QUARANFLING

Chapter 2: Sh!t Hits the Fan

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C A R S O N

I backed away gradually until the back of my knee collided with the couch, causing me to collapse onto the bouncy cushions in a fit of panic. My entire being had been overwhelmed by terror. I was yelling in my thoughts that I needed to act, but I remained immobile.

"H—Hel...p," my voice came out as tiny whimpers and he has yet to register my presence. My gaze was fixed on him, tracking his every action, from the way he tossed his belongings beside the doorway, to the way he kicked off his shoes and stripped down to his Chanel logo tracksuit.

He appeared to be someone I'm supposed to know. His head gradually shot up, and to my surprise, he proceeded directly to the kitchen, completely unaware of my presence. What is going on? I'm desperate to escape this situation! I mustered the rest of my confidence and followed him into the kitchen, where I discovered him pouring himself a glass of water.

"You! Get out of my room!" I summoned all my strength and grabbed the first object that came to hand—a lamp. This is the weapon I prefer. That, I suppose, is my position. Great. I am a no-brainer compared to Rapunzel, who armed herself with a pan.

He swiveled his body around and faced me squarely. He abruptly choked and spat the water he had just been drinking—all on my face. I took a momentary stop. I had the distinct impression that I had already encountered him. With a grimace, I cautiously wiped my wet face.

"Yeah, no shite!" he said angrily as he set down his drink.

Is he listening?!

"Yes, you are thinking aloud," he said, resting his body against the kitchen island with his arms crossed over his chest. "How did you get here?"

Suddenly, a succession of flashbacks occurred to me. I was on the verge of collapsing, desperately clutching the doorframe for support.

"How am I to display my newly acquired limited edition Gunner—my love's poster?" Norman, one of my friends, squealed with joy. That was her fifth visit this week, adding to her terrible addiction; her obsessive hoarding disease had gotten worse since she started listening to that son of a gun boy band or whatever these heathens were called.

"Good gracious, Norm! Have you had a look at our apartment?" I was reduced to a defeated sigh. My fictitious white flag continued to wave, indicating that I do not wish for our walls to be covered in that man's face.

Every nook and cranny of our house is adorned with his likeness! From our kitchen cabinets, placemats, and even our plates and cutlery—to our beddings and even a handful of our pillows that are shaped like Gunner—her love's face with his printed face on it. I had to fight Norman to have the life-sized cardboard cutout of this Gun person removed from our restroom. I'm going to blame that guy for my constipation. I couldn't use our restroom without feeling as though someone was watching me while I went about my business.

"Please, no more," I pleaded, but no matter how much blood I shed, her obsession will only become stronger. She's fallen head over heels in love with this man, and I'm concerned about the safety of the wall paints in our flat.

"It appears as though you've lost track!" I cringed involuntarily at the snapping fingers in front of my face. I had no idea he had come that nearby.

"Black Chives's gun man!" I exclaimed in a 'Aha!' tone, as if I had just arrived at a gradual epiphany. This is the individual responsible for wreaking havoc on my apartment! Meeting a high-profile celebrity, I reasoned, could be a turning point moment in one's life. To be honest, I was scarcely put in awe!

"Are you the Gun Dude from Black Chives?" I asked, His demeanor was scornful. Is he about to humiliate me?

We cried in unison, "This is not your room!"

"I don't care if you're a celebrity; you need to exit immediately or I'm going to contact security!" I yelled at the top of my lungs as I clutched the frail fabric of my towel, which was dangerously twisted around my frozen torso.

"Lady, simply admit it. You're some mad fan who has been pursuing me and has now infiltrated my hotel room in search of my old boxers. You should leave immediately!" He snickered, his neck veins protruding.

I chuckled in irritation, my hands balled into tight fists, ready to swing at this man's reasonably punchable face if he so much as breathed in the wrong in my direction. "To begin, I am not and will never be a supporter of yours. I'm not a fan of your furious strumming on your old and battered electric guitar to the point that you broke a pinkie during your last performance, nor do I care for your strange shrieks, as if you're a f*****g dolphin in heat, and I've never understood why your head bangs as if you're trying to shake off your last two brain cells! You're going to lose your wig!" In a harsh voice, I screamed. My eyes were almost certainly as red as his. For some reason, I'm prepared to throw hands.

