Richard Savage's Blog: The Anniversary
February 7, 2022
Fright Club
Fright Club
Book one of the Bite Scene series
Stephanie Douglas
ISBN 978-1-914301-16-2
https://amzn.to/3gxh0LP
Chapter One
I have always had a connection with the dead.
At first, I couldn’t explain it, nor did I really want to. I wanted to be normal. But really, nothing is normal in this world, not anymore. And nothing is normal in my world anymore…not since I met a vampire.
I suppose it's silly I hadn't met a vampire until that night. All of the supernatural creatures had been out of the proverbial closet for close to twenty years. Even I was surprised that I hadn’t really encountered one of them up until that night.
I stood among the stacks of books, my tray before me with the various books I was to return to their spots on the shelves. Libraries were open now for the supernatural creatures, twenty-four hours. I didn’t normally work the night shift. This was certainly out of my comfort zone. I kept my distance from the supernatural folk.
I had been warned by my boss, Nina, that there were regular vampires that frequented the library. She knew I was uncomfortable but didn’t know why—I, honestly, didn’t want to let on how different I am. I mean, there are laws in Canada that prohibit discrimination based on any supernatural talent or identity, but I still didn’t want people to know. I guess mainly because all my life I had been shunned and felt different due to that talent.
My name is Evelyn Walker, and I’m a necromancer.
I can speak to the dead, can raise them. It started when I was little, speaking to ghosts, seeing them. My parents convinced me that due to my age it was just my imagination. Imaginary friends are normal… but once I hit puberty it wasn’t normal anymore and they started to get scared.
I suppose the tipping point was when I raised my uncle at his funeral when I was thirteen. Obviously, you can’t be seen around town or at the church picnic when your child raises your dead relative at a public viewing. We packed up and moved to a small town up north where I was sent to a Catholic high school, where I wore a uniform and was taught by nuns. I was to be cleansed of my sins, cleansed of the obvious demonic force and wicked dirty magic that was inhabiting me. Obviously, it didn’t work, as I still struggle daily with the voices of the dead.
I’m pretty good at tuning them out, but when I get stressed, they come at me until I’m overwhelmed to the point of tears. I stay away from cemeteries, as I know that as soon as the dead sense me, they know I can raise them—the power flows out of me and draws them in, summoning them. Zombies are not fun.
Due to my tuning them out and staying away from the dead in general, you can imagine the build up I experience with this power. For some reason, it builds up to the point where lights flicker, and things move on their own. It presents as telekinesis, but I can’t control it. It’s residue from my ignoring my obvious ability.
I really didn’t know what would happen if I was to be in the same room as a vampire. They were dead—the undead. They were technically a walking corpse, though not on the same wavelength as zombies. Unless a spirit can inhabit the dead body, a zombie is just a shell. Once a spirit has hold of the vessel, you are technically in the realm of possession, mainly because the “spirit” in question is a demon. Only demons really have the power to possess, but even then, they really prefer live people.
What does that make vampires? I don’t think I’ll ever understand. I just know now that I can’t resist them…
I was a daytime person. I was an early riser even. I wanted to be out in the sunshine, and I was always inside before the night fell. Full dark was a no-no for me. I hadn’t really been out after twilight since… well, my teens, I suppose. I really didn’t have many friends and, since I was pushing thirty, I really didn’t have the time or skills to make new friends.
So, there I was, trying to do my work as a library technician in the bustling city of Toronto. I tried to busy my mind, knowing that if I let the stress from the possibility of encountering this undead person get to me, I’d open the door and have the phantoms roaming the library start to speak to me. It happened more than once before, just because of a bad day. Breathing techniques were the best way to keep the voices at bay.
I put one of the books on the shelf, my hand still gripping the spine as I suddenly felt a tingling in my fingertips. It spread into a warmth up my hands, my arms, to my chest. My eyes went very still as I felt my heart start to pound inside of me, pulsing in my ears. The light above me flickered wildly and goosebumps rose on my flesh.
I could feel him standing there, watching me. I didn’t need to turn, didn’t need to try to look out of the corner of my eyes. I could feel him. I tried to calm myself, as the nerves in me shook my hand, sweat gathering on my upper lip.
He stood there, not moving. He obviously could sense there was something supernatural about me, as I could feel him watching me, waiting. Then he took a step forward, his movements silky and smooth, his footsteps deliberately making noise as he approached me.
I let my hand fall to my side, keeping my eyes focused in front of me, pursing my lips. The intensity of his energy staggered me.
“Excuse me.”
I didn’t want to turn. I wanted to walk away, in fact. But my body slowly turned towards him, an intense magnetic pull moving me. I couldn’t stop it. I lowered my eyes, as I didn’t want to make eye contact. Instead I looked at his shiny leather shoes.
“Yes?” I replied, but just barely.
He paused. “I was wondering if you could direct me to section 944.”
I was surprisingly able to turn away from him and pointed down the aisle. “Down and to your first left.”
He paused again. “Thank you.”
I turned back to him, my eyes keeping to the floor, but he was gone. Silent and smooth, just as he approached me, though this time his steps were like the wind.
I took a moment, still feeling him there, not too far away from me. The tingling throughout me was intense, making me feel lightheaded. I tried to turn back to the bookshelf, but my body wouldn’t move. Instead, I basked in the feeling of his energy, which was so different from a living person’s, but also slightly different from a dead one. After all, vampires are undead.
I could still feel the magnetic pull. I wanted to be close to him, to bathe myself in his energy, and admittedly, there was something sexual about it. It was so intense that I found myself feeling weak in the knees from the desire that built deep within me.
I took a deep breath and let it out, filtering through the sensations until I blocked them out. I continued the breathing exercise until I felt I had a handle on it. I finally turned back to the shelf and continued working, doing my best to block out his obvious presence, which buzzed around me.
I was grateful when I looked at my watch and saw it was nearing midnight and my shift was up.
I opted to take the stairs instead of the elevator. I was always a little uneasy in the elevator when I couldn’t control my power. Lights flickering were one thing, but what if I got trapped or the elevator fell? I didn’t want to take the chance.
I walked into the back room and got my things, closing over my little locker as my co-worker Alyson appeared beside me. Alyson was in her early twenties, a petite redhead whose hair was cut in a long pixie. Tonight, she was wearing an obnoxiously light pink dress and looked like a slab of cotton candy.
I was startled and put my hand over my heart. “What?”
“Did you see him?” she asked with a little smile.
I brushed my curly brunette bangs a little. “See who?”
“The vamp,” she said casually. “What do you think? Dreamy, right?”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” I said, putting the strap of my purse over my shoulder.
“How can you not?” she asked, watching me as I walked past her.
I stopped and looked at her. “I was busy, as you should be. Who is manning the desk upstairs?”
“I just came to get my sweater,” she said, grabbing it from a peg on the wall. “See?”
“Mhm,” I said. “Have a good night.”
I made my way out the back towards the parking lot. The path was lit up, but still had an air of danger to it—yes, there were supernatural creatures out and about, but also regular men who liked to attack women. It was the city, after all.
My car was across on the far end of the parking lot, by the fence that wrapped around it. I was hesitant, but started walking towards it, becoming very aware of my surroundings. Sweat gathered on my brow, and I felt uncomfortable in my sweater, the night coming alive with each step I took.
I walked under a lamppost, the light dimming until it went out. I stopped and looked up at it, put in blackness until it flickered on again. I sped up, but stopped again when I heard the wind whistle behind me. I felt the familiar tingling in my fingertips and turned to see three teenage boys standing before me.
They definitely appeared to be street kids in dirty t-shirts and jeans. One wore a leather jacket, another a flannel shirt, and the last wore a jean vest.
I knew they were not human. I could feel the magnetic force, their energy pulsing over to me. There was no mix of sexual desire this time, as my fear overtook me. It actually didn’t take much for me to turn from them, fishing out my keys from my purse as I moved. My car was still at least fifty feet away. And, sadly, there was no one else around. I picked up my pace.
One of the kids suddenly appeared in front of me. He was that quick, just suddenly standing there, blocking my way. It confirmed what I had originally thought—vampire.
“Where are you going, pretty lady?” he asked.
I shook, unable to answer him, and turned to walk in the opposite direction, back to the library to safety only to face the other two. I dropped my keys on the ground. I wasn’t able to even think about picking them up before a foot came out and kicked them. My eyes followed them as they flew across the parking lot.
My mouth dropped open, my eyes wide as fear seized my chest. I looked at the boy in front of me, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, his jean vest covered in pins with band logos. He was thin, tall, and had the side of his head shaved, his black hair lazily combed to the side and silky straight.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, a smile on his face as he flashed his fangs at me.
I was about to turn, when one of them grabbed hold of my braided hair and tugged as hard as they could without ripping my scalp off. I let out a piercing scream, dropping my purse. A hand came out and slapped me across the face, as the hand holding my hair tossed me to the ground before I could even think of anything to do to defend myself.
I was tossed nearly ten feet towards my car, landing on my stomach. I let out a grunt of pain as I looked up, and saw my keys under it. I glanced at the vampires, seeing them huddling over my purse, going through it.
I quickly turned back and started to crawl towards the car, hoping I could grab my keys. But would I be fast enough to unlock it and get inside, start it, and drive off?
I had to take the chance.
I got to my car, my keys within reaching distance. I was about to put my hand out when a foot came down on it, slamming it into the ground, crushing my fingers. I let out another scream of pain, then suddenly the foot was removed.
My only response to being freed was to put my arms over my head, preparing for another blow. But it never came. I heard some yelling, but no shuffling, no footsteps, nothing. Then there was silence. I slowly moved my arms and looked up.
“Are you all right?”
My eyes rolled back as I passed out, seeing nothing but black.
Chapter Two
When I came to, there was a group of people around me, including cops and some paramedics. I didn’t know how long I was out, but the vamps who jumped me were gone. At least, when I gave a hazy look around, I didn’t see them.
I sat on the back of the ambulance, the paramedics checking me out and the police officer questioning me. I summed up what happened, my head thumping the whole time, my scalp burning.
I nervously glanced over to see the back of the vampire speaking to the other police officer. He wore a black leather jacket, his blond hair in half-ringlets that hung down to his shoulders.
“Miss?” the police officer asked, a pen in his hand.
I looked at him. “Yeah.”
“The proper authorities have been contacted in regard to the vampires that attacked you,” he said. “You’re free to go home. We’ll have someone drive you.”
I nodded, looking at my hand, which was bandaged. When I looked back up, the vampire was gone. I quickly surveyed the area, but he was just gone—swiftly and silently. I suddenly felt drained of all energy, realizing that it was his own that had probably been holding me up at that moment. I swallowed hard as the police officer looked at me expectantly.
“Oh, yes, thank you,” I said.
He nodded, turned and joined his fellow officer.
I turned as Alyson walked up to me. Another woman who worked with us, Shay, was standing beside her.
“You okay?” Alyson asked.
I nodded. “I think so. My hand hurts. The paramedic said it was lucky it wasn’t broken.”
“A vampire would have definitely been able to do it,” Shay said, her dark brunette locks in curls this evening.
“Lucky the other vamp was here,” Alyson said with a smirk. “Knight in shining armor.”
I shook my head, looking around once again. “I didn’t get a chance to thank him.”
“You’d actually thank him?” Alyson asked, her brow raising.
I nodded. “Well, he saved me. He stopped those guys. I’d probably be dead if he hadn’t been here.”
“Or a vampire,” Alyson said.
Shay shook her head. “They wouldn’t. It’s illegal.”
“Didn’t really stop them from snatching her purse,” Alyson said as she pointed at me. “That’s illegal too.”
I shivered at the thought of being a vampire—the other kind of dead. I didn’t want to be any kind of dead, but especially the other kind. Who knew what would happen if a necromancer was turned into a vampire anyways?
Nina suddenly ran up to us, her blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun, wearing track pants and a brown cardigan, obviously looking like she just rolled out of bed, but in a very pretty way.
“You okay?” she asked me, frantic as she looked over my wounds.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Just a little beat up.”
“You make your statement?” she asked. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“Yes, and no,” I replied with a little smile. “I’m okay, really.”
“Okay, well, take a few days off,” she said, looking to Alyson and Shay. “You guys can get back to work. I’m going to make sure that everyone who works late is escorted out by security.”
“Good idea,” Shay said as she turned.
Alyson stood, waiting for a moment, before Nina stared at her. “Well?”
Alyson held up her hands before turning and heading back to the library. Nina looked at me once again, stroking my shoulder.
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
I nodded. “I’m okay. Just a little shook up.”
“I guess this doesn’t do much for your fear of vampires,” she said with a frown.
“Definitely doesn’t help,” I said, standing from the ambulance.
“You need a ride home?”
I shook my head. “The police are going to take me.”
“Okay, well, I’ll see you Monday,” she said. “You can take tomorrow and the weekend off.”
I nodded again. “Thanks, Nina.”
One of the police officers walked over to me, then helped me to their cruiser and inside. I secured my seatbelt, still looking around for the vampire. Of course, he was gone. I didn’t know why, but I was a little concerned. What happened to the other vampires? How did he subdue them? There were three of them, and only one of him. He didn’t look like he even had a scratch on him, at least from behind. What did that mean? I guessed I would never know…
I got home and was escorted by the police officer up to my apartment. I took a very hot shower, as well as some meds for my headache. My scalp still throbbed from being yanked on, and I had a little cut on my lip from being slapped. I decided I’d had enough of the day and headed to bed.
I lay there, looking up at the ceiling as I thought about the events from the evening. I could have died. I was going to die. Yet, the vampire saved me. I didn’t quite understand and had to admit I was extremely confused, especially since I found myself wanting to thank him for it. The thought of speaking to him sent a thrill through me, the fear of the forbidden as well as the unknown making my toes curl.
What would a vampire want with a necromancer, anyways?
***
I sat at my little table in my apartment the next evening, writing out some checks for some bills. The one thing I hate about being an adult—bills. Work wasn’t so bad, as I liked the money and generally enjoyed the library. I had to admit I was a little hesitant to go back, especially at night. But work needed to be done, bills needed to be paid. I didn’t have a choice.
I signed my name, then looked up as there was a knock on the door. My brow furrowed, as no one had called up and I hadn’t buzzed anyone in. I stood up from the table, walked over to the door and looked out the peephole, to see none other than the vampire standing there!
I stepped back, looking at the doorknob, taking a moment to register the fact he was standing outside my door. I took a moment, realizing that I could feel his presence through the door—that same tingling returning, the power very palatable to me. My head swam a little as I closed my eyes, savoring the feeling. I had to admit, it felt good.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself, swallowing hard and licking my lips. I opened my eyes, slowly stepped forward and unlocked the door, but kept the chain on.
I stuck my head a little out the gap between the door and frame, keeping my eyes down to the carpet outside of the apartment.
“Yes?” I asked.
“I don’t know if you remember me,” he said, his voice just as deep and thrilling as it was in the library. “I just wanted to see that you’re all right, after last night.”
I nodded timidly. “Yes, thank you.”
“Good,” he said.
We stood there in silence for a few minutes, the whole time my pulse running a mile a minute as I kept my eyes away from him. I felt like I was drinking in that essence, his very being. It was intoxicating and I couldn’t think.
I worked up my courage, licking my lips once again. “Thank you. For last night. I meant to… well, you left. I just, I wanted to say thank you. So… thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I took a moment, gathering my courage again, and looked at his face. The light in the hall caught the white highlights in the gorgeous blond waves of his hair, which framed his face and kissed the tips of his shoulders. His eyes were a piercing light blue that was crystal clear as he peered at me. His nose was straight, his jaw square-shaped. His lips curled up in a smile.
I felt a little lightheaded—Alyson was right, he was dreamy. No, he was more than dreamy, he was gorgeous. I didn’t know what to say, what to do. All I could do was stare at him, as his eyes met with mine. There was suddenly a buzz on the air, the light above him flickering, which didn’t faze him. He kept those crystal-clear blue eyes on mine.
I took a moment to think before I closed the door and took the chain off. Then I opened the door wider and stood in front of him, seeing that he was probably about six foot, not quite towering, but still taller than me.
The fear resonated from my stomach up my throat, making my teeth want to chatter. Of course, the fear wasn’t as intoxicating as his energy, which I could feel being siphoned over to me.
I didn’t know what I was doing, what I was going to do. I stood there, trying to think of something to say.
“I’m Evelyn. Evelyn Walker,” I said.
“Deidrick Sorensen,” he said with a little smile, a slight curve to his perfect mouth. “You can call me Rick though.”
“Rick,” I repeated. “Thank you, again. Thank you for saving my life.”
“I was in the right place at the right time,” he said, his face becoming a little more serious, with a quizzical expression. “I saw you in the library.”
I nodded. “I work there.”
