Forbidden - Part 3 (Dimon Romantic)
The story can also be found on Wattpad You can find the previous chapters here Feedback is greatly appreciated. I went to the bathroom and finally took the much needed shower from the night before. The whole dorm was still densely filled with the smoky-alcoholic scent so I also made sure to open all the windows and doors to get some fresh air in there. “Got any suggestions where to go?” – I yelled through the bathroom door before starting the shower. “How does Starbucks sound?” – Chelle replied from her room. “Works for me.” – I said back and proceeded to wash my body Starbucks was both Chelle and I’s favorite spot for a morning coffee, the café was located in a very nice area, quite close to the centre and was easy to get there on foot from the dorm. The smell there was also blissful, nothing better than a banana cake to match the strong coffee aroma. It was the best time to go out and sit there, especially on such sunny days when the tables outside were available. On the not so bright side though, we could only go there like 2 times per week without going bankrupt. I love those guys but man, are they an expensive place. At the end of the day, I am a student and that meant being on a strict budget and having zero freedom. I put my hair in a high ponytail, and quickly put on a pair of jeans and my favorite oversized t-shirt saying “I’m sorry for what I said when I was hungry”, a present from my sister Dallas, the second biggest weirdo on this planet after me. I noticed I also had dark circles under my eyes, so now the choice was either for some make up or for the big sunglasses. “Demi, are you ready?” – I hear Chelle asking, meaning she was done with her preparations. Well, it will be the sunglasses, then. “Yup, a second” – I replied, putting the last few pins on my hair and spraying a bit of perfume around my neck. “Okay, let’s go” – I told her, letting go of my door handle and going to the front door. The way to the café was a short 10-minute long walk, but we could still notice some leftovers from the few parties that were hosted yesterday. The most common type of garbage was the occasional McDonalds’ huge paper bag or Subway’s sandwich wraps and napkins. It looked as if the rubbish bags were out of stock in this country, a horrible mess. We reached the coffee shop and picked a nice cozy table in the corner on the right. Thankfully not too many people had come yet so the tables outside were still not all taken. Our seats weren’t in the middle of the hustle and bustle if I may call it like that, yet they were also close to the inner part of the café so we wouldn’t need to walk too much with the purchases in our hands. Chelle and I sat on the table and we both started flipping the pages of the menus, as if we didn’t know it all by heart by now. I was certainly gonna be having a frappe today, it was hot AF and the alcohol was still running in my system, so I was sweating like a mine worker. Not the biggest fan of ice coffee, but the situation was of a pressing matter. I turned a few pages further, the breakfast items didn’t look too bad either, the question was if I was actually hungry or just wanted to have a snack though. I thought about having a coffee cake, but that usually bloated me up a lot, so I would rather have the white chocolate chip cookie. It was not too heavy and it usually did cover me well when the sweet tooth hit me with cravings, so I was good with it. “Alright, I can go in there and get the stuff, can you stay here and keep the table?” – Chelle asked a few minutes later. “Yeah that’s cool. Can you get me a frappe and a chocolate chip cookie, with white chocolate chunks though?” “Sure, be right back. Watch my stuff there.” “Here, take 10, should be just enough” – I handed her the bill. Chelle went inside and I plopped myself back on my chair. The day was beautiful; lots of the students from our uni or the few others in town were out as well. Sunday was the day of procrastination and it did hold a very truthful rule for students: If you put it off for Sunday, it won’t happen, dude. At some point a pretty loud noise for my still hangover head came from the road. I turned around to see a black car pull over on the other side of the street. It was a type of car that was pretty rare to notice in Boston or in the states in general, quite low over the road and with a foreign registration plate. It did resemble a very familiar car that I had definitely paid attention to before. If you’d ever watched “Gone in 60 seconds”, then you would know it too – a British Jaguar. How did I know? That was Marissa’s favorite movie and therefore my least favorite one, because we’d watched it like a billion times. The only difference here was that this car was a lot newer – a model I couldn’t name for sure. I kept my gaze on and saw the person on the driving seat fidgeting