"For someone who isn't a fan, you sure do know a lot about my shenanigans," he chuckled, but it was quickly replaced by a scowl, "and this is not a wig!" he ruffled his hair angrily with his long and slender fingers. They appear to be feminine and delicate, yet manly and veiny at the same time. Man, do I sound conflicted intellectually.

For a little while, I thought he was cute.

Indeed, I have succumbed to insanity.

I'm not going to lie; he has some thick, luxurious hair that could make me envious for days, given how much my hair sheds like a stray dog.

"Well, you cannot be here," I concluded as I walked back to the bathroom gripping the towel for dear life. Flashing the hottest celebrity sounds worse than sleeping with wet socks.

However, when I recall that the bathroom lacks doors, I instantly redirect to the bedroom. I immediately locked the door and leaned against the wall as soon as I entered. My shaking legs gave way and I fell to the floor with a loud thud, prompting him to run to the door "Take care not to perish in that chamber! I am unable to bring a lawsuit against a corpse."

"Shut up!" I grumbled in response to his obnoxious choice of words. He certainly knows how to easily enrage someone.

"I am not about to pass away! Will you kindly f**k off or maybe contact your manager or anybody else you need to contact in order to move into another room?" In hushed tones, I pleaded. I was unaware of how long I had been ranting at that jerk.

"Are you delusory, Miss? I've just been through the wringer in order to get into this room!" He snickered in an English accent I was unaware he possessed. He cleared his throat, and his accent vanished instantly. "Get dressed and come with me to the lobby. Let's finally resolve this."

_____

We took the farthest possible distance from one another, and even when we were the only people in the elevator, he insisted on covering himself from head to toe as if I'd mob him the moment I get the chance! He wishes. I would not dare, even if I were paid for doing so. As a defense mechanism, I clutched my jacket closer to my body.

As soon as the elevator chimed open, he slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses. We had arrived in the lobby, as announced by the voice operator. I followed him to the counter, glaring at the back of his head. When we were both standing in front of the receptionist, Gun slung an arm around my shoulder and drew my body closer to his. "Consider this as a gift for a fan," he whispered softly in my ear. "Pretend we know each other for the paparazzi over there," he said, pointing behind the massive glass at a swarm of men, each with their own weapon and large DSLRs perched on their arms, ready to photograph at any time an intriguing person enters into their frame.

"Take your head out of your ass, it is not a hat," I murmured between angry teeth as I slipped free of his clutches. "Do not touch me, you filthy animal," my reflexive words said. I didn't actually mean those; I've grown so accustomed to breaking into jokes with my best friend that I occasionally spill banters on strangers. Consider it to be an expression.

My imaginative use of language had definitely taken him aback; his jaw stayed gaping as a sly smirk crept up his lips. "So, you really aren't a fan, are you?" He smiled, but his perky tone did not meet his eyes.

He was about to open his mouth once again, probably for another lame come back but luckily, a male attendant had caught our attention. "Yes, how may I help you?" He gave us a curt smile that speaks volume, something that tells me he cannot wait for his shift to end already. His bored looked topped it all off and all I could do was to give him an apologetic smile.

"Yes, may I ask for Olivia? The lady that was here three hours ago?" Gun spoke with professionalism like the trained capitalist he is.

"Olivia?" The man asked in utter confusion. He sounded genuine despite the lack of enthusiasm for his job. "You may have been mistaken. I don't recall anyone working in the desk with that name, Sir."

"What?!" Gun and I exclaimed in unison, his accent was evident and crystal clear on that one.

"Alright, maybe you can still help us with our issue?" I inquired in a hopeful voice.

"What could it be?" The man propped his hand on the counter top and lazily shifted his body weight on one foot.

"He's in my room!/She's in my room!" Gun and I turned at each other with sinful glares beaming through our eyes. If they were lasers, our mushy brains were probably dripping out the holes between our eyes by now.

Be polite and civil. The righteous voice in my head berated. I was fully aware of that. It is the basics of manners and discipline but Gun makes it difficult for me to pay him respect. All I could think of whenever I look at his face is my cabinet, along with all of our other wooden antique furniture that I kept on repainting into white because the texture was too abused and damaged to salvage from his posters but despite those, I always find them with sticky tapes and glues from the adhesives of those damned posters!

This guy had already given me nightmares before I met him in person.