“I suppose it’s really my fault then that you were in such trouble. If the library hadn’t been so gracious to stay open for me, for my kind, you wouldn’t have needed to stay late. I should have offered to walk you to your car.”
I kept myself straight and tall, staring into those eyes. Was this a type of vampire glamour? Or was this just me?
I shook my head. “I don’t usually work the night shift.”
“You’re a day person?” he asked, that small smile on his perfect lips once again.
I tried to smile. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you at the library before,” he said. “I thought maybe you were new.”
I shook my head. “I’ve been working there a few years now.”
“Something wrong?” he asked.
I took a deep breath, shaking my head again. “No, I’m just…a little—”
“Nervous?” he offered with that smile once again. “I can understand why, after last night. I’m not going to hurt you. I just wanted to stop in and make sure you were all right.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m… I’m okay.”
“Good,” he said. “I should get going. Would it be inappropriate to ask if I could call upon you again? Under better circumstances, of course.”
I was shocked, and my eyes widened. “Call upon me?”
He nodded, putting his hands behind his back. “Yes.”
I thought about it for a moment, wondering what he meant. What does it mean when a vampire ‘calls’ upon you? I was no blood doll, which was what they called the groupies that hung around the undead like they were rock stars. I didn’t know what it entailed.
I took a deep breath, nodding lightly. “Yeah. That would be fine.”
“Great,” he said with a wider smile. “Goodnight, Evelyn Walker.”
I watched as he turned smoothly and headed down the hall. I stood for a moment, dazed, before I closed the door, locking it and putting the chain on. I didn’t really know what had just happened.
The door was a good barrier between us, though. I didn’t feel his undead presence anymore, but my head still spun from it. I then looked down at my sweats, pushing my thick hair, which was in large loose curls, off of my shoulder. Why couldn’t I get him off my mind?
Book one of the Bite Scene series
Stephanie Douglas
ISBN 978-1-914301-16-2
https://amzn.to/3gxh0LP
Chapter One
I have always had a connection with the dead.
At first, I couldn’t explain it, nor did I really want to. I wanted to be normal. But really, nothing is normal in this world, not anymore. And nothing is normal in my world anymore…not since I met a vampire.
I suppose it's silly I hadn't met a vampire until that night. All of the supernatural creatures had been out of the proverbial closet for close to twenty years. Even I was surprised that I hadn’t really encountered one of them up until that night.
I stood among the stacks of books, my tray before me with the various books I was to return to their spots on the shelves. Libraries were open now for the supernatural creatures, twenty-four hours. I didn’t normally work the night shift. This was certainly out of my comfort zone. I kept my distance from the supernatural folk.
I had been warned by my boss, Nina, that there were regular vampires that frequented the library. She knew I was uncomfortable but didn’t know why—I, honestly, didn’t want to let on how different I am. I mean, there are laws in Canada that prohibit discrimination based on any supernatural talent or identity, but I still didn’t want people to know. I guess mainly because all my life I had been shunned and felt different due to that talent.
My name is Evelyn Walker, and I’m a necromancer.
I can speak to the dead, can raise them. It started when I was little, speaking to ghosts, seeing them. My parents convinced me that due to my age it was just my imagination. Imaginary friends are normal… but once I hit puberty it wasn’t normal anymore and they started to get scared.
I suppose the tipping point was when I raised my uncle at his funeral when I was thirteen. Obviously, you can’t be seen around town or at the church picnic when your child raises your dead relative at a public viewing. We packed up and moved to a small town up north where I was sent to a Catholic high school, where I wore a uniform and was taught by nuns. I was to be cleansed of my sins, cleansed of the obvious demonic force and wicked dirty magic that was inhabiting me. Obviously, it didn’t work, as I still struggle daily with the voices of the dead.
I’m pretty good at tuning them out, but when I get stressed, they come at me until I’m overwhelmed to the point of tears. I stay away from cemeteries, as I know that as soon as the dead sense me, they know I can raise them—the power flows out of me and draws them in, summoning them. Zombies are not fun.
Due to my tuning them out and staying away from the dead in general, you can imagine the build up I experience with this power. For some reason, it builds up to the point where lights flicker, and things move on their own. It presents as telekinesis, but I can’t control it. It’s residue from my ignoring my obvious ability.
I really didn’t know what would happen if I was to be in the same room as a vampire. They were dead—the undead. They were technically a walking corpse, though not on the same wavelength as zombies. Unless a spirit can inhabit the dead body, a zombie is just a shell. Once a spirit has hold of the vessel, you are technically in the realm of possession, mainly because the “spirit” in question is a demon. Only demons really have the power to possess, but even then, they really prefer live people.
What does that make vampires? I don’t think I’ll ever understand. I just know now that I can’t resist them…
I was a daytime person. I was an early riser even. I wanted to be out in the sunshine, and I was always inside before the night fell. Full dark was a no-no for me. I hadn’t really been out after twilight since… well, my teens, I suppose. I really didn’t have many friends and, since I was pushing thirty, I really didn’t have the time or skills to make new friends.
So, there I was, trying to do my work as a library technician in the bustling city of Toronto. I tried to busy my mind, knowing that if I let the stress from the possibility of encountering this undead person get to me, I’d open the door and have the phantoms roaming the library start to speak to me. It happened more than once before, just because of a bad day. Breathing techniques were the best way to keep the voices at bay.
I put one of the books on the shelf, my hand still gripping the spine as I suddenly felt a tingling in my fingertips. It spread into a warmth up my hands, my arms, to my chest. My eyes went very still as I felt my heart start to pound inside of me, pulsing in my ears. The light above me flickered wildly and goosebumps rose on my flesh.
I could feel him standing there, watching me. I didn’t need to turn, didn’t need to try to look out of the corner of my eyes. I could feel him. I tried to calm myself, as the nerves in me shook my hand, sweat gathering on my upper lip.
He stood there, not moving. He obviously could sense there was something supernatural about me, as I could feel him watching me, waiting. Then he took a step forward, his movements silky and smooth, his footsteps deliberately making noise as he approached me.
I let my hand fall to my side, keeping my eyes focused in front of me, pursing my lips. The intensity of his energy staggered me.
“Excuse me.”
I didn’t want to turn. I wanted to walk away, in fact. But my body slowly turned towards him, an intense magnetic pull moving me. I couldn’t stop it. I lowered my eyes, as I didn’t want to make eye contact. Instead I looked at his shiny leather shoes.
“Yes?” I replied, but just barely.
He paused. “I was wondering if you could direct me to section 944.”
I was surprisingly able to turn away from him and pointed down the aisle. “Down and to your first left.”
He paused again. “Thank you.”
I turned back to him, my eyes keeping to the floor, but he was gone. Silent and smooth, just as he approached me, though this time his steps were like the wind.
I took a moment, still feeling him there, not too far away from me. The tingling throughout me was intense, making me feel lightheaded. I tried to turn back to the bookshelf, but my body wouldn’t move. Instead, I basked in the feeling of his energy, which was so different from a living person’s, but also slightly different from a dead one. After all, vampires are undead.
I could still feel the magnetic pull. I wanted to be close to him, to bathe myself in his energy, and admittedly, there was something sexual about it. It was so intense that I found myself feeling weak in the knees from the desire that built deep within me.
I took a deep breath and let it out, filtering through the sensations until I blocked them out. I continued the breathing exercise until I felt I had a handle on it. I finally turned back to the shelf and continued working, doing my best to block out his obvious presence, which buzzed around me.
I was grateful when I looked at my watch and saw it was nearing midnight and my shift was up.
I opted to take the stairs instead of the elevator. I was always a little uneasy in the elevator when I couldn’t control my power. Lights flickering were one thing, but what if I got trapped or the elevator fell? I didn’t want to take the chance.
I walked into the back room and got my things, closing over my little locker as my co-worker Alyson appeared beside me. Alyson was in her early twenties, a petite redhead whose hair was cut in a long pixie. Tonight, she was wearing an obnoxiously light pink dress and looked like a slab of cotton candy.
I was startled and put my hand over my heart. “What?”
“Did you see him?” she asked with a little smile.
I brushed my curly brunette bangs a little. “See who?”
“The vamp,” she said casually. “What do you think? Dreamy, right?”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” I said, putting the strap of my purse over my shoulder.
“How can you not?” she asked, watching me as I walked past her.
I stopped and looked at her. “I was busy, as you should be. Who is manning the desk upstairs?”
“I just came to get my sweater,” she said, grabbing it from a peg on the wall. “See?”
“Mhm,” I said. “Have a good night.”
I made my way out the back towards the parking lot. The path was lit up, but still had an air of danger to it—yes, there were supernatural creatures out and about, but also regular men who liked to attack women. It was the city, after all.
My car was across on the far end of the parking lot, by the fence that wrapped around it. I was hesitant, but started walking towards it, becoming very aware of my surroundings. Sweat gathered on my brow, and I felt uncomfortable in my sweater, the night coming alive with each step I took.
I walked under a lamppost, the light dimming until it went out. I stopped and looked up at it, put in blackness until it flickered on again. I sped up, but stopped again when I heard the wind whistle behind me. I felt the familiar tingling in my fingertips and turned to see three teenage boys standing before me.
They definitely appeared to be street kids in dirty t-shirts and jeans. One wore a leather jacket, another a flannel shirt, and the last wore a jean vest.
I knew they were not human. I could feel the magnetic force, their energy pulsing over to me. There was no mix of sexual desire this time, as my fear overtook me. It actually didn’t take much for me to turn from them, fishing out my keys from my purse as I moved. My car was still at least fifty feet away. And, sadly, there was no one else around. I picked up my pace.
One of the kids suddenly appeared in front of me. He was that quick, just suddenly standing there, blocking my way. It confirmed what I had originally thought—vampire.
“Where are you going, pretty lady?” he asked.
I shook, unable to answer him, and turned to walk in the opposite direction, back to the library to safety only to face the other two. I dropped my keys on the ground. I wasn’t able to even think about picking them up before a foot came out and kicked them. My eyes followed them as they flew across the parking lot.
My mouth dropped open, my eyes wide as fear seized my chest. I looked at the boy in front of me, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, his jean vest covered in pins with band logos. He was thin, tall, and had the side of his head shaved, his black hair lazily combed to the side and silky straight.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, a smile on his face as he flashed his fangs at me.
I was about to turn, when one of them grabbed hold of my braided hair and tugged as hard as they could without ripping my scalp off. I let out a piercing scream, dropping my purse. A hand came out and slapped me across the face, as the hand holding my hair tossed me to the ground before I could even think of anything to do to defend myself.
I was tossed nearly ten feet towards my car, landing on my stomach. I let out a grunt of pain as I looked up, and saw my keys under it. I glanced at the vampires, seeing them huddling over my purse, going through it.
I quickly turned back and started to crawl towards the car, hoping I could grab my keys. But would I be fast enough to unlock it and get inside, start it, and drive off?
I had to take the chance.
I got to my car, my keys within reaching distance. I was about to put my hand out when a foot came down on it, slamming it into the ground, crushing my fingers. I let out another scream of pain, then suddenly the foot was removed.
My only response to being freed was to put my arms over my head, preparing for another blow. But it never came. I heard some yelling, but no shuffling, no footsteps, nothing. Then there was silence. I slowly moved my arms and looked up.
“Are you all right?”
My eyes rolled back as I passed out, seeing nothing but black.
Chapter Two
When I came to, there was a group of people around me, including cops and some paramedics. I didn’t know how long I was out, but the vamps who jumped me were gone. At least, when I gave a hazy look around, I didn’t see them.
I sat on the back of the ambulance, the paramedics checking me out and the police officer questioning me. I summed up what happened, my head thumping the whole time, my scalp burning.
I nervously glanced over to see the back of the vampire speaking to the other police officer. He wore a black leather jacket, his blond hair in half-ringlets that hung down to his shoulders.
“Miss?” the police officer asked, a pen in his hand.
I looked at him. “Yeah.”
“The proper authorities have been contacted in regard to the vampires that attacked you,” he said. “You’re free to go home. We’ll have someone drive you.”
I nodded, looking at my hand, which was bandaged. When I looked back up, the vampire was gone. I quickly surveyed the area, but he was just gone—swiftly and silently. I suddenly felt drained of all energy, realizing that it was his own that had probably been holding me up at that moment. I swallowed hard as the police officer looked at me expectantly.
“Oh, yes, thank you,” I said.
He nodded, turned and joined his fellow officer.
I turned as Alyson walked up to me. Another woman who worked with us, Shay, was standing beside her.
“You okay?” Alyson asked.
I nodded. “I think so. My hand hurts. The paramedic said it was lucky it wasn’t broken.”
“A vampire would have definitely been able to do it,” Shay said, her dark brunette locks in curls this evening.
“Lucky the other vamp was here,” Alyson said with a smirk. “Knight in shining armor.”
I shook my head, looking around once again. “I didn’t get a chance to thank him.”
“You’d actually thank him?” Alyson asked, her brow raising.
I nodded. “Well, he saved me. He stopped those guys. I’d probably be dead if he hadn’t been here.”
“Or a vampire,” Alyson said.
Shay shook her head. “They wouldn’t. It’s illegal.”
“Didn’t really stop them from snatching her purse,” Alyson said as she pointed at me. “That’s illegal too.”
I shivered at the thought of being a vampire—the other kind of dead. I didn’t want to be any kind of dead, but especially the other kind. Who knew what would happen if a necromancer was turned into a vampire anyways?
Nina suddenly ran up to us, her blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun, wearing track pants and a brown cardigan, obviously looking like she just rolled out of bed, but in a very pretty way.
“You okay?” she asked me, frantic as she looked over my wounds.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Just a little beat up.”
“You make your statement?” she asked. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“Yes, and no,” I replied with a little smile. “I’m okay, really.”
“Okay, well, take a few days off,” she said, looking to Alyson and Shay. “You guys can get back to work. I’m going to make sure that everyone who works late is escorted out by security.”
“Good idea,” Shay said as she turned.
Alyson stood, waiting for a moment, before Nina stared at her. “Well?”
Alyson held up her hands before turning and heading back to the library. Nina looked at me once again, stroking my shoulder.
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
I nodded. “I’m okay. Just a little shook up.”
“I guess this doesn’t do much for your fear of vampires,” she said with a frown.
“Definitely doesn’t help,” I said, standing from the ambulance.
“You need a ride home?”
I shook my head. “The police are going to take me.”
“Okay, well, I’ll see you Monday,” she said. “You can take tomorrow and the weekend off.”
I nodded again. “Thanks, Nina.”
One of the police officers walked over to me, then helped me to their cruiser and inside. I secured my seatbelt, still looking around for the vampire. Of course, he was gone. I didn’t know why, but I was a little concerned. What happened to the other vampires? How did he subdue them? There were three of them, and only one of him. He didn’t look like he even had a scratch on him, at least from behind. What did that mean? I guessed I would never know…
I got home and was escorted by the police officer up to my apartment. I took a very hot shower, as well as some meds for my headache. My scalp still throbbed from being yanked on, and I had a little cut on my lip from being slapped. I decided I’d had enough of the day and headed to bed.
I lay there, looking up at the ceiling as I thought about the events from the evening. I could have died. I was going to die. Yet, the vampire saved me. I didn’t quite understand and had to admit I was extremely confused, especially since I found myself wanting to thank him for it. The thought of speaking to him sent a thrill through me, the fear of the forbidden as well as the unknown making my toes curl.
What would a vampire want with a necromancer, anyways?
***
I sat at my little table in my apartment the next evening, writing out some checks for some bills. The one thing I hate about being an adult—bills. Work wasn’t so bad, as I liked the money and generally enjoyed the library. I had to admit I was a little hesitant to go back, especially at night. But work needed to be done, bills needed to be paid. I didn’t have a choice.
I signed my name, then looked up as there was a knock on the door. My brow furrowed, as no one had called up and I hadn’t buzzed anyone in. I stood up from the table, walked over to the door and looked out the peephole, to see none other than the vampire standing there!
I stepped back, looking at the doorknob, taking a moment to register the fact he was standing outside my door. I took a moment, realizing that I could feel his presence through the door—that same tingling returning, the power very palatable to me. My head swam a little as I closed my eyes, savoring the feeling. I had to admit, it felt good.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself, swallowing hard and licking my lips. I opened my eyes, slowly stepped forward and unlocked the door, but kept the chain on.
I stuck my head a little out the gap between the door and frame, keeping my eyes down to the carpet outside of the apartment.
“Yes?” I asked.
“I don’t know if you remember me,” he said, his voice just as deep and thrilling as it was in the library. “I just wanted to see that you’re all right, after last night.”
I nodded timidly. “Yes, thank you.”
“Good,” he said.
We stood there in silence for a few minutes, the whole time my pulse running a mile a minute as I kept my eyes away from him. I felt like I was drinking in that essence, his very being. It was intoxicating and I couldn’t think.