with something and then opening the door. The driver stepped out, but kept his head towards the car. It seemed as if he was looking for something, until he finally found it and grabbed it from inside. I wondered what it was like to have that much money and to be able to afford such comfort. Surely I was now in a position where finances were not the greatest developing aspect of my life, but that would change later on hopefully. I would love to buy stuff without having to look at the price tag and not worry about it. Just to be impulsive, like: a Jaguar? Yes, please. That car was worth about a million dollars last time I checked. I re-focused my look over to the driver and realized I had seen this man before. Not only that, I had actually known him and already spoken to him. That was Mr. Cowell, my Music Production lecturer. And also the man whose car - probably one of his many, I kicked. And if that wasn’t awkward enough, the man I had the audacity to call ‘a fool’. He was very casually dressed this time – in just a white t-shirt and some jeans, no trace of the formal black blazer he was wearing at the university. He was also wearing a pair of dark ray-bans and was puffing on a cigarette, whilst slowly making his way to internal part of the café. At this point I actually wondered what the best thing to do was: hide from him behind my bag, bury my face in my phone and pretend I never saw him, greet him with a simple nod or step into the dangerous zone of another possible embarrassment and talk to him. In case you wondered why would I talk to him – because I wanted to apologize!? If my math was right, he would be my lecturer for quite some time, and feeling this awkward for so long was something I’d rather pass. Anyway, the problem here was that instead of actually following one of the scenarios I thought of, I was doing probably the worst I could have right now – I was looking, actually I was staring at him as if I was bewitched, with my mouth slightly opened and my chin propped onto the fingers of my hand. Good thing was I was still wearing my sunglasses and so was he, so there was still a chance he didn’t just catch me watching him like some weirdo. He reached the entrance of the café, took the cigarette off his mouth and dogged it in an ashtray on a nearby table on the porch. Once he pinched it off, he carefully lifted his gaze and for a moment looked into my direction. My immediate reaction was to look down for good 3-4 seconds, only to make my sunglasses fall down and hear the cracking sound of them hitting the ground. So much for your strategies, Demetria. I clumsily moved the table to pick them up and saw he was getting inside once I did. My face went deep red; could this have gone any more wrong? I silently hoped there was someone else his eyes were on, but when I looked around, there was no one neither behind me nor closer than 2 tables away. So chances were somewhere between very small and absolute zero. “Sorry I took so long, but there is such a long line, and oh they wrote my name wrong on the cup, so they had to change it…” – Chelle said coming to me, almost out of breath, putting the purchases on our table and taking her seat. “There you go with your drink and the cookie” – She said again, handing me my items. “Thanks Chelle.” - I said kind of distracted. “Since when are you a fan of frappes?” – She asked me. “Yeah I’m not but now it is a bit hot so I will try it out.” – I said, taking my sunglasses off and waving my hand to bring some wind to my still heated face. “Are you alright? You look nervous.” – Chelle asked. “No, nothing” – I replied, mixing my drink with the straw. A few minutes later I saw Mr. Cowell coming out on the porch from the inside part of the café, carrying two cups of coffee, only this time it was not just him, now he was accompanied by a tall blond female. She was wearing a short grey skirt and a top that was outlining her boobs quite clearly. She looked as if she was taken straight out of a magazine cover. I wondered if this was the type of women he was into. They made their way outside and quickly chose their seats, a single table distance across from us. I was facing her back and his seat was positioned in a way that we both could see each other directly. I now started to regret taking my shades off. “Dems, come on, what is it? You seem kind of lightheaded.” – Chelle asked me once again. “How come?” “You seem to not even be listening to me?” “I am, sorry, it is just…” – I said uncomfortably, looking at Simon’s table and then back at her. “What?” “I will tell you, but promise me you won’t look” – I warned in a very quiet voice. “Not look at what?” “Shhh! Okay, Mr. Cowell is sitting right across our table” “What? Where? ” – Chelle asked a lot louder than I would’ve preferred. A few people from the other tables turned their heads towards us. “Don’t shout, he’s going to hear you! There, right behind you.” - I yell-whispered at her. Chelle slowly turned her head, pretending to be fixing her hair and noticed him along with the woman that was sat on the same table. “Woah, talking about appropriate skirts” – She commented, lifting her eyebrows in amusement. “I know.” – I replied, doing the same grimace. “Are you alright?” – She asked me. “Sure, just surprised, though” – I shrugged my shoulders. “Anyway, so tell me about the guy from yesterday, he texted you in the morning didn’t he?” – I asked her, pointing at her phone. Although I had no interest in the guy she hooked up with yesterday, I knew I had to change the topic. I couldn’t possibly talk about Simon the whole afternoon; I mean who talked about their lecturers all the time? Not even geeks did. I asked Chelle more about him, letting her show me photos of them together from last night and share some unnecessary details for me to know. She was quite caught up onto the subject, and despite the fact I should have probably listened to her, I didn’t. I was barely paying attention to her and was occasionally nodding just to confirm I was a part of the conversation. My mind was busy with the man sitting on the table behind my friend. There were two factors creeping into my head constantly though: One was the common sense, telling “He is your lecturer” and two was the guilt, following with “Why is your lecturer such interest to you?” I mean how should I even define this? In general I have always been quite an impulsive person, so yelling at him on that first day we met was no surprise. Okay, the following actions were a bit too aggressive, I take that. But now what? He was offended, didn’t like me, like any other person also wouldn’t. I, on the other hand, was apparently feeling homesick; having the guy I’m in love with thousands of miles away from me, I was looking for comfort. Man’s comfort. That was the only reason behind my strange thoughts. In the meantime I noticed both Simon and the woman stood up. He pointed at the engine to her and motioned that he was going to join after going inside first. She quickly nodded and walked towards the car, whilst he went for the café bar. I followed him with my eyes before turning to Chelle. “Excuse me for a bit.” – I told her and adjusted my shirt. “Where are you going?” – She questioned surprised. “To the bathroom, be right back”- I said, leaving my seat. I got inside the café bar and saw Simon standing at the counter, placing an order for a take out. I pretended to be looking at the cakes behind the glass, standing a few feet away from him. In my ideal world, he would have turned around; I would have greeted him politely, maybe make some small talk and bring him under a somewhat good impression of me. Actually any impression that was better than the one of being a rude, aggressive bitch I had given. That was my goal right now. In reality though, after receiving his order, he was way too busy fixing the 5 items on his hands to pay any attention to me. He kept his head down the whole time, careful not to drop anything on the floor. He passed by me and did not acknowledge me even one bit, his eyes focused on the drinks. He had two drinks in each hand and a cake, which he supported against his chest. He was also mumbling something to himself while looking down, something I couldn’t fully figure out, but it was along the lines “yeah I can carry the office drinks, don’t help me”. Needless to say, I was quite disappointed of not getting the chance to talk to him. I did try to I don’t know, establish some kind of a contact, but it didn’t go as planned. To be honest, it was probably not only the lack of luck, but also the fact that he most likely didn’t want to talk to me. I couldn’t blame him, though. Perhaps it was for the better. Asking for his attention wasn’t a good idea, regardless. As I was about to make my way out to the table and Chelle, I accidentally noticed something, which looked like a small folder, standing by the edge of the counter. I looked over to the staff members, but neither of the them had noticed it yet. I guessed it was because it was left on the front side of the bar. I slowly approached the counter to see it was an open leather wallet. My first thought was to hand it over to the bartender and say I found a lost belonging. Probably what every normal human being would have done. Probably what I should have done. Instead, I decided to check it out on my own first, without giving it much of a thought. I squinted my eyes to see the beholder's name over the documents, only to confirm the doubts I'd had. On the front side of the wallet there was a driver's license, along with a photo and personal details of the beholder - Simon Philip Cowell. This time the question in my head was judged way less by morality and more by motivation. “What are you going to do about it?”