"And what might be the issue?" The man at the desk inquired, his tone obviously bored. He either missed the fact that the boy next to me is a superstar, or he simply doesn't care.

"Can you locate another room for her to transfer to?" Gun took the opportunity of relocating my residence from the opulent apartment I obtained to another location. However, I did not pay for the accommodation, but he most likely did. I gradually backed away and let him have his way with it. After all, the room was already too large for me.

"Please, yes. That would be wonderful "I answered quietly, agreeing with a nod of my head. I would not allow anything to detract from my 'breath of fresh air.'

"May I have your name?"

"Samual Vontrov/Carson Conrad," we both spoke at the same time once more. I added, "Room 4147."

"Wait a moment as I verify it in the system." Both Gun and I nodded at the man. We both exhaled in relief at the conclusion of the matter.

Or so we believed.

The next thing we heard was a loud voice report emanating from the lobby's high ceilings.

Notification of an emergency. Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is the Cigale Hotel's Health and Safety Department initiating a required lockdown for all checked-in guests. A virus has swept throughout the country, and an enormous number of updated deaths were recorded this morning. To ensure the building's and our patriots' safety at this time, we ask that you return to your individual rooms while our staff conducts a comprehensive assessment of the premise. Again, this is required. Everyone must immediately retreat to their rooms to ensure their protection from the rapidly spreading infection. May God continue to bless us all.

A red-light alert blazed through the halls as the electricity was abruptly cut off, causing everyone to worry as if the world is ending. It was immediately followed by a deafening horn screaming from the ceilings, causing a bone-chilling echo that penetrated our ears. The deafening alarms drowned out the horrifying screams of the once poised ladies hurrying off to the next elevator with little regard for their exquisite bearing; some even abandoned their costly stilettos in haste.

"What the f**k is going on?" I heaved a deep sigh and automatically grasped the first object that offered support—his coat.

"That is our signal. Let's go, "Gun had snatched my hand and dragged me along.

In contrast to my expectations, his hand felt shockingly warm and soft. I had assumed that after all those restless guitar sessions, his hand would be cold, calloused, and as harsh as a brick to the touch. "This way," he murmured quietly, and I followed him in silence, the unexpected change of events leaving us with little to no choice but to remain together rather than succumb to terror.

I truly do not perform at my best when everything is in a state of fear, but fortunately, he appeared to be handling the situation with ease. He quickly found a solution to the crowded elevators and proceeded to the emergency stairs, remaining calm and composed in the face of the chaos. I owe him credit for it.

He effortlessly smashed through the huge emergency double doors and dragged me into the silent stairs; the silence was deafening, even more so than the loud commotion occurring behind these walls.

Maintain your composure.

He didn't think we'd ascend the steps to our room, did he? I gulped at the sight of the seemingly never-ending flight of stairs.

"You certainly do have a habit of thinking aloud, don't you?" he grinned mockingly.

I merely gave him a lethal glare that didn't appear to be having the desired effect on him. "You've got to be joking. We are to ascend to the 41st floor?!"

"Well, would you rather risk using the elevator with those people? Besides, I might get mobbed."

"You really think they would care about a celebrity's presence in the middle of a crisis?" I scoffed and made my way up the stairwell. His long legs took enormous strides deftly. He took two steps up the stairwell in a single pompous stride.

"Could you tone down your attitude a notch? I understand that you're not a fan, but you don't have to hammer it home that hard. Especially now that we may have to share a room, you know?"

I sucked on my teeth, "Nope, you're going back to where you belong."

"In room 4147," he sheepishly smiled at me and I thought, for a split second, that his smiles looked even more breathtaking in person. Snap out of it!

"What's your name?" he started.

"Carson," I replied curtly. Wasting your energy on conversation when you have a flight of steps to confront is not a good idea. I lack the athletic stamina that a normal person possesses.

"I'm Gunner from Black Clover," he stressed on the 'Clover' part. I suddenly remembered how I'd referred to him as Gun dude from Black Chives. To be fair, Norman frequently refers to him as "my love," which is what had stuck with me. I was forced to improvise. I truly didn't want to call him my love by accident.

"Okay, put an end to your conversation with me, Gunner from Black Clover. I'm having difficulty catching my breath," I panted, and he responded with a hearty laugh. "I'm glad you find entertainment in my distress," I said cynically, making him laugh even harder.