I worked up my courage, licking my lips once again. “Thank you. For last night. I meant to… well, you left. I just, I wanted to say thank you. So… thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I took a moment, gathering my courage again, and looked at his face. The light in the hall caught the white highlights in the gorgeous blond waves of his hair, which framed his face and kissed the tips of his shoulders. His eyes were a piercing light blue that was crystal clear as he peered at me. His nose was straight, his jaw square-shaped. His lips curled up in a smile.
I felt a little lightheaded—Alyson was right, he was dreamy. No, he was more than dreamy, he was gorgeous. I didn’t know what to say, what to do. All I could do was stare at him, as his eyes met with mine. There was suddenly a buzz on the air, the light above him flickering, which didn’t faze him. He kept those crystal-clear blue eyes on mine.
I took a moment to think before I closed the door and took the chain off. Then I opened the door wider and stood in front of him, seeing that he was probably about six foot, not quite towering, but still taller than me.
The fear resonated from my stomach up my throat, making my teeth want to chatter. Of course, the fear wasn’t as intoxicating as his energy, which I could feel being siphoned over to me.
I didn’t know what I was doing, what I was going to do. I stood there, trying to think of something to say.
“I’m Evelyn. Evelyn Walker,” I said.
“Deidrick Sorensen,” he said with a little smile, a slight curve to his perfect mouth. “You can call me Rick though.”
“Rick,” I repeated. “Thank you, again. Thank you for saving my life.”
“I was in the right place at the right time,” he said, his face becoming a little more serious, with a quizzical expression. “I saw you in the library.”
I nodded. “I work there.”
“I suppose it’s really my fault then that you were in such trouble. If the library hadn’t been so gracious to stay open for me, for my kind, you wouldn’t have needed to stay late. I should have offered to walk you to your car.”
I kept myself straight and tall, staring into those eyes. Was this a type of vampire glamour? Or was this just me?
I shook my head. “I don’t usually work the night shift.”
“You’re a day person?” he asked, that small smile on his perfect lips once again.
I tried to smile. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you at the library before,” he said. “I thought maybe you were new.”
I shook my head. “I’ve been working there a few years now.”
“Something wrong?” he asked.
I took a deep breath, shaking my head again. “No, I’m just…a little—”
“Nervous?” he offered with that smile once again. “I can understand why, after last night. I’m not going to hurt you. I just wanted to stop in and make sure you were all right.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m… I’m okay.”
“Good,” he said. “I should get going. Would it be inappropriate to ask if I could call upon you again? Under better circumstances, of course.”
I was shocked, and my eyes widened. “Call upon me?”
He nodded, putting his hands behind his back. “Yes.”
I thought about it for a moment, wondering what he meant. What does it mean when a vampire ‘calls’ upon you? I was no blood doll, which was what they called the groupies that hung around the undead like they were rock stars. I didn’t know what it entailed.
I took a deep breath, nodding lightly. “Yeah. That would be fine.”
“Great,” he said with a wider smile. “Goodnight, Evelyn Walker.”
I watched as he turned smoothly and headed down the hall. I stood for a moment, dazed, before I closed the door, locking it and putting the chain on. I didn’t really know what had just happened.
The door was a good barrier between us, though. I didn’t feel his undead presence anymore, but my head still spun from it. I then looked down at my sweats, pushing my thick hair, which was in large loose curls, off of my shoulder. Why couldn’t I get him off my mind?
All Gone
All Gone
S.K. White
ISBN 978-1-914301-18-6
https://amzn.to/3gvbbhK
Chapter One
6-20-2024
Freelance investigative reporter, Paige Martin, glimpsed down at her tablet and clicked on a video entitled Amazing Crop Circles. She watched as a crop circle magically carved its way into the landscape. Paige tossed back her head, removed several loose strands of her honey blonde hair out of the way and drew her blue eyes closer to the screen.
“Holy shit!” She pushed pause, leaned back in her chair and stared at the provocative image. “This can’t be real?” Paige stuck her fingers in the ceramic bowl and fumbled through a mass of elastic hairbands, clamps, paperclips, barrettes and hair clips. She pulled out a hair clip and secured her wayward strands. After clipping the shoulder-length offenders, she hit play and finished the video.
Other links from around the world popped up, so she clicked on each link, and the same crop circle appeared in different countries. She scrolled back to each previous clip. “They all appeared today.” She glanced at the repetitive date displayed around the circle. “Huh? 4-20-25 Very odd.”
Paige grabbed a Post-it, wrote the date and time, and underlined the numbers four, twenty and twenty-five. Then she wrinkled her forehead, clicked on the videos and viewed them several more times. “It looks real. Better make sure the last one was a hoax.”
She jerked as her phone vibrated then swiped the call icon. “Kent.”
“Hey, girl. I’m headed to examine the second sighting several miles outside of LA.” Kent drew in a deep breath. “No time to talk now. Paige, this could be it.”
Paige pressed the phone closer to her lips. “Call me if the sighting is confirmed.”
“Will do.” Kent hung up.
Paige bit her bottom lip. “Damn. If Kent’s going, they must be real. He’s the expert on UFOs.”
She heated the teakettle and retrieved a pastry from the kitchen counter. As her English Breakfast tea steeped, Paige bit into her glazed donut and scanned the files on her tablet. Then she licked the glaze off her fingertips, clicked on a file she’d saved on crop circles and tapped the record button to dictate. She replayed the videos of the old crop circles and compared them to the newest ones.
“No similarities. The old ones vary like snowflakes, but the new ones are identical in shape, size, and content.” She zoomed in on New York and LA. “One large circle and a smaller circle in the center. Stick figures huddled inside the small circle.” Paige bent forward. “All of them pointing to the sky.” She leaned back, focused on the outer edge of the large circle and the series of numbers repeating 4-20-25. “Damn! In between each series of numbers are several primitive or antiquated-looking symbols.” Paige zoomed in on each of the ciphers. “They look like the ancient symbols I’ve found in archeology books that were painted or carved on rock walls or pyramids. Must be a reference to a religion or several ancient cultures. Maybe 4-20-25 refers to a very specific date. Perhaps the stick figures pointing up toward the sky are instructions to view the heavens on that date.”
Paige’s phone beeped. Kent had sent a text.
>Check your email.
He’d forwarded several links from work contacts. Paige clicked on the new links and viewed several images from Europe, Asia, Africa, South America, Mexico, and Australia. Kent had included several pictures he’d taken in New York and a few pics from members of MUFON—the Mutual UFO Network.
>After I finish in LA, I’m headed to Asia. I’ll send you any information I collect.
Paige selected a happy emoji and pushed send.
Paige stared at the symbols on her tablet. “If anyone can decipher these symbols, it’s Andrea.”
She snatched her phone and swiped Andrea’s phone number. Andrea answered, and Paige enlarged the symbols on the crop circle. “Andrea, besides the fact that the date coincides with Easter, do you have any idea what the other symbols represent?”
“I noticed Easter too. Provocative isn’t it.” Andrea cleared her throat. “I’ve consulted with several colleagues from different universities, and we’ve all reached a consensus about the symbols. I’ll email the groups’ analysis to you now. Take a look and call me back if you have any questions. Paige, this is seismic.”
Paige scrolled through the ancient symbols from Christianity, Islam, Native American, Baháʼí, and several eastern religions. “Damn! Andrea’s symbols match those found in the new crop circles.”
She reviewed the rest of the information from Andrea and emailed her.
Thanks, Andrea, I promise to send a copy of my article when I finish.
Paige incorporated Kent’s pictures and information from New York and LA into with Andrea’s findings and wrote an article on the new crop circles. Two days later, she sold her article, lifted a glass of Merlot and emailed a copy to Kent and Andrea.
Within four days, every evangelical preacher and religious leader had weighed in on the meaning of the symbols. Paige hit the play button on her tablet and turned up the volume.
Followers, this is the end of the world. It is the second coming. Prepare!
Paige selected videos from several other televangelists and radio talk show hosts that were dominating the internet and the airwaves, and they all echoed the same sentiment—prepare for the second coming.
By the end of the week, UFO enthusiasts joined in and appeared on talk shows. Paige grabbed her teacup, propped her legs on the coffee table and took a sip. The host turned to one of his guests and asked, “What do you make of this?”
The man sat up straight. “This looks like it may be an opportunity for first contact with extraterrestrials. I believe they will arrive on April twentieth, 2025. The numbers coincide with Easter. Perhaps this represents the dawning of a new beginning. I acknowledge its importance by the way the numbers are displayed repetitively. It is also clear to me that something will appear in the sky on that date, and, logically, that could happen at the locations of the first crop circles. However, all of us, whether as science enthusiasts or religious scholars, must remain skeptical at this time. We must ask ourselves, is this real or an elaborate hoax? Or could this be a huge conspiracy?”
Paige clicked off the television. “Real or hoax? If this is a conspiracy, it’s a damn good one.”
The next day, Paige seized the remote and pressed the on button. A charismatic evangelical preacher filled the screen. She snatched her notepad out of her backpack and wrote down his name, the local church he was affiliated with, and the cable station he preached from. Just before five, she called and set up an interview for the following week with Reverend Paul Stevens. Then she hung up her smartphone, set it down on the coffee table and headed to her bedroom to get ready to meet Logan for dinner.
After her shower, Paige dressed in her favorite crimson wrap dress with the low neckline then reached down in the closet, grabbed her black stiletto heels and carried them into her living room. She threw her shoes down next to the coffee table and reached for the phone. Logan’s picture appeared with a text message. Paige read it then tossed her phone down on the table.
“Dinner canceled again. The ER’s shorthanded! He’s always covering for the other doctors.”
She stormed over to the wine rack, opened a bottle of red wine and poured a glass. She fixed a chicken salad sandwich, grabbed her wine and headed back to the coffee table. She tapped DVR, chose a chick flick from the menu and nibbled on chicken salad and rye bread.
Around midnight, Paige opened her eyes to a home shopping commercial blasting the latest must-have crap. She fumbled for the empty bottle of Merlot and kissed it.
“You’re the only thing that’s cuddling me tonight. Logan and I have been together for three years, but according to him, we’re in no hurry to get married. Hell, no. We bought our dream house, and he decided to remodel it first. So, with our wedding on hold until the house is finished, and Logan staying there to oversee its progress and me here at the apartment, we never see each other.” Paige hugged the bottle. “I thought if I stayed here I might see him more with all the late on-calls in the ER, but no… what does he do? He stays at that damn hospital instead. Oh yeah, I’m supposed to join him at the dream house on Thursdays, but when I go, he’s never there.” She lifted her bottle. “What’s a girl to do? Huh? Screw it, I’m going to bed.”
Paige turned off the TV and tossed the bottle in the trash. She pulled off her dress, tripped over the skirt and stumbled into bed.
In the early morning hours, Paige opened one eye as Logan crept in and crawled into bed beside her. She mumbled, “Glad you could join me.”
Logan nuzzled. “What’s that, babe?”
“Nothing. Goodnight. See you in the morning.”
***
A week later, Paige ambled into the reverend’s elaborate megachurch. Marble stairs led up to the podium, with two beautiful statues of angels standing on both sides. Stained glass windows depicting the second coming served as a background behind the podium for the Sunday sermons.
Reverend Stevens walked up behind Paige. “Ms. Martin?”
Paige spun around. “Yes. What a beautiful church you have.”
The reverend held out his hand. “Welcome. Please come into my office.” He motioned to a room off to the side, and the two entered his elaborate oak-trimmed office.
Once inside, he pointed to a chair in the front of his desk. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
Paige sat down, retrieved her tablet from her handbag and opened it up. She inspected the reverend’s eyes to size up his motives, searching his steely dark irises for clues to the windows of his soul and attempting to get a read on the good reverend’s intentions. She squinted her eyes and typed.
First impressions. Oh yeah, this good reverend and his elaborate church is out to score mega money from the many souls that fill his pews. I’ll bet the collection plates he passes around every Sunday and the tithings gathered monthly from the faithful contribute to the cause. The collections from his cable show that airs every Wednesday night and the cash deposits on his bank statements every month are definitely motivators for this goodly preacher to reach as many souls as possible.
Paige lifted her head, hit record and studied his plastic smile as he rambled on. Images of old ladies sending in their last savings to ensure their salvation invaded her thoughts.
The reverend coughed. “So, you have questions for me, I presume?”
“Yes. I was interested in your interpretation of the meaning of the crop circles. I have been researching and writing articles about the varying opinions on their meaning. I would like to hear your personal perception.”
The reverend drew in a breath. “Well, the religious symbols lead me to believe the message is for the believers, and the image pointing to the skies tell me to be watchful.”
Paige adjusted her tablet and held her stare. “What will you be watching for?”
The reverend shot her a half-smile. “You want me to tell you if I think it is the second coming of Christ, don’t you?”
“You did say that on your TV show.”
“Yes, I did.” The reverend raised his eyebrows and bent forward. “I think we should be prepared for it, don’t you?”
Paige peered up from her tablet. “So, you believe this is the first sign of the apocalypse?”
“I have looked at the state of the world these last few years, and I believe all the signs are already here.” The reverend raised his hands in the air. “We are just waiting for Christ’s triumphant return.”
“So, you believe Jesus is coming on April twentieth, 2025?”
“I believe we should be ready. That’s Easter Sunday, and I intend to help my parishioners get prepared for his arrival.” The reverend narrowed his eyes. “What about you, Ms. Martin? Will you be ready?”
Paige paused and lifted her fingers from the tablet. “Either way, I will.”
“If I can help, let me know.” The reverend stood, leaned over his desk and held out his hand.
Realizing the interview had just ended, Paige stopped, bit her lip, put her tablet in her bag, stood up and shook his hand. “Thank you for your time.”
The reverend squeezed her hand, then put his left hand over hers and patted it. “I’m glad I could help.”
His cold, dark eyes pierced her. She shivered, released her hand from his grasp and muttered, “Thanks again.”
He bobbed his head in response and held up his hand. “Please send me a copy of your article when you’re finished.”
“Happy to do that, Reverend,” Paige said and walked out of the room.
She wiped her hand on her slacks, balanced her bag over her shoulder and scanned the rows and rows of pews. These must hold thousands. I wonder if the good reverend fills every pew on his Sunday sermons. There’s no doubt that as the date of the sighting draws closer, this church will be standing room only.
A month later, Paige finished her two-page article on Reverend Paul Stevens and his megachurch and sent him a copy, but she never heard back from him.
***
On November 5, after three grueling months of interviewing experts and writing articles on crop circles, Paige typed the last word on her latest article and hit send. She grasped her glass of Merlot and sighed.
“Finally finished. Now it’s just you and me.” She took a sip and swirled its contents. “So, my friend, you dark, rich red beauty, the debate continues, and each group declares its own side. The religious are convinced it’s the second coming, and the UFO enthusiasts draw large crowds ready to meet a first contact. Whether for a religious reason or a close encounter, the results will be the same—people will gather by the thousands where the crop circles appeared last year.” She swigged the remains of the scarlet liquid. “Another article done, my friend, and it’s time to bid you goodnight. Tomorrow James and I head to Rio and beyond.”
The next morning, Paige set out on her journey for answers. Chasing the story of a lifetime, Paige and James, her longtime photographer, flew to Rio, Cairo, Israel, Islamabad, Beijing, and Moscow to cover the gatherings.
On March 20, 2025, Kent joined Paige and James in London, and the three went on to Rome near the Vatican. Once at the Vatican, they mingled among a large crowd of the faithful. Paige stood shoulder to shoulder with a sea of people waiting for words of comfort from the Pope. He walked out onto the balcony dressed in a long white robe and raised his hands in the air. The crowd fell silent. He waved his hands.
“We must prepare and accept a second coming or, if God willing, the unknown.” Heads bowed in prayer and tears ran down the people’s faces. James snapped pictures of the faithful’s response to the Pope’s words. After the Pope left, many followers stayed behind and knelt in prayer.
The faithful returned for several more days in search of solace, but as the date drew closer, Paige noticed more and more people were leaving the Vatican and congregating at the original crop circle in a farmer’s field just outside of Rome. Paige stared out over the congregation. “It’s time to go home.”
On April 18, Paige, James and Kent headed back to New York to witness the final viewing.
S.K. White
ISBN 978-1-914301-18-6
https://amzn.to/3gvbbhK
Chapter One
6-20-2024
Freelance investigative reporter, Paige Martin, glimpsed down at her tablet and clicked on a video entitled Amazing Crop Circles. She watched as a crop circle magically carved its way into the landscape. Paige tossed back her head, removed several loose strands of her honey blonde hair out of the way and drew her blue eyes closer to the screen.
“Holy shit!” She pushed pause, leaned back in her chair and stared at the provocative image. “This can’t be real?” Paige stuck her fingers in the ceramic bowl and fumbled through a mass of elastic hairbands, clamps, paperclips, barrettes and hair clips. She pulled out a hair clip and secured her wayward strands. After clipping the shoulder-length offenders, she hit play and finished the video.
