that my hoodie could hide my identity.
Shana moved into the kitchen area.
I heard Derek outside the back door, scraping his shoes on the doormat, oblivious to the need for silence.
“What the fuck?” Shana muttered under her breath and flicked on the light.
The back door opened.
“What the hell are you doing here?” said Shana. “And how did you get in?”
“You texted me to come,” said Derek. “You left the door unlocked.”
My heart was beating jungle drums.
“I never messaged you,” she said. “And I didn’t unlock the door.”
“Well it was open,” he said.
There was a moment of silence during which I presumed they were staring at each other, trying to make sense of the moment.
“Something woke me up,” she said. “Maybe someone’s in the house.”
My heart felt ready to burst. There were shuffling sounds in the kitchen, the clank of something metal. Were they arming themselves with knives? I heard stealthy footsteps heading toward me. I reached again for my gun—more an automatic reflex than a need. Who was I planning to shoot?
I knew my cover couldn’t last if they were going to search for an intruder. My only chance was to break for the front door. If I was lucky, I’d be out of knife range and camouflaged by my hood. Not a great plan, but the only one I could think of that didn’t involve facing the music and losing Shana forever.
The living room light went on. I broke cover in a sprint. But then I heard the familiar three-hundred-yard grunt and knew it was over. I had a few steps on her, but that slim lead succumbed to the length of her wood. I heard a loud crack as the face of her club glanced off the back of my head.
I went down in excruciating pain. I rolled over and raised my hands to block another blow. She stared at me in shock, trying to comprehend what I was doing there. As the pieces fell into place, her expression turned to disgust. As a precaution, Derek gently took the weapon from her hand.
“You sent him that message,” she said. “What could you possibly expect to get out of this?”
You! I thought. But no words came out of my mouth. I was lying on my gun hand. I should just shoot myself. Escape the humiliation.
Derek stepped forward and put his arm soothingly around Shana, pulling her close. “You know I still love you,” he said.
Better yet, I should shoot Derek.
She laid her head on his shoulder and tears came to her eyes, driving icicles through my heart. I rocked back, trying to struggle to my feet.
“She’s got a gun!” shouted Shana.
Derek slashed at my head with the big wood. The club rushed my face at an astonishing speed. Last prayer for pixie dust…