Other links from around the world popped up, so she clicked on each link, and the same crop circle appeared in different countries. She scrolled back to each previous clip. “They all appeared today.” She glanced at the repetitive date displayed around the circle. “Huh? 4-20-25 Very odd.”
Paige grabbed a Post-it, wrote the date and time, and underlined the numbers four, twenty and twenty-five. Then she wrinkled her forehead, clicked on the videos and viewed them several more times. “It looks real. Better make sure the last one was a hoax.”
She jerked as her phone vibrated then swiped the call icon. “Kent.”
“Hey, girl. I’m headed to examine the second sighting several miles outside of LA.” Kent drew in a deep breath. “No time to talk now. Paige, this could be it.”
Paige pressed the phone closer to her lips. “Call me if the sighting is confirmed.”
“Will do.” Kent hung up.
Paige bit her bottom lip. “Damn. If Kent’s going, they must be real. He’s the expert on UFOs.”
She heated the teakettle and retrieved a pastry from the kitchen counter. As her English Breakfast tea steeped, Paige bit into her glazed donut and scanned the files on her tablet. Then she licked the glaze off her fingertips, clicked on a file she’d saved on crop circles and tapped the record button to dictate. She replayed the videos of the old crop circles and compared them to the newest ones.
“No similarities. The old ones vary like snowflakes, but the new ones are identical in shape, size, and content.” She zoomed in on New York and LA. “One large circle and a smaller circle in the center. Stick figures huddled inside the small circle.” Paige bent forward. “All of them pointing to the sky.” She leaned back, focused on the outer edge of the large circle and the series of numbers repeating 4-20-25. “Damn! In between each series of numbers are several primitive or antiquated-looking symbols.” Paige zoomed in on each of the ciphers. “They look like the ancient symbols I’ve found in archeology books that were painted or carved on rock walls or pyramids. Must be a reference to a religion or several ancient cultures. Maybe 4-20-25 refers to a very specific date. Perhaps the stick figures pointing up toward the sky are instructions to view the heavens on that date.”
Paige’s phone beeped. Kent had sent a text.
>Check your email.
He’d forwarded several links from work contacts. Paige clicked on the new links and viewed several images from Europe, Asia, Africa, South America, Mexico, and Australia. Kent had included several pictures he’d taken in New York and a few pics from members of MUFON—the Mutual UFO Network.
>After I finish in LA, I’m headed to Asia. I’ll send you any information I collect.
Paige selected a happy emoji and pushed send.
Paige stared at the symbols on her tablet. “If anyone can decipher these symbols, it’s Andrea.”
She snatched her phone and swiped Andrea’s phone number. Andrea answered, and Paige enlarged the symbols on the crop circle. “Andrea, besides the fact that the date coincides with Easter, do you have any idea what the other symbols represent?”
“I noticed Easter too. Provocative isn’t it.” Andrea cleared her throat. “I’ve consulted with several colleagues from different universities, and we’ve all reached a consensus about the symbols. I’ll email the groups’ analysis to you now. Take a look and call me back if you have any questions. Paige, this is seismic.”
Paige scrolled through the ancient symbols from Christianity, Islam, Native American, Baháʼí, and several eastern religions. “Damn! Andrea’s symbols match those found in the new crop circles.”
She reviewed the rest of the information from Andrea and emailed her.
Thanks, Andrea, I promise to send a copy of my article when I finish.
Paige incorporated Kent’s pictures and information from New York and LA into with Andrea’s findings and wrote an article on the new crop circles. Two days later, she sold her article, lifted a glass of Merlot and emailed a copy to Kent and Andrea.
Within four days, every evangelical preacher and religious leader had weighed in on the meaning of the symbols. Paige hit the play button on her tablet and turned up the volume.
Followers, this is the end of the world. It is the second coming. Prepare!
Paige selected videos from several other televangelists and radio talk show hosts that were dominating the internet and the airwaves, and they all echoed the same sentiment—prepare for the second coming.
By the end of the week, UFO enthusiasts joined in and appeared on talk shows. Paige grabbed her teacup, propped her legs on the coffee table and took a sip. The host turned to one of his guests and asked, “What do you make of this?”
The man sat up straight. “This looks like it may be an opportunity for first contact with extraterrestrials. I believe they will arrive on April twentieth, 2025. The numbers coincide with Easter. Perhaps this represents the dawning of a new beginning. I acknowledge its importance by the way the numbers are displayed repetitively. It is also clear to me that something will appear in the sky on that date, and, logically, that could happen at the locations of the first crop circles. However, all of us, whether as science enthusiasts or religious scholars, must remain skeptical at this time. We must ask ourselves, is this real or an elaborate hoax? Or could this be a huge conspiracy?”
Paige clicked off the television. “Real or hoax? If this is a conspiracy, it’s a damn good one.”
The next day, Paige seized the remote and pressed the on button. A charismatic evangelical preacher filled the screen. She snatched her notepad out of her backpack and wrote down his name, the local church he was affiliated with, and the cable station he preached from. Just before five, she called and set up an interview for the following week with Reverend Paul Stevens. Then she hung up her smartphone, set it down on the coffee table and headed to her bedroom to get ready to meet Logan for dinner.
After her shower, Paige dressed in her favorite crimson wrap dress with the low neckline then reached down in the closet, grabbed her black stiletto heels and carried them into her living room. She threw her shoes down next to the coffee table and reached for the phone. Logan’s picture appeared with a text message. Paige read it then tossed her phone down on the table.
“Dinner canceled again. The ER’s shorthanded! He’s always covering for the other doctors.”
She stormed over to the wine rack, opened a bottle of red wine and poured a glass. She fixed a chicken salad sandwich, grabbed her wine and headed back to the coffee table. She tapped DVR, chose a chick flick from the menu and nibbled on chicken salad and rye bread.
Around midnight, Paige opened her eyes to a home shopping commercial blasting the latest must-have crap. She fumbled for the empty bottle of Merlot and kissed it.
“You’re the only thing that’s cuddling me tonight. Logan and I have been together for three years, but according to him, we’re in no hurry to get married. Hell, no. We bought our dream house, and he decided to remodel it first. So, with our wedding on hold until the house is finished, and Logan staying there to oversee its progress and me here at the apartment, we never see each other.” Paige hugged the bottle. “I thought if I stayed here I might see him more with all the late on-calls in the ER, but no… what does he do? He stays at that damn hospital instead. Oh yeah, I’m supposed to join him at the dream house on Thursdays, but when I go, he’s never there.” She lifted her bottle. “What’s a girl to do? Huh? Screw it, I’m going to bed.”
Paige turned off the TV and tossed the bottle in the trash. She pulled off her dress, tripped over the skirt and stumbled into bed.
In the early morning hours, Paige opened one eye as Logan crept in and crawled into bed beside her. She mumbled, “Glad you could join me.”
Logan nuzzled. “What’s that, babe?”
“Nothing. Goodnight. See you in the morning.”
***
A week later, Paige ambled into the reverend’s elaborate megachurch. Marble stairs led up to the podium, with two beautiful statues of angels standing on both sides. Stained glass windows depicting the second coming served as a background behind the podium for the Sunday sermons.
Reverend Stevens walked up behind Paige. “Ms. Martin?”
Paige spun around. “Yes. What a beautiful church you have.”
The reverend held out his hand. “Welcome. Please come into my office.” He motioned to a room off to the side, and the two entered his elaborate oak-trimmed office.
Once inside, he pointed to a chair in the front of his desk. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
Paige sat down, retrieved her tablet from her handbag and opened it up. She inspected the reverend’s eyes to size up his motives, searching his steely dark irises for clues to the windows of his soul and attempting to get a read on the good reverend’s intentions. She squinted her eyes and typed.
First impressions. Oh yeah, this good reverend and his elaborate church is out to score mega money from the many souls that fill his pews. I’ll bet the collection plates he passes around every Sunday and the tithings gathered monthly from the faithful contribute to the cause. The collections from his cable show that airs every Wednesday night and the cash deposits on his bank statements every month are definitely motivators for this goodly preacher to reach as many souls as possible.
Paige lifted her head, hit record and studied his plastic smile as he rambled on. Images of old ladies sending in their last savings to ensure their salvation invaded her thoughts.
The reverend coughed. “So, you have questions for me, I presume?”
“Yes. I was interested in your interpretation of the meaning of the crop circles. I have been researching and writing articles about the varying opinions on their meaning. I would like to hear your personal perception.”
The reverend drew in a breath. “Well, the religious symbols lead me to believe the message is for the believers, and the image pointing to the skies tell me to be watchful.”
Paige adjusted her tablet and held her stare. “What will you be watching for?”
The reverend shot her a half-smile. “You want me to tell you if I think it is the second coming of Christ, don’t you?”
“You did say that on your TV show.”
“Yes, I did.” The reverend raised his eyebrows and bent forward. “I think we should be prepared for it, don’t you?”
Paige peered up from her tablet. “So, you believe this is the first sign of the apocalypse?”
“I have looked at the state of the world these last few years, and I believe all the signs are already here.” The reverend raised his hands in the air. “We are just waiting for Christ’s triumphant return.”
“So, you believe Jesus is coming on April twentieth, 2025?”
“I believe we should be ready. That’s Easter Sunday, and I intend to help my parishioners get prepared for his arrival.” The reverend narrowed his eyes. “What about you, Ms. Martin? Will you be ready?”
Paige paused and lifted her fingers from the tablet. “Either way, I will.”
“If I can help, let me know.” The reverend stood, leaned over his desk and held out his hand.
Realizing the interview had just ended, Paige stopped, bit her lip, put her tablet in her bag, stood up and shook his hand. “Thank you for your time.”
The reverend squeezed her hand, then put his left hand over hers and patted it. “I’m glad I could help.”
His cold, dark eyes pierced her. She shivered, released her hand from his grasp and muttered, “Thanks again.”
He bobbed his head in response and held up his hand. “Please send me a copy of your article when you’re finished.”
“Happy to do that, Reverend,” Paige said and walked out of the room.
She wiped her hand on her slacks, balanced her bag over her shoulder and scanned the rows and rows of pews. These must hold thousands. I wonder if the good reverend fills every pew on his Sunday sermons. There’s no doubt that as the date of the sighting draws closer, this church will be standing room only.
A month later, Paige finished her two-page article on Reverend Paul Stevens and his megachurch and sent him a copy, but she never heard back from him.
***
On November 5, after three grueling months of interviewing experts and writing articles on crop circles, Paige typed the last word on her latest article and hit send. She grasped her glass of Merlot and sighed.
“Finally finished. Now it’s just you and me.” She took a sip and swirled its contents. “So, my friend, you dark, rich red beauty, the debate continues, and each group declares its own side. The religious are convinced it’s the second coming, and the UFO enthusiasts draw large crowds ready to meet a first contact. Whether for a religious reason or a close encounter, the results will be the same—people will gather by the thousands where the crop circles appeared last year.” She swigged the remains of the scarlet liquid. “Another article done, my friend, and it’s time to bid you goodnight. Tomorrow James and I head to Rio and beyond.”
The next morning, Paige set out on her journey for answers. Chasing the story of a lifetime, Paige and James, her longtime photographer, flew to Rio, Cairo, Israel, Islamabad, Beijing, and Moscow to cover the gatherings.
On March 20, 2025, Kent joined Paige and James in London, and the three went on to Rome near the Vatican. Once at the Vatican, they mingled among a large crowd of the faithful. Paige stood shoulder to shoulder with a sea of people waiting for words of comfort from the Pope. He walked out onto the balcony dressed in a long white robe and raised his hands in the air. The crowd fell silent. He waved his hands.
“We must prepare and accept a second coming or, if God willing, the unknown.” Heads bowed in prayer and tears ran down the people’s faces. James snapped pictures of the faithful’s response to the Pope’s words. After the Pope left, many followers stayed behind and knelt in prayer.
The faithful returned for several more days in search of solace, but as the date drew closer, Paige noticed more and more people were leaving the Vatican and congregating at the original crop circle in a farmer’s field just outside of Rome. Paige stared out over the congregation. “It’s time to go home.”
On April 18, Paige, James and Kent headed back to New York to witness the final viewing.
Creatures of the Night
Creatures of the Night
Deborah Kelsey Lazaroff
ISBN 978-1-914301-21-6
https://books2read.com/u/bo89Yv
Chapter One
The Coffee Press is an anomaly; it is a coffee shop open only after dark, and until dawn, specifically for insomniacs and other creatures of the night. The décor is a mishmash of used tables and chairs that don’t match in any way, shape or form, and yet that is part of its charm. The coffee mugs are the same, picked up from a variety of different restaurants and coffee shops. Vintage movie posters, most of them from films noirs, decorate the walls. Film noir, after all, is dark cinema, crime films that often take place only at night, so they fit in well in this place for nighthawks. Fittingly enough, a large poster of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks hangs behind the counter, its lonely portrait of people at a diner at night an appropriate counterpoint. Early in the evening, there is often music and poetry readings, but by one a.m. all that is over and only the diehards remain. The Pressers, as they’re called.
Trevor and Sarah are among those diehards, frequenting the shop nearly every night. Sarah uses it as both a respite from the real world and a quiet place to write. Sarah has been an insomniac since she was a child, which makes her most definitely a creature of the night. When she is at the Coffee Press, she spends most of her time nose-deep in her laptop, unaware of her surroundings as she struggles to shape her unruly first novel. She makes a pretty picture doing so, all five foot five of her, with long dark hair and deep brown eyes.
Dressed for the warm evening, Sarah was wearing a purple tank top and green khaki shorts. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, the aromatic, rich coffee scent filling her nostrils. Enjoying the scent, she hit Command-S on her laptop keyboard, saving the last half-hour of her work. She had reached the end of the chapter and knew it was time for the refill she had promised herself.
Sarah rose from the little Formica-topped corner table. Having occupied this same table in the Coffee Press for many an evening, she now regarded this space at the back as her territory. She stepped up to the counter and was greeted with a warm, familiar smile by the owner, Sean, a bald man in his early sixties.
“Ready for a refill?”
“Absolutely,” she replied, handing him her mug. “Thanks.”
Sarah loved the Coffee Press. It was her home away from home; she had very quickly become a diehard regular after finding the place by accident a couple of months ago. She had been looking for a venue that felt like a comfortable place to hang out and write. The Coffee Press had proved itself worthy as an escape from the distracting, noisy real world and the polar opposite of her oppressively tiny studio apartment, especially on warm summer nights like this.
She loved the quirkiness of the place, that it was only open after dark and stayed open until dawn. And, without a doubt, the clientele was as unusual as the locale.
Taking her seat, she glanced at her laptop word counter. She had hit her thousand-word target and knew she could coast for the rest of the night. Writing had always been a passion of hers. She was driven to do it, yet the process never came easily. Sarah had struggled for months to shape this, her first novel. Tonight she was pleased. She’d worked hard to whip that fourth chapter into shape, and she seemed to be succeeding. She’d been telling stories for as long as she can remember; before she could write she drew her stories, like comic strips in panels. As a very young child she was considered a gifted artist, but when she mastered language, she lost all of that. She wished she hadn’t, but there you have it. So Sarah wrote, less often as a director of copywriters to make a living, and more often on her novel in her spare time. She had a lot of that now, since she broke up with James, her boyfriend of nearly three years, after she caught him cheating on her.
With a feeling of satisfaction, she stretched back in the stripped pine chair, raked her fingers through her hair, and looked around the room. That dark, handsome man in the corner was watching her again. He was always watching her. She was never really sure if she liked his attention or not. There was something odd about him. He was the kind of guy her mother had warned her about, and yet that was part of the attraction. She had never spoken with him. His attire rarely seemed to alter—black button-down Oxford shirt, slim black slacks and a black sports coat. His closely cropped dark hair gave him a slightly menacing appearance. He was another of the diehard regulars, frequenting the Press nearly every night. She couldn’t help but wonder about this fellow creature of the night; he was definitely handsome, in that sinister way of his.
***
Trevor has been watching Sarah for many nights now. There is something undeniably attractive about this petite, plump creature, who is as dark as he. He wants to get to know her better, and not just because of her appearance. He wants her, but he also wants to feed from her.
Trevor, you see, is one of those other creatures of the night, a vampyr. Contrary to popular opinion, vampyrs—who prefer the spelling vampyr—do not live on blood alone, however sacrilegious this may sound. Trevor also enjoys exercising his gourmet cooking skills. Furthermore, vampyrs do not sleep all through the day in a coffin, hence the need for black coffee. In fact, Trevor doesn’t sleep in a coffin at all; he has a large, antique, four-poster bed with bed curtains, a luxurious mattress and sumptuous bedding. While vampyrs cannot go out in the sunlight, they do stay awake indoors for a few hours before they go out at night.
Trevor is like most vampyrs; he does not kill. He drains only enough to sustain his life. Also like most vampyrs, he often sleeps with his partners, which are both men and women. Vampyrs are natural and very comfortable bisexuals with voracious sexual appetites, who derive almost as much strength from sexual contact as they do from feeding on the blood of their mortal partners. One look into those rich black eyes of Trevor’s is often enough to seduce a potential partner, but then vampyrs are highly skilled at seduction, and Trevor is no exception.
Tonight, Trevor was focused on Sarah and Sarah alone. He had been lonely of late, and craving the soft flesh of a woman. He found this tiny, dark and plump creature very appealing. Trevor himself was tall, standing at six foot four, slender, dark and handsome. As he watched Sarah work, he smiled. How long had it been since he had done anything besides fuck and feed to occupy his time? Perhaps he should write as well, tell his story, set to rights the myths promulgated by all the mortal “vampire” authors, from Anne Rice, stretching as far back as Bram Stoker and even beyond. He smiled at this thought, then got up to approach this desirable creature.
“I see you here nearly every night, working hard. Are you writing a novel?”
“Why, yes,” Sarah answered, turning to look at the source of the slightly mid-Atlantic-accented voice. She found herself facing a very trim, black-shirted midriff. She raised her head to meet the warm, smiling face of her mystery man gazing down at her. She was struck by just how handsome he was, by those rich dark eyes that gazed into hers. When did she get so lucky?
“I guess it’s more than obvious,” she continued, smiling up at him. She couldn’t help but hope she’d be spending some time with this handsome stranger, and perhaps more. She could use a little romance in her life. It had been four months since she broke up with James, after all, and this man seemed promising.
“If I’m not interrupting you, would you mind very much if I joined you?”
“Not at all.” Please do. She gestured towards the other seat at her table. “I was just finishing up for the evening and would welcome the company.”
“Wonderful, I’ll be right back.” Trevor fetched his coffee cup and got a refill before returning to Sarah’s table and sitting down.
“And what are you writing about?”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
His smile was richer and even warmer, if that was possible. “I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.” It was a wish he had never held over the last 200 years, as he enjoyed being a vampyr, but he liked the way it sounded.
“It’s about vampires, a whole community of them.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really.” She flashed him a broad and utterly disarming grin.
“Do you believe in vampyrs?”
Sarah smiled as her face grew hot. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I do. Or maybe I just want to believe in them.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.” There was so much warmth and kindness in that rich voice that Sarah couldn’t help but feel drawn to this striking man.
“Perhaps I could help you with your book. I am, you see, a vampyr myself. And by the way, we spell it v-a-m-p-y-r.”
Sarah laughed. “Thanks for the tip.”
“No, truly, I am, in all seriousness, a vampyr.”
Sarah stared at him, dumbfounded.
Trevor placed a hand over hers “I don’t mean to alarm you, but we do exist, and for the most part are harmless.”
“So, you actually feed on human blood?” She laughed again. This was the wildest pickup line she’d ever experienced, even for a man as pale as this one. Could it actually be possible? Did the undead truly exist? She had to admit that she had always suspected they were real.
“I do, but I try always to do no harm in doing so,” Trevor told Sarah. “I have never killed a human being and would only do so if my life was truly threatened. By the way, I also enjoy a good gourmet meal and rely on lots of strong, black coffee to sustain me through the night, hence my presence here.”
Sarah smiled as she gazed intently at the large, elegant, long-fingered hand that covered her own tiny one. She could hardly believe what she was hearing, but at the same time she wanted to, and very much so. Perhaps it was the adventurer in her. She liked taking risks.
“Do you… have many willing… victims?” she asked, hardly believing she had the courage to do so, while at the same time suddenly feeling that she’d like to be one of them. She blushed.
Trevor’s warm smile grew larger, and even warmer, and at the same time became very seductive. “All my partners are willing; we usually make love, so I don’t consider them victims.”
“Really?” Sarah couldn’t help but feel a little jealous.
Trevor laughed. “Don’t be jealous,” he said.
“I didn’t know vampyrs could read minds!” Sarah exclaimed, her blush deepening.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he replied. “It’s something we do only when we sense the possibility of a willing partner. It’s part of our survival instinct.” His smile was gentle now.
“Do you sense that in me?” she asked quietly, already knowing the answer.
“I do.” He brought up his other hand to her face, lightly, sensuously, stroking her cheek.
“Will we make love?”
“We will. You’ll find that we vampyrs have very voracious appetites—in every sense of the word.”
They sat in silence for a while, each pondering the other, and all the possibilities. Then Sarah suddenly spoke.
“What’s your name?”
“Trevor.”
“I’m Sarah. Come home with me.”
Chapter Two
A breeze came up when Trevor and Sarah exited the Coffee Press, and as the old-world gentleman that he was, Trevor took off his jacket and draped it around Sarah’s shoulders. She smiled up at him.
“Quite the gentleman,” she said.
He grinned down at her. “I’ve had two centuries of practice.”
“So, you’re over two hundred years old?”
“I am, indeed. I’m a relatively young vampyr, by vampyric standards”
Trevor stopped suddenly, turned to face Sarah, and put his hands on her shoulders. Then he brought both of his large hands up to her face and held it. She really is lovely, he thought. I hope this works out tonight.
“Are you nervous, or afraid at all?”
“Not really, but may I see your fangs? A vampyr should have fangs, right?”
“Yes, I do, and of course you may.”
He leaned in closer to her and opened his mouth. Two small fangs extended from where his canine teeth would have been. Sarah was surprised; she thought they’d be bigger. At the same time she was a little sobered; was he really, genuinely a vampyr? She couldn’t help but be excited at the prospect. She’d always somehow known that vampyrs existed, and now that she had the real deal in front of her, she found that she was eager to know more about him.
“They’re smaller than I expected,” she finally said.
“Yes, most people expect them to be larger. I don’t know why. Hallowe’en costumes perhaps. The plastic vampyr teeth you find in novelty stores.”
“W-will it hurt—when you bite me?”
“You’ll feel a twinge when my fangs first penetrate you, but after that you should feel nothing but great pleasure.”
As he straightened up, their gazes locked once more.
“I want to kiss you,” Trevor said.
“Please do.”
Trevor leaned in then, took hold of Sarah’s face with both hands, and gently, sweetly, kissed her. She responded instantly, opening her mouth to let his tongue in.
The kiss grew, and Sarah found herself slipping her arms over his to wrap them around his neck. She felt a throbbing warmth where their lips met, a steady heartbeat-like throb, like that of blood running through her veins. When their tongues met, she felt another flush of warmth, and then one of heightened pleasure—she found she was experiencing not only her own pleasure, but his as well. It was a marvelous feeling, as though their souls were somehow touching.
When they finally broke that delicious kiss, Sarah looked up at Trevor in wonder. She was startled to see that the whites of his eyes had turned bloodshot-red.
“Your eyes—”
“Don’t be alarmed,” Trevor said, his voice steady even though there was a slight tremble in his hands on her cheeks. Sarah couldn’t help but tremble in return. He was warmer than she thought he would be; she’d thought the undead might be cold, but that was hardly true of this large, sensuous man.
“That happens when we’re aroused,” he went on. “Oh, and you’ll find that my bodily secretions are all blood red. I don’t have clear tears, for example, my tears are blood red.”
“Do vampyrs ever cry?”
“Sometimes we do when we’re sad, just like mortals. I’m really not that different from you, Sarah. I just have the wisdom and knowledge that comes with the extra two hundred years I’ve lived.” He gently removed his hands from her cheeks.
“Am I…?” Sarah wasn’t quite sure how to ask the question, but Trevor’s mindreading ability saved her from doing so.
“Are you safe from disease and pregnancy? Yes. Vampyrs reproduce by creating other vampyrs, and we are immune to all mortal diseases.”
Trevor gazed down at Sarah warmly and wrapped an arm around her shoulder as they continued the walk to Sarah’s apartment.
The night was unusually lovely, Trevor thought as they walked in silence. He had felt an exceptional warmth in that kiss—different than that which he’d experienced with his other partners. They had linked, and their souls had touched. He knew he had to be wary, to watch his heart, for there was always great risk in falling for a mortal. The risk of extremely painful heartbreak, which he’d experienced three times before and didn’t want to experience again.
While vampyrs are immortal, they are just as subject to heartbreak as mortals are, perhaps even more so. They, more than any other creatures on this earth, know that emotions can be deadly, to the heart and to the soul.
In the hallway of her flat, Trevor watched as Sarah took out her keys to open the door. Therein lay danger—but he didn’t want to think about that, He wanted to thoroughly enjoy this lovely little creature. At the moment it didn’t matter that he was being reckless.
“Do I need to invite you in?” Sarah asked, her eyes suddenly mischievous. She wondered how many of the old vampyr legends were true.
“Yes, that would definitely help!” laughed Trevor.
“Come on in, then.”
When they walked into the flat, Trevor suddenly pulled Sarah to him in another passionate kiss. Sarah broke the kiss to reach up and undo his shirt, exposing a surprisingly neat forest of chest hair. She moaned and laid her cheek against that forest for a minute, then kissed each nipple and licked it.
Trevor moaned as well. “Lovely,” he whispered, his voice decidedly British now. Before he could pull her into another kiss, Sarah knelt down to his trousers, undoing them and freeing the erect cock she’d felt nuzzling her stomach. It was very hard, the foreskin pulled all the way back and the head covered with a thin, watery, red fluid. She licked at that fluid, tasted blood mixed with pre-cum, and looked up at Trevor.
“Remember what I told you about my secretions,” he said.
Sarah nodded. It was a little weird, but then it was only more evidence that what she had on her hands was a genuine vampyr. She smiled. She was becoming quite aroused now, at the very real probability that she was about to fulfill one of her wildest fantasies. She engulfed the head of Trevor’s cock into her mouth and began sucking on it, eliciting a deep moan from him.
Trevor enjoyed her sucking him for a while before pulling her up and into another kiss. He made note of the location of the bed in her small studio and moved her toward it. When she fell along it, he lowered his head between her legs, removing her shorts and panties to get at her flesh. When she was bare to him, he buried his face between her thighs to taste her fully.
Now it was Sarah’s turn to moan, and moan she did. She’d had a sneaking suspicion he’d be good at this—and he was. Unusually good. But then, he’d had two hundred years of experience! She writhed under his ministrations, grew wildly excited, and at one point tried to writhe out of reach of his eager tongue, but he grabbed her thighs and held her still, which only excited her even more.
Finally, he took her tiny bud in his mouth and sucked it, bringing on a flood of exquisite orgasms. Sarah had never come so often, and so hard. In a heated fog of pleasure, she marveled at what was clearly the best sex she’d ever had—and they’d only just begun. She could very easily fall for this otherworldly creature, she thought, quickly banishing James from her mind.
When she’d finished, Trevor rose up, his mouth still damp with her juices, and began to disrobe. His body was long, lithe and beautiful, and his limbs were covered with neat black hair. His cock was so erect now that it was throbbing, and the fine, watery, red fluid covered the head once more. Sarah took off her tank top and bra and reached out to him. Smiling, Trevor knelt between her legs, bringing his cock up to tease her folds. Then, burying his face in her hair, he gave one firm push and filled her to her core.
Both were struck by a wave of pure sensation the likes of which neither had ever experienced. It was the same odd sensation that both had felt when they were kissing, that they were not only each experiencing their own pleasure, but the other’s pleasure as well. Trevor lifted his head and gazed sweetly down into Sarah’s eyes as he thrust slowly and surely in and out of her warmth.
“You feel marvelous,” Trevor told her. It felt so good to be inside a woman again, and to feel what she was feeling with each deep thrust only made it doubly pleasurable. He lowered his head to kiss and suckle at her full breasts.
“So do you,” Sarah replied. It had been too long since she’d been with a man, and that odd sensation of experiencing his physical pleasure inside her only made it better. And she loved the feel of his mouth on her breasts, and the sensation that his mouth was equally hers.
Trevor moved to kiss her lips once more and continued to enjoy the sensation of sharing her pleasure, of actually experiencing it with his own. Their souls were truly touching and it excited him beyond belief. He grasped her plush, full bottom and began to thrust even faster inside her. Sarah moved her hips to meet his thrusts and reveled in that amazing sensation of being inside him and experiencing what he was experiencing: the silken warmth of her cunt, and the snug fit; along with his hot, hard length.
Trevor moved his mouth down to her lovely throat in preparation. He could both hear and smell the blood rushing through her carotid artery, which excited him beyond belief. He kissed her there, again and again, as the pleasure rose inside him until he couldn’t bear it any longer, and he rose up, and with a great roar, and came inside her before falling back down to bury his fangs in her throat.
Sarah moaned with pleasure as he began to feed and found herself clinging to him with both her arms and legs. There had indeed been a twinge of pain when his fangs penetrated her throat, but it was very quickly supplanted by waves of a very fierce pleasure, and she came once, twice, three times, amazed by it all.
Trevor was still inside her, moving slightly, and he took his own pleasure and fed it back to her as he fed from her, savoring her pleasure as much as each and every swallow of her rich, sweet blood. He increased his thrusts until finally he rose from her throat, the blood running out of his mouth, and gave another great roar as he came inside her once more.
Trevor bent down to kiss Sarah again, and she welcomed him, wrapping her legs tightly around him. The sex had been wonderful—no, more than wonderful; it had been mind-blowing. She pulled away from their kiss to lick her blood off his face, and then he pulled away to gently lick at her wounds.
“My saliva has healing properties—to keep you safe from infection,” he told her.
“That was… pretty amazing,” Sarah said. “Is it always that way with vampyrs?”
Trevor hesitated. “No,” he finally said. “We linked with each other. That’s rare between a vampyr and a mortal.” He knew it was possible, but this was the first time he had experienced it. He wasn’t quite sure what to think of it, but he knew with it came risk, a risk he wasn’t sure he wanted to take.
“Linked?”
“Yes. We fed each other our pleasure. That happens usually when there’s a strong emotional connection of some kind.” He looked away from her, and Sarah sensed that he didn’t want to talk about it. So as much as she wanted to know more, she kept quiet. She liked this man, and she didn’t want to risk driving him away.
“I’m going to get some water,” Sarah told him, rolling to get out of bed. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, please.”
When she came back with two glasses of water, Trevor was sitting up in bed. She handed him a glass and watched him drain it, then drained her own. She had so many questions that she didn’t know where to start but sensed she should be careful not to ask too much.
“What does blood taste like when you drink it that way?”
“It depends upon the person.” He replied. “Yours is rich and sweet.”
“Flatterer.”
“No, it’s true. Your blood is unusually rich and sweet. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Well, I’m glad I taste good to you.”
“You do indeed. What time is it?”
“About four twenty.”
“I have to leave soon,” he told her, and she could hear the regret in his voice. “I have to be home before daybreak.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Do you want to?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then the answer is yes,” he replied, kissing her gently on the forehead.
Trevor got up, and Sarah watched him dress, mourning the loss of each of his long, lithe limbs as they were covered by clothing. She had never before been with a man so beautiful. Trevor sensed her sadness, and his heart melted. She had been so responsive to him, and the linking had been wonderful. His hands trembled as he buttoned the cuffs of his shirt. He reluctantly pulled on his sports coat, then knelt on the bed and gave her another tender kiss.
“When will I see you again?” Sarah asked.
“Sooner than you think,” he told her. Then he knelt in her window, dissolved into mist, and blew away.
Sarah gazed out the window for some time after he’d gone, pondering everything that had just happened. She had slept with a real vampyr! She wasn’t sure what to think of it, but as she watched the incoming San Francisco morning fog and the first light of dawn, she knew with certainty that she wanted to see him again. She truly hoped she would.
Deborah Kelsey Lazaroff
ISBN 978-1-914301-21-6
https://books2read.com/u/bo89Yv
Chapter One
The Coffee Press is an anomaly; it is a coffee shop open only after dark, and until dawn, specifically for insomniacs and other creatures of the night. The décor is a mishmash of used tables and chairs that don’t match in any way, shape or form, and yet that is part of its charm. The coffee mugs are the same, picked up from a variety of different restaurants and coffee shops. Vintage movie posters, most of them from films noirs, decorate the walls. Film noir, after all, is dark cinema, crime films that often take place only at night, so they fit in well in this place for nighthawks. Fittingly enough, a large poster of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks hangs behind the counter, its lonely portrait of people at a diner at night an appropriate counterpoint. Early in the evening, there is often music and poetry readings, but by one a.m. all that is over and only the diehards remain. The Pressers, as they’re called.
Trevor and Sarah are among those diehards, frequenting the shop nearly every night. Sarah uses it as both a respite from the real world and a quiet place to write. Sarah has been an insomniac since she was a child, which makes her most definitely a creature of the night. When she is at the Coffee Press, she spends most of her time nose-deep in her laptop, unaware of her surroundings as she struggles to shape her unruly first novel. She makes a pretty picture doing so, all five foot five of her, with long dark hair and deep brown eyes.
Dressed for the warm evening, Sarah was wearing a purple tank top and green khaki shorts. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, the aromatic, rich coffee scent filling her nostrils. Enjoying the scent, she hit Command-S on her laptop keyboard, saving the last half-hour of her work. She had reached the end of the chapter and knew it was time for the refill she had promised herself.
Sarah rose from the little Formica-topped corner table. Having occupied this same table in the Coffee Press for many an evening, she now regarded this space at the back as her territory. She stepped up to the counter and was greeted with a warm, familiar smile by the owner, Sean, a bald man in his early sixties.
“Ready for a refill?”
“Absolutely,” she replied, handing him her mug. “Thanks.”
Sarah loved the Coffee Press. It was her home away from home; she had very quickly become a diehard regular after finding the place by accident a couple of months ago. She had been looking for a venue that felt like a comfortable place to hang out and write. The Coffee Press had proved itself worthy as an escape from the distracting, noisy real world and the polar opposite of her oppressively tiny studio apartment, especially on warm summer nights like this.
She loved the quirkiness of the place, that it was only open after dark and stayed open until dawn. And, without a doubt, the clientele was as unusual as the locale.
Taking her seat, she glanced at her laptop word counter. She had hit her thousand-word target and knew she could coast for the rest of the night. Writing had always been a passion of hers. She was driven to do it, yet the process never came easily. Sarah had struggled for months to shape this, her first novel. Tonight she was pleased. She’d worked hard to whip that fourth chapter into shape, and she seemed to be succeeding. She’d been telling stories for as long as she can remember; before she could write she drew her stories, like comic strips in panels. As a very young child she was considered a gifted artist, but when she mastered language, she lost all of that. She wished she hadn’t, but there you have it. So Sarah wrote, less often as a director of copywriters to make a living, and more often on her novel in her spare time. She had a lot of that now, since she broke up with James, her boyfriend of nearly three years, after she caught him cheating on her.
With a feeling of satisfaction, she stretched back in the stripped pine chair, raked her fingers through her hair, and looked around the room. That dark, handsome man in the corner was watching her again. He was always watching her. She was never really sure if she liked his attention or not. There was something odd about him. He was the kind of guy her mother had warned her about, and yet that was part of the attraction. She had never spoken with him. His attire rarely seemed to alter—black button-down Oxford shirt, slim black slacks and a black sports coat. His closely cropped dark hair gave him a slightly menacing appearance. He was another of the diehard regulars, frequenting the Press nearly every night. She couldn’t help but wonder about this fellow creature of the night; he was definitely handsome, in that sinister way of his.
***
Trevor has been watching Sarah for many nights now. There is something undeniably attractive about this petite, plump creature, who is as dark as he. He wants to get to know her better, and not just because of her appearance. He wants her, but he also wants to feed from her.
Trevor, you see, is one of those other creatures of the night, a vampyr. Contrary to popular opinion, vampyrs—who prefer the spelling vampyr—do not live on blood alone, however sacrilegious this may sound. Trevor also enjoys exercising his gourmet cooking skills. Furthermore, vampyrs do not sleep all through the day in a coffin, hence the need for black coffee. In fact, Trevor doesn’t sleep in a coffin at all; he has a large, antique, four-poster bed with bed curtains, a luxurious mattress and sumptuous bedding. While vampyrs cannot go out in the sunlight, they do stay awake indoors for a few hours before they go out at night.
Trevor is like most vampyrs; he does not kill. He drains only enough to sustain his life. Also like most vampyrs, he often sleeps with his partners, which are both men and women. Vampyrs are natural and very comfortable bisexuals with voracious sexual appetites, who derive almost as much strength from sexual contact as they do from feeding on the blood of their mortal partners. One look into those rich black eyes of Trevor’s is often enough to seduce a potential partner, but then vampyrs are highly skilled at seduction, and Trevor is no exception.
Tonight, Trevor was focused on Sarah and Sarah alone. He had been lonely of late, and craving the soft flesh of a woman. He found this tiny, dark and plump creature very appealing. Trevor himself was tall, standing at six foot four, slender, dark and handsome. As he watched Sarah work, he smiled. How long had it been since he had done anything besides fuck and feed to occupy his time? Perhaps he should write as well, tell his story, set to rights the myths promulgated by all the mortal “vampire” authors, from Anne Rice, stretching as far back as Bram Stoker and even beyond. He smiled at this thought, then got up to approach this desirable creature.
“I see you here nearly every night, working hard. Are you writing a novel?”
“Why, yes,” Sarah answered, turning to look at the source of the slightly mid-Atlantic-accented voice. She found herself facing a very trim, black-shirted midriff. She raised her head to meet the warm, smiling face of her mystery man gazing down at her. She was struck by just how handsome he was, by those rich dark eyes that gazed into hers. When did she get so lucky?
“I guess it’s more than obvious,” she continued, smiling up at him. She couldn’t help but hope she’d be spending some time with this handsome stranger, and perhaps more. She could use a little romance in her life. It had been four months since she broke up with James, after all, and this man seemed promising.
“If I’m not interrupting you, would you mind very much if I joined you?”
“Not at all.” Please do. She gestured towards the other seat at her table. “I was just finishing up for the evening and would welcome the company.”
“Wonderful, I’ll be right back.” Trevor fetched his coffee cup and got a refill before returning to Sarah’s table and sitting down.
“And what are you writing about?”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
His smile was richer and even warmer, if that was possible. “I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.” It was a wish he had never held over the last 200 years, as he enjoyed being a vampyr, but he liked the way it sounded.
“It’s about vampires, a whole community of them.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really.” She flashed him a broad and utterly disarming grin.
“Do you believe in vampyrs?”
Sarah smiled as her face grew hot. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I do. Or maybe I just want to believe in them.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.” There was so much warmth and kindness in that rich voice that Sarah couldn’t help but feel drawn to this striking man.
“Perhaps I could help you with your book. I am, you see, a vampyr myself. And by the way, we spell it v-a-m-p-y-r.”
Sarah laughed. “Thanks for the tip.”
“No, truly, I am, in all seriousness, a vampyr.”
Sarah stared at him, dumbfounded.
Trevor placed a hand over hers “I don’t mean to alarm you, but we do exist, and for the most part are harmless.”
“So, you actually feed on human blood?” She laughed again. This was the wildest pickup line she’d ever experienced, even for a man as pale as this one. Could it actually be possible? Did the undead truly exist? She had to admit that she had always suspected they were real.
“I do, but I try always to do no harm in doing so,” Trevor told Sarah. “I have never killed a human being and would only do so if my life was truly threatened. By the way, I also enjoy a good gourmet meal and rely on lots of strong, black coffee to sustain me through the night, hence my presence here.”
Sarah smiled as she gazed intently at the large, elegant, long-fingered hand that covered her own tiny one. She could hardly believe what she was hearing, but at the same time she wanted to, and very much so. Perhaps it was the adventurer in her. She liked taking risks.
“Do you… have many willing… victims?” she asked, hardly believing she had the courage to do so, while at the same time suddenly feeling that she’d like to be one of them. She blushed.
Trevor’s warm smile grew larger, and even warmer, and at the same time became very seductive. “All my partners are willing; we usually make love, so I don’t consider them victims.”
“Really?” Sarah couldn’t help but feel a little jealous.
Trevor laughed. “Don’t be jealous,” he said.
“I didn’t know vampyrs could read minds!” Sarah exclaimed, her blush deepening.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he replied. “It’s something we do only when we sense the possibility of a willing partner. It’s part of our survival instinct.” His smile was gentle now.
“Do you sense that in me?” she asked quietly, already knowing the answer.
“I do.” He brought up his other hand to her face, lightly, sensuously, stroking her cheek.
“Will we make love?”
“We will. You’ll find that we vampyrs have very voracious appetites—in every sense of the word.”
They sat in silence for a while, each pondering the other, and all the possibilities. Then Sarah suddenly spoke.
“What’s your name?”
“Trevor.”
“I’m Sarah. Come home with me.”
Chapter Two
A breeze came up when Trevor and Sarah exited the Coffee Press, and as the old-world gentleman that he was, Trevor took off his jacket and draped it around Sarah’s shoulders. She smiled up at him.
“Quite the gentleman,” she said.
He grinned down at her. “I’ve had two centuries of practice.”
“So, you’re over two hundred years old?”
“I am, indeed. I’m a relatively young vampyr, by vampyric standards”
Trevor stopped suddenly, turned to face Sarah, and put his hands on her shoulders. Then he brought both of his large hands up to her face and held it. She really is lovely, he thought. I hope this works out tonight.
“Are you nervous, or afraid at all?”
“Not really, but may I see your fangs? A vampyr should have fangs, right?”
“Yes, I do, and of course you may.”
He leaned in closer to her and opened his mouth. Two small fangs extended from where his canine teeth would have been. Sarah was surprised; she thought they’d be bigger. At the same time she was a little sobered; was he really, genuinely a vampyr? She couldn’t help but be excited at the prospect. She’d always somehow known that vampyrs existed, and now that she had the real deal in front of her, she found that she was eager to know more about him.
“They’re smaller than I expected,” she finally said.
“Yes, most people expect them to be larger. I don’t know why. Hallowe’en costumes perhaps. The plastic vampyr teeth you find in novelty stores.”
“W-will it hurt—when you bite me?”
“You’ll feel a twinge when my fangs first penetrate you, but after that you should feel nothing but great pleasure.”
As he straightened up, their gazes locked once more.
“I want to kiss you,” Trevor said.
“Please do.”
Trevor leaned in then, took hold of Sarah’s face with both hands, and gently, sweetly, kissed her. She responded instantly, opening her mouth to let his tongue in.
The kiss grew, and Sarah found herself slipping her arms over his to wrap them around his neck. She felt a throbbing warmth where their lips met, a steady heartbeat-like throb, like that of blood running through her veins. When their tongues met, she felt another flush of warmth, and then one of heightened pleasure—she found she was experiencing not only her own pleasure, but his as well. It was a marvelous feeling, as though their souls were somehow touching.
When they finally broke that delicious kiss, Sarah looked up at Trevor in wonder. She was startled to see that the whites of his eyes had turned bloodshot-red.
“Your eyes—”
“Don’t be alarmed,” Trevor said, his voice steady even though there was a slight tremble in his hands on her cheeks. Sarah couldn’t help but tremble in return. He was warmer than she thought he would be; she’d thought the undead might be cold, but that was hardly true of this large, sensuous man.
“That happens when we’re aroused,” he went on. “Oh, and you’ll find that my bodily secretions are all blood red. I don’t have clear tears, for example, my tears are blood red.”
“Do vampyrs ever cry?”
“Sometimes we do when we’re sad, just like mortals. I’m really not that different from you, Sarah. I just have the wisdom and knowledge that comes with the extra two hundred years I’ve lived.” He gently removed his hands from her cheeks.
“Am I…?” Sarah wasn’t quite sure how to ask the question, but Trevor’s mindreading ability saved her from doing so.
“Are you safe from disease and pregnancy? Yes. Vampyrs reproduce by creating other vampyrs, and we are immune to all mortal diseases.”
Trevor gazed down at Sarah warmly and wrapped an arm around her shoulder as they continued the walk to Sarah’s apartment.
The night was unusually lovely, Trevor thought as they walked in silence. He had felt an exceptional warmth in that kiss—different than that which he’d experienced with his other partners. They had linked, and their souls had touched. He knew he had to be wary, to watch his heart, for there was always great risk in falling for a mortal. The risk of extremely painful heartbreak, which he’d experienced three times before and didn’t want to experience again.
While vampyrs are immortal, they are just as subject to heartbreak as mortals are, perhaps even more so. They, more than any other creatures on this earth, know that emotions can be deadly, to the heart and to the soul.
In the hallway of her flat, Trevor watched as Sarah took out her keys to open the door. Therein lay danger—but he didn’t want to think about that, He wanted to thoroughly enjoy this lovely little creature. At the moment it didn’t matter that he was being reckless.
“Do I need to invite you in?” Sarah asked, her eyes suddenly mischievous. She wondered how many of the old vampyr legends were true.
“Yes, that would definitely help!” laughed Trevor.
“Come on in, then.”
When they walked into the flat, Trevor suddenly pulled Sarah to him in another passionate kiss. Sarah broke the kiss to reach up and undo his shirt, exposing a surprisingly neat forest of chest hair. She moaned and laid her cheek against that forest for a minute, then kissed each nipple and licked it.
Trevor moaned as well. “Lovely,” he whispered, his voice decidedly British now. Before he could pull her into another kiss, Sarah knelt down to his trousers, undoing them and freeing the erect cock she’d felt nuzzling her stomach. It was very hard, the foreskin pulled all the way back and the head covered with a thin, watery, red fluid. She licked at that fluid, tasted blood mixed with pre-cum, and looked up at Trevor.
“Remember what I told you about my secretions,” he said.
Sarah nodded. It was a little weird, but then it was only more evidence that what she had on her hands was a genuine vampyr. She smiled. She was becoming quite aroused now, at the very real probability that she was about to fulfill one of her wildest fantasies. She engulfed the head of Trevor’s cock into her mouth and began sucking on it, eliciting a deep moan from him.
Trevor enjoyed her sucking him for a while before pulling her up and into another kiss. He made note of the location of the bed in her small studio and moved her toward it. When she fell along it, he lowered his head between her legs, removing her shorts and panties to get at her flesh. When she was bare to him, he buried his face between her thighs to taste her fully.
Now it was Sarah’s turn to moan, and moan she did. She’d had a sneaking suspicion he’d be good at this—and he was. Unusually good. But then, he’d had two hundred years of experience! She writhed under his ministrations, grew wildly excited, and at one point tried to writhe out of reach of his eager tongue, but he grabbed her thighs and held her still, which only excited her even more.
Finally, he took her tiny bud in his mouth and sucked it, bringing on a flood of exquisite orgasms. Sarah had never come so often, and so hard. In a heated fog of pleasure, she marveled at what was clearly the best sex she’d ever had—and they’d only just begun. She could very easily fall for this otherworldly creature, she thought, quickly banishing James from her mind.
When she’d finished, Trevor rose up, his mouth still damp with her juices, and began to disrobe. His body was long, lithe and beautiful, and his limbs were covered with neat black hair. His cock was so erect now that it was throbbing, and the fine, watery, red fluid covered the head once more. Sarah took off her tank top and bra and reached out to him. Smiling, Trevor knelt between her legs, bringing his cock up to tease her folds. Then, burying his face in her hair, he gave one firm push and filled her to her core.
Both were struck by a wave of pure sensation the likes of which neither had ever experienced. It was the same odd sensation that both had felt when they were kissing, that they were not only each experiencing their own pleasure, but the other’s pleasure as well. Trevor lifted his head and gazed sweetly down into Sarah’s eyes as he thrust slowly and surely in and out of her warmth.
“You feel marvelous,” Trevor told her. It felt so good to be inside a woman again, and to feel what she was feeling with each deep thrust only made it doubly pleasurable. He lowered his head to kiss and suckle at her full breasts.
“So do you,” Sarah replied. It had been too long since she’d been with a man, and that odd sensation of experiencing his physical pleasure inside her only made it better. And she loved the feel of his mouth on her breasts, and the sensation that his mouth was equally hers.
Trevor moved to kiss her lips once more and continued to enjoy the sensation of sharing her pleasure, of actually experiencing it with his own. Their souls were truly touching and it excited him beyond belief. He grasped her plush, full bottom and began to thrust even faster inside her. Sarah moved her hips to meet his thrusts and reveled in that amazing sensation of being inside him and experiencing what he was experiencing: the silken warmth of her cunt, and the snug fit; along with his hot, hard length.
Trevor moved his mouth down to her lovely throat in preparation. He could both hear and smell the blood rushing through her carotid artery, which excited him beyond belief. He kissed her there, again and again, as the pleasure rose inside him until he couldn’t bear it any longer, and he rose up, and with a great roar, and came inside her before falling back down to bury his fangs in her throat.
Sarah moaned with pleasure as he began to feed and found herself clinging to him with both her arms and legs. There had indeed been a twinge of pain when his fangs penetrated her throat, but it was very quickly supplanted by waves of a very fierce pleasure, and she came once, twice, three times, amazed by it all.
Trevor was still inside her, moving slightly, and he took his own pleasure and fed it back to her as he fed from her, savoring her pleasure as much as each and every swallow of her rich, sweet blood. He increased his thrusts until finally he rose from her throat, the blood running out of his mouth, and gave another great roar as he came inside her once more.
Trevor bent down to kiss Sarah again, and she welcomed him, wrapping her legs tightly around him. The sex had been wonderful—no, more than wonderful; it had been mind-blowing. She pulled away from their kiss to lick her blood off his face, and then he pulled away to gently lick at her wounds.
“My saliva has healing properties—to keep you safe from infection,” he told her.
“That was… pretty amazing,” Sarah said. “Is it always that way with vampyrs?”
Trevor hesitated. “No,” he finally said. “We linked with each other. That’s rare between a vampyr and a mortal.” He knew it was possible, but this was the first time he had experienced it. He wasn’t quite sure what to think of it, but he knew with it came risk, a risk he wasn’t sure he wanted to take.
“Linked?”
“Yes. We fed each other our pleasure. That happens usually when there’s a strong emotional connection of some kind.” He looked away from her, and Sarah sensed that he didn’t want to talk about it. So as much as she wanted to know more, she kept quiet. She liked this man, and she didn’t want to risk driving him away.
“I’m going to get some water,” Sarah told him, rolling to get out of bed. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, please.”
When she came back with two glasses of water, Trevor was sitting up in bed. She handed him a glass and watched him drain it, then drained her own. She had so many questions that she didn’t know where to start but sensed she should be careful not to ask too much.
“What does blood taste like when you drink it that way?”
“It depends upon the person.” He replied. “Yours is rich and sweet.”
“Flatterer.”
“No, it’s true. Your blood is unusually rich and sweet. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Well, I’m glad I taste good to you.”
“You do indeed. What time is it?”
“About four twenty.”
“I have to leave soon,” he told her, and she could hear the regret in his voice. “I have to be home before daybreak.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Do you want to?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then the answer is yes,” he replied, kissing her gently on the forehead.
Trevor got up, and Sarah watched him dress, mourning the loss of each of his long, lithe limbs as they were covered by clothing. She had never before been with a man so beautiful. Trevor sensed her sadness, and his heart melted. She had been so responsive to him, and the linking had been wonderful. His hands trembled as he buttoned the cuffs of his shirt. He reluctantly pulled on his sports coat, then knelt on the bed and gave her another tender kiss.
“When will I see you again?” Sarah asked.
“Sooner than you think,” he told her. Then he knelt in her window, dissolved into mist, and blew away.
Sarah gazed out the window for some time after he’d gone, pondering everything that had just happened. She had slept with a real vampyr! She wasn’t sure what to think of it, but as she watched the incoming San Francisco morning fog and the first light of dawn, she knew with certainty that she wanted to see him again. She truly hoped she would.
July 30, 2021
Michael
Michael (Risking Love Book 6) by Callie Carmen
https://books2read.com/u/4jAn6X
Chapter One
Olivia
I put my empty coffee cup in the sink and sat down to open my mail. On top of the pile was a handwritten envelope that had been forwarded from my parents' address. I opened it, assuming it was a Christmas card from an old friend or relative.
Dear Olivia,
I’m counting down the days and minutes till I see you again. It seems like forever since I touched your lovely soft skin and kissed your luscious lips.
Don’t worry, sweetie, I’ll be there in no time at all. This time nothing will keep us apart.
Yours forever,
Braylon
My heart pounded, and my ears rang. Words from my past flooded into my mind. “Baby, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I care so much for you. I just wanted you closer. Please, don’t cry. Let me make it up to you.”
I swallowed hard to stop the bile that tried to invade my mouth. Standing, I stumbled to the shower desperate to wash away the memory of Braylon’s touch on my skin. The hot water warmed my tense muscles.
I climbed out of the shower and dressed for work. A sense of edginess haunted me as I went about my morning routine. Feeling uneasy, I peered out the window before unlocking the front door. I staggered back against the sofa at the sight of a man, with his back to me, closing my wrought-iron gate.
He turned, spotted me, and shouted, “Good morning, Olivia.”
Relief flooded me when I recognized my landlord.
Paranoid much? I hugged myself, and my soft cashmere sweater comforted me.
The landlord walked to the side of the building where he’d been making repairs on the old house.
I checked the bolt on the back door and made sure all the windows were locked. I grabbed my trusty field hockey stick and headed to work.
My day couldn’t have started out worse, but it improved when I got to the office. My boss, Michael Evans, the vice president of the brokerage firm, asked me to lunch to discuss how I was doing in the company management training program. My stomach fluttered because it gave me hope that the dragon lady was gone from Michael’s life. He hadn’t asked me to lunch since he’d started dating her. It had been disappointing because we had become friends during the time I’d worked at the brokerage firm and I’d missed our occasional lunches.
He’d been there when I had needed to hide from Braylon after he had date-raped me and then continued to stalk me after I’d broken things off with him. Michael had helped me transfer to a new location for work and had even given me his indoor reserved parking space at work so my ex wouldn’t run into me on the street. I’d been scared out of my mind at the time, but Michael had walked me to my car each night after work. When we’d gone to lunch together, he had insisted on walking on the street side of the sidewalk.
It had been a hard time, and I had needed that kind of support. He’d barely known me back then, and I still didn’t understand why he’d been so wonderful. I don’t think I would have been able to continue to work if he hadn’t been there to give me a sense of security. It had warmed my heart in such a dark time, and I’d always be grateful to him.
Thank God that time was over. Braylon was in prison convicted of assault and battery and attempted kidnapping. He wouldn’t be a problem for me anymore because he had received a five-year sentence. But that note?
Maybe I should check in with the prison staff to make sure he hadn’t gotten out early. Or worse, escaped. I shivered.
Drawing a deep breath, I reigned in my overactive imagination. I was being ridiculous. That note was nothing more than Braylon’s sick way of trying to control me. If he thought I’d visit him, he was dreaming. I had more important things to worry about than that locked up piece of shit.
I worried about Michael dating and maybe falling in love with the dragon lady. In the local business world, she was known as the maneater because she mirrored the female character’s actions in the song ‘Maneater’ by Daryl Hall & John Oates. My friend Tessa’s wealthy father had told me and my friends that the maneater went from powerful, wealthy man to powerful, wealthy man. She took all that they were willing to give in the form of expensive jewelry, cars, and even positions on prestigious company boards. Once a man wanted more than a pretty thing on his arm and started talking marriage, she moved on to the next victim. Tessa’s father had said that it was odd that she’d gone after Michael because her MO was to date company owners and the CEOs of large corporations.
What if she had a thing for him and it wasn’t all about money? Chills ran up my spine and I shivered. If the dragon lady was falling in love with the most wonderful man I knew, that would be the worst. My body heated at the thought of it. Eventually, her true colors would come out, and it would crush him.
I wanted to warn him about her exploits, but my friends had cautioned that it could backfire on me. If he was already in love with her, I could lose my job. They had bluntly added that it wasn’t really any of my business who he dated. I was torn over what the right thing to do was. I tried not to think of it because every time I did my hands sweated. I pulled a tissue from the box on my desk and wiped my hands dry.
I looked up at the clock and saw it was five till noon. At the same time, the main door to our office opened and there was the maneater looking beautiful as ever. She had on a fitted red dress that made her shapely body look even better than usual. Her four-inch black stilettos made her long legs look like they went on forever.
Sigh.
She took a sweeping look around the office until our eyes met. I swore I saw daggers in her eyes.
Walking around the other desks, she made a beeline right to mine. Her lips slowly crept up into a fake smile that did not reach her eyes. “I heard you had plans to go to lunch with Michael today.”
“Hello Veronica.”
She put her hand on her hip and tapped her foot waiting for my reply.
I guess I didn’t merit a greeting. “Yes, we planned to leave at noon.”
I looked up again and saw it was time to go. I could see around her to Michael’s glass-walled office and saw that he had gotten up from his desk. He looked towards us; he shook his head and rubbed his temples. Hmm, I wondered what that was about? Had he changed his mind about meeting with me and did he feel bad about canceling at the last minute? I frowned.
Michael approached us. “Veronica, what a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you today. You told me earlier that you had a board meeting to attend. Did it get canceled?” He stepped to her side and leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek.
With cat like reflexes, Dragon Lady turned and put her arms around his neck. Instead, his kiss landed on her lips. He gave her a peck and leaned back, but she didn’t release his neck. She stood on her toes and gave him a sickening, wet kiss on his closed mouth.
Yuck. I coughed to stop from gagging.
She let go of him then wiped the lipstick from his mouth with her thumb. The conniver had the nerve to say, “Now look what you made me do. You naughty boy.”
I swallowed hard so I wouldn’t retch.
I was pleased when Michael grabbed her wrist and put it down by her side.
For a split second, I saw sparks in her eyes, and her lips formed a straight line.
“Like I said, I didn’t expect you. Olivia and I were just about to go to lunch.”
“What a wonderful idea. I haven’t eaten yet. Where are we going?”
I had to keep my mouth from dropping open. I held my breath while I waited for Michael to lower his raised brow and lose the look of consternation.
“Veronica, I’m sorry, but Olivia and I will be talking business.”
She squeezed his forearm. “Ooh my favorite topic.”
He raised his brow, and his forehead wrinkled. “Not in this case. It will be personal about Olivia’s job and management program. So I’m sorry but you won’t be able to come with us.”
I wanted to jump up and kiss him. The last person I wanted to have lunch with was her. Especially when he would be discussing how I was doing on my job. There was no way I wanted her to know my business.
Veronica turned to me and squinted, and her nostrils flared.
I sat back. I could almost feel the hatred she had for me, and I had no idea why. I’d done nothing to her.
She collected herself and turned to Michael with a smile. “That’s fine, darling. We’ll have dinner together tonight.”
She turned her head towards me with happy sparkles in her eyes and a sly smile.
Instantly, it changed to a sexy grin as she looked back at Michael. “After, I’ll be on the dessert menu for you.”
Eeew. She made my stomach churn. And what was up with that devious look? She was acting like I was competing with her for Michael. As if he would go for a sporty girl like me, especially since he knew about my troubled past.
Michael pursed his lips. “I’ll walk you out.” His tone was gruff. He cupped her elbow and took one step towards the door. “Excuse me, Olivia. I’ll be right back.”
Chapter Two
Michael
Veronica had known I was going to lunch with Livi today. She’d shown up on purpose on her little power trip. It pissed me off that she had acted like a jealous girlfriend in front of Olivia.
Friends and acquaintances had warned me not to date Veronica. But I’d known what I was getting myself into. She had made it clear when I’d first taken her out she had no interest in getting tied down. It comforted me to know we wouldn’t hurt each other when we went our own ways. She had a one-track mind. Her focus was on climbing to the top using any means possible. I figured it would work well for both of us. I needed dates for corporate events with some of our most prestigious brokerage firm clients, and I could introduce her to the so-called right people. Although lately she seemed to have lost interest in meeting them. But that didn’t stop the men’s interest in her. She lit up the room, pulling most of the men’s eyes her way. It made me chuckle when a few of the men got poked or elbowed by their wives or dates.
If truth be told, I had been drawn to Olivia from day one, and Veronica may have picked up on that vibe. Olivia was dear to me. Her ex-boyfriend had traumatized her just like my sister’s ex had traumatized her. My beautiful sister had been ripped from my life when her abusive fiancé beat her to death. I felt sick I hadn’t saved her. I was grateful that I’d been able to protect Livi. Thank God her psycho ex was locked up.
When I had seen the dirty looks Veronica had given Olivia, it had set my skin on fire. Livi didn’t need or deserve Veronica’s crap. I was thinking it might be time to tell Veronica it had been fun, but it was time to move on.
Olivia was oblivious to my feelings towards her, other than a friendship of sorts. It wasn’t like we hung out or anything. We’d just gone to lunch a few times. I knew she had little experience in a relationship with the opposite sex since she had told me her ex had been her first boyfriend. She didn’t seem ready to have another one soon, which left me stuck in the friend zone until she was ready to trust another man.
I knew it was wrong to fall in love with her, but she was pretty much all I could think of when I was alone. The adorable Tomboy had stolen my heart with her college field hockey stories over lunch, and later with how she had beaten her ex off with her field hockey stick when he’d tried to kidnap her. She was strong, brave, and wonderful. Someday she’d be ready to date again, and when that day came, I wanted the man she dated to be me. Hopefully, no one beat me to the punch.
Livi and I walked into one of my favorite restaurants, known for their delicious and enormous selection of freshly baked breads. There was a mouthwatering aroma as our waitress took us to our table. Almost immediately the waitress was back with two glasses of water for us. She placed a small loaf of farmhouse bread onto the table between us, and a saucer with olive oil and mixed spices for us to dip the bread into. We ordered soup to go with it.
“So how do you think your management training is going?” Livi brushed back her long blonde bangs and my gut tightened with the thought of combing my fingers through her short pixie cut, tipping her head back, and kissing the breath out of her.
“Between what you’ve taught me and the online instructions, I feel like I have a good grasp of it all.” She placed her hand on her napkin and rolled the corner of it back and forth. “Of course, classes are never exactly the same as putting it into action. How do you think I’ve done?” Her brow furrowed and her lips pulled back.
I reached across the table and put my hand over hers to assure her. Touching her like that felt so intimate, and electricity flowed through me.
She blushed. Did she feel it too? Or was she embarrassed that I was touching her in front of the other customers?
I knew I should pull my hand away, but it felt glued to her. “There’s a branch manager position open in the company and I have recommended you for the job. We are offering it to you.”
She pulled her hand away and grasped mine like a vice. God, she was strong.
I chuckled inside.
“Really!” She gave me a giant smile that melted my heart. She cleared her throat, released my hand, and sat up straight. “I mean, I’d love to hear more about the job.”
I told her everything I knew about the position. She had a meeting with human resources on Monday morning. She’d have to let them know then if she would take the job. I hoped she’d say yes. She worked hard and deserved this promotion. But I would miss seeing her every day. Maybe I could take her to lunch after the weekly corporate meetings. It would almost be like a date each week. I wished.
“So, tell me, have you followed up on the youth field hockey program that you were thinking about starting.”
She leaned forward. “Gosh, it’s been so long since we’ve gone to lunch together. So much has happened since then.”
I winced. I’d been spending most of my lunchtimes with Veronica. Well, if you could call it lunch. The woman was insatiable; she wanted to have sex with me every chance she got.
“I met with the manager of the community education department. She was thrilled with me starting a Saturday children’s field hockey feeder program that would help produce the next generation of high school players.
“At the moment, there are nine of our high school girls playing on a club team one town over. She loved the idea because they were looking to start a new athletic program for females to meet the Title Nine equal opportunity requirements. There were fewer sport choices for girls at the high school and the field hockey would help rectify it.”
Holy smokes, she already had a program approved. She was always surprising me with the speed at which she accomplished things. Just like the management training program.
“You’re awesome.”
She swished her hand at me.
“I also applied for a Field Hockey Federation grant for the field hockey sticks and balls and they accepted my proposal. I just have to follow up in writing to report on how the program is going in six months from now. The community education department is supplying the goals and will line the field for the program.”
She bounced on her seat. “Oh, there are thirty-four girls signed up to play. So many of them are eighth-graders that when they become freshmen next fall, combined with the nine high school club players we’ll have enough for our own school team. The manager was so ecstatic that she picked up the phone and called the athletic director.”
Livi was glowing with happiness.
I cupped her hand, and this time I massaged the back with my thumb and she didn’t let go. It warmed my insides. “That’s fantastic. I want to go to one of your scrimmages. Let me know when they start.” I’d known from her resume she had been the captain of her college team. A natural-born leader, and I had suspected from her sweet disposition that she had a heart of gold. Giving back to the community by helping the children proved it.
My sister would have loved her. I swallowed hard, forcing my pain to stay inside.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Your eyes suddenly turned sad. Was it something I said?”
Dammit. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about how much my sister would have liked you. She was a kindergarten teacher and loved working with children. I was so proud of her when she got her first teaching job. I miss her.”
Olivia stood, walked around the table, and gave me a sideways hug. Her cheek pressed against mine. I wrapped my arm around her waist and sniffed in her caramel fragrance. Peace flowed over me and I felt whole again.
I turned my head toward her face. She did the same and our eyes met just inches apart. Hers were full of warmth and it felt like love. My heart screamed, Don’t let go. Don’t let go.
But within seconds her ivory white skin turned crimson. “I’m sorry for making a spectacle of myself,” she whispered. She pulled away and tucked her blouse into her black slacks.
I felt a shiver at the loss. When she’d been in my arms, I’d forgotten where we were. It had felt like we were alone in our own little world. I wanted to go back there.
“Nonsense. I appreciated your concern.” My delusional self had thought it had been the look of love, when it had been concern over my sister. And it hadn’t been the heated flush of passion that flowed through her like it had for me. For her, it had been embarrassment. I puffed out disappointment.
She sat back down. “Do you want to talk about it? About your sister?”
I’d told her that my sister had passed away, but I’d never told her how it happened. It was time, but I didn’t want to do it here. I pretended to pick my napkin up off the floor to see if she had her usual flats on and not heels. I should have known better. She never wore heels.
“Let me pay the bill. Then, if you’re up to it, we can take a walk.”
She nodded.
Olivia
He described the abuse that his sister had taken from her boyfriend and how she had hidden it from family and friends. It reminded me of what I had done with my ex.
I hugged myself.
The police had arrived on the scene after the neighbors had called them about screams they’d heard from his sister’s home. She’d ended up being rushed to the hospital in an ambulance but had been dead on arrival.
“I never even got to say goodbye to her,” he sniffed. “If it hadn’t been for her diary, we never would have known all the times he had abused her. Our lawyer had placed the diary into evidence. It explained why she’d made up excuses like clumsiness for her injuries. She had been afraid of what the boyfriend would do if he’d found out she had talked.”
My heart broke for him, and my body shook at the thought the same thing could have happened to me. He put his arm around my shoulder. “Are you cold? Do you want to turn back?”
He knew about Braylon hurting me, but not all the details. He had helped protect me, so I felt I should tell him what I was feeling. “No, that’s not it. You know how my ex broke my arm and injured my friend Carlie.”
He squeezed my shoulder. “Yes.”
Well before that he raped me. Michael stopped dead and pulled me into his arms. “I had no idea that it had gone that far. That’s why you broke it off with him and he kept coming after you.”
“Yes,” I said through the lapel of his jacket.
“I’m sorry, baby. I should have protected you more.”
Him calling me baby sounded like music to my ears, even though it was a protective manly thing, not I love you, baby. It was still beautiful to hear, and my insides fluttered.
“Nonsense, you barely knew me then, and I hid things from you, my family, and friends. After my ex did it, he tried to sweet-talk me. When that didn’t work, he blamed me.”
He brushed my bangs from my eyes. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.” I gulped back a sob. “He told me that after five long months he’d gotten sick and tired of me being a cockteaser. He made it sound like it was my fault because he’d never waited so long before and he’d lost his head because he wanted to be closer to me.”
“What a jerk.”
I rubbed my cheek up and down against his chest. He smelled natural, like the outdoors. His scent spread through me and made me feel better. “I had nothing to do with him after that until he accosted me in the athletic field parking lot. You pretty much know the rest of the story. But to this day, I keep my field hockey stick in the car for protection. If I ever need to break someone else’s ribs to protect myself, there’s no better weapon.”
“Attagirl. It still breaks my heart that I had no idea my sister was being abused until it was too late. To be honest, it was the reason I wanted to help you. I didn’t want the same thing happening to another woman. Then I got to know you and, well, it became even more important for me to protect you.”
He squeezed me and a couple of young guys walking by called out, “Get a room.”
“Real mature,” Michael growled.
I giggled nervously and released him. I thought of telling him about Braylon’s note, but I wanted more from him than just being my protector. “We better head back or the staff will send out a search party for us.” I must have lost my mind. I finally had him to myself. No dragon lady in sight and what did I do? I pushed him away. I was hopeless.
https://books2read.com/u/4jAn6X
Chapter One
Olivia
I put my empty coffee cup in the sink and sat down to open my mail. On top of the pile was a handwritten envelope that had been forwarded from my parents' address. I opened it, assuming it was a Christmas card from an old friend or relative.
Dear Olivia,
I’m counting down the days and minutes till I see you again. It seems like forever since I touched your lovely soft skin and kissed your luscious lips.
Don’t worry, sweetie, I’ll be there in no time at all. This time nothing will keep us apart.
Yours forever,
Braylon
My heart pounded, and my ears rang. Words from my past flooded into my mind. “Baby, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I care so much for you. I just wanted you closer. Please, don’t cry. Let me make it up to you.”
I swallowed hard to stop the bile that tried to invade my mouth. Standing, I stumbled to the shower desperate to wash away the memory of Braylon’s touch on my skin. The hot water warmed my tense muscles.
I climbed out of the shower and dressed for work. A sense of edginess haunted me as I went about my morning routine. Feeling uneasy, I peered out the window before unlocking the front door. I staggered back against the sofa at the sight of a man, with his back to me, closing my wrought-iron gate.
He turned, spotted me, and shouted, “Good morning, Olivia.”
Relief flooded me when I recognized my landlord.
Paranoid much? I hugged myself, and my soft cashmere sweater comforted me.
The landlord walked to the side of the building where he’d been making repairs on the old house.
I checked the bolt on the back door and made sure all the windows were locked. I grabbed my trusty field hockey stick and headed to work.
My day couldn’t have started out worse, but it improved when I got to the office. My boss, Michael Evans, the vice president of the brokerage firm, asked me to lunch to discuss how I was doing in the company management training program. My stomach fluttered because it gave me hope that the dragon lady was gone from Michael’s life. He hadn’t asked me to lunch since he’d started dating her. It had been disappointing because we had become friends during the time I’d worked at the brokerage firm and I’d missed our occasional lunches.
He’d been there when I had needed to hide from Braylon after he had date-raped me and then continued to stalk me after I’d broken things off with him. Michael had helped me transfer to a new location for work and had even given me his indoor reserved parking space at work so my ex wouldn’t run into me on the street. I’d been scared out of my mind at the time, but Michael had walked me to my car each night after work. When we’d gone to lunch together, he had insisted on walking on the street side of the sidewalk.
It had been a hard time, and I had needed that kind of support. He’d barely known me back then, and I still didn’t understand why he’d been so wonderful. I don’t think I would have been able to continue to work if he hadn’t been there to give me a sense of security. It had warmed my heart in such a dark time, and I’d always be grateful to him.
Thank God that time was over. Braylon was in prison convicted of assault and battery and attempted kidnapping. He wouldn’t be a problem for me anymore because he had received a five-year sentence. But that note?
Maybe I should check in with the prison staff to make sure he hadn’t gotten out early. Or worse, escaped. I shivered.
Drawing a deep breath, I reigned in my overactive imagination. I was being ridiculous. That note was nothing more than Braylon’s sick way of trying to control me. If he thought I’d visit him, he was dreaming. I had more important things to worry about than that locked up piece of shit.
I worried about Michael dating and maybe falling in love with the dragon lady. In the local business world, she was known as the maneater because she mirrored the female character’s actions in the song ‘Maneater’ by Daryl Hall & John Oates. My friend Tessa’s wealthy father had told me and my friends that the maneater went from powerful, wealthy man to powerful, wealthy man. She took all that they were willing to give in the form of expensive jewelry, cars, and even positions on prestigious company boards. Once a man wanted more than a pretty thing on his arm and started talking marriage, she moved on to the next victim. Tessa’s father had said that it was odd that she’d gone after Michael because her MO was to date company owners and the CEOs of large corporations.
What if she had a thing for him and it wasn’t all about money? Chills ran up my spine and I shivered. If the dragon lady was falling in love with the most wonderful man I knew, that would be the worst. My body heated at the thought of it. Eventually, her true colors would come out, and it would crush him.
I wanted to warn him about her exploits, but my friends had cautioned that it could backfire on me. If he was already in love with her, I could lose my job. They had bluntly added that it wasn’t really any of my business who he dated. I was torn over what the right thing to do was. I tried not to think of it because every time I did my hands sweated. I pulled a tissue from the box on my desk and wiped my hands dry.
I looked up at the clock and saw it was five till noon. At the same time, the main door to our office opened and there was the maneater looking beautiful as ever. She had on a fitted red dress that made her shapely body look even better than usual. Her four-inch black stilettos made her long legs look like they went on forever.
Sigh.
She took a sweeping look around the office until our eyes met. I swore I saw daggers in her eyes.
Walking around the other desks, she made a beeline right to mine. Her lips slowly crept up into a fake smile that did not reach her eyes. “I heard you had plans to go to lunch with Michael today.”
“Hello Veronica.”
She put her hand on her hip and tapped her foot waiting for my reply.
I guess I didn’t merit a greeting. “Yes, we planned to leave at noon.”
I looked up again and saw it was time to go. I could see around her to Michael’s glass-walled office and saw that he had gotten up from his desk. He looked towards us; he shook his head and rubbed his temples. Hmm, I wondered what that was about? Had he changed his mind about meeting with me and did he feel bad about canceling at the last minute? I frowned.
Michael approached us. “Veronica, what a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you today. You told me earlier that you had a board meeting to attend. Did it get canceled?” He stepped to her side and leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek.
With cat like reflexes, Dragon Lady turned and put her arms around his neck. Instead, his kiss landed on her lips. He gave her a peck and leaned back, but she didn’t release his neck. She stood on her toes and gave him a sickening, wet kiss on his closed mouth.
Yuck. I coughed to stop from gagging.
She let go of him then wiped the lipstick from his mouth with her thumb. The conniver had the nerve to say, “Now look what you made me do. You naughty boy.”
I swallowed hard so I wouldn’t retch.
I was pleased when Michael grabbed her wrist and put it down by her side.
For a split second, I saw sparks in her eyes, and her lips formed a straight line.
“Like I said, I didn’t expect you. Olivia and I were just about to go to lunch.”
“What a wonderful idea. I haven’t eaten yet. Where are we going?”
I had to keep my mouth from dropping open. I held my breath while I waited for Michael to lower his raised brow and lose the look of consternation.
“Veronica, I’m sorry, but Olivia and I will be talking business.”
She squeezed his forearm. “Ooh my favorite topic.”
He raised his brow, and his forehead wrinkled. “Not in this case. It will be personal about Olivia’s job and management program. So I’m sorry but you won’t be able to come with us.”
I wanted to jump up and kiss him. The last person I wanted to have lunch with was her. Especially when he would be discussing how I was doing on my job. There was no way I wanted her to know my business.
Veronica turned to me and squinted, and her nostrils flared.
I sat back. I could almost feel the hatred she had for me, and I had no idea why. I’d done nothing to her.
She collected herself and turned to Michael with a smile. “That’s fine, darling. We’ll have dinner together tonight.”
She turned her head towards me with happy sparkles in her eyes and a sly smile.
Instantly, it changed to a sexy grin as she looked back at Michael. “After, I’ll be on the dessert menu for you.”
Eeew. She made my stomach churn. And what was up with that devious look? She was acting like I was competing with her for Michael. As if he would go for a sporty girl like me, especially since he knew about my troubled past.
Michael pursed his lips. “I’ll walk you out.” His tone was gruff. He cupped her elbow and took one step towards the door. “Excuse me, Olivia. I’ll be right back.”
Chapter Two
Michael
Veronica had known I was going to lunch with Livi today. She’d shown up on purpose on her little power trip. It pissed me off that she had acted like a jealous girlfriend in front of Olivia.
Friends and acquaintances had warned me not to date Veronica. But I’d known what I was getting myself into. She had made it clear when I’d first taken her out she had no interest in getting tied down. It comforted me to know we wouldn’t hurt each other when we went our own ways. She had a one-track mind. Her focus was on climbing to the top using any means possible. I figured it would work well for both of us. I needed dates for corporate events with some of our most prestigious brokerage firm clients, and I could introduce her to the so-called right people. Although lately she seemed to have lost interest in meeting them. But that didn’t stop the men’s interest in her. She lit up the room, pulling most of the men’s eyes her way. It made me chuckle when a few of the men got poked or elbowed by their wives or dates.
If truth be told, I had been drawn to Olivia from day one, and Veronica may have picked up on that vibe. Olivia was dear to me. Her ex-boyfriend had traumatized her just like my sister’s ex had traumatized her. My beautiful sister had been ripped from my life when her abusive fiancé beat her to death. I felt sick I hadn’t saved her. I was grateful that I’d been able to protect Livi. Thank God her psycho ex was locked up.
When I had seen the dirty looks Veronica had given Olivia, it had set my skin on fire. Livi didn’t need or deserve Veronica’s crap. I was thinking it might be time to tell Veronica it had been fun, but it was time to move on.
Olivia was oblivious to my feelings towards her, other than a friendship of sorts. It wasn’t like we hung out or anything. We’d just gone to lunch a few times. I knew she had little experience in a relationship with the opposite sex since she had told me her ex had been her first boyfriend. She didn’t seem ready to have another one soon, which left me stuck in the friend zone until she was ready to trust another man.
I knew it was wrong to fall in love with her, but she was pretty much all I could think of when I was alone. The adorable Tomboy had stolen my heart with her college field hockey stories over lunch, and later with how she had beaten her ex off with her field hockey stick when he’d tried to kidnap her. She was strong, brave, and wonderful. Someday she’d be ready to date again, and when that day came, I wanted the man she dated to be me. Hopefully, no one beat me to the punch.
Livi and I walked into one of my favorite restaurants, known for their delicious and enormous selection of freshly baked breads. There was a mouthwatering aroma as our waitress took us to our table. Almost immediately the waitress was back with two glasses of water for us. She placed a small loaf of farmhouse bread onto the table between us, and a saucer with olive oil and mixed spices for us to dip the bread into. We ordered soup to go with it.
“So how do you think your management training is going?” Livi brushed back her long blonde bangs and my gut tightened with the thought of combing my fingers through her short pixie cut, tipping her head back, and kissing the breath out of her.
“Between what you’ve taught me and the online instructions, I feel like I have a good grasp of it all.” She placed her hand on her napkin and rolled the corner of it back and forth. “Of course, classes are never exactly the same as putting it into action. How do you think I’ve done?” Her brow furrowed and her lips pulled back.
I reached across the table and put my hand over hers to assure her. Touching her like that felt so intimate, and electricity flowed through me.
She blushed. Did she feel it too? Or was she embarrassed that I was touching her in front of the other customers?
I knew I should pull my hand away, but it felt glued to her. “There’s a branch manager position open in the company and I have recommended you for the job. We are offering it to you.”
She pulled her hand away and grasped mine like a vice. God, she was strong.
I chuckled inside.
“Really!” She gave me a giant smile that melted my heart. She cleared her throat, released my hand, and sat up straight. “I mean, I’d love to hear more about the job.”
I told her everything I knew about the position. She had a meeting with human resources on Monday morning. She’d have to let them know then if she would take the job. I hoped she’d say yes. She worked hard and deserved this promotion. But I would miss seeing her every day. Maybe I could take her to lunch after the weekly corporate meetings. It would almost be like a date each week. I wished.
“So, tell me, have you followed up on the youth field hockey program that you were thinking about starting.”
She leaned forward. “Gosh, it’s been so long since we’ve gone to lunch together. So much has happened since then.”
I winced. I’d been spending most of my lunchtimes with Veronica. Well, if you could call it lunch. The woman was insatiable; she wanted to have sex with me every chance she got.
“I met with the manager of the community education department. She was thrilled with me starting a Saturday children’s field hockey feeder program that would help produce the next generation of high school players.
“At the moment, there are nine of our high school girls playing on a club team one town over. She loved the idea because they were looking to start a new athletic program for females to meet the Title Nine equal opportunity requirements. There were fewer sport choices for girls at the high school and the field hockey would help rectify it.”
Holy smokes, she already had a program approved. She was always surprising me with the speed at which she accomplished things. Just like the management training program.
“You’re awesome.”
She swished her hand at me.
“I also applied for a Field Hockey Federation grant for the field hockey sticks and balls and they accepted my proposal. I just have to follow up in writing to report on how the program is going in six months from now. The community education department is supplying the goals and will line the field for the program.”
She bounced on her seat. “Oh, there are thirty-four girls signed up to play. So many of them are eighth-graders that when they become freshmen next fall, combined with the nine high school club players we’ll have enough for our own school team. The manager was so ecstatic that she picked up the phone and called the athletic director.”
Livi was glowing with happiness.
I cupped her hand, and this time I massaged the back with my thumb and she didn’t let go. It warmed my insides. “That’s fantastic. I want to go to one of your scrimmages. Let me know when they start.” I’d known from her resume she had been the captain of her college team. A natural-born leader, and I had suspected from her sweet disposition that she had a heart of gold. Giving back to the community by helping the children proved it.
My sister would have loved her. I swallowed hard, forcing my pain to stay inside.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Your eyes suddenly turned sad. Was it something I said?”
Dammit. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about how much my sister would have liked you. She was a kindergarten teacher and loved working with children. I was so proud of her when she got her first teaching job. I miss her.”
Olivia stood, walked around the table, and gave me a sideways hug. Her cheek pressed against mine. I wrapped my arm around her waist and sniffed in her caramel fragrance. Peace flowed over me and I felt whole again.
I turned my head toward her face. She did the same and our eyes met just inches apart. Hers were full of warmth and it felt like love. My heart screamed, Don’t let go. Don’t let go.
But within seconds her ivory white skin turned crimson. “I’m sorry for making a spectacle of myself,” she whispered. She pulled away and tucked her blouse into her black slacks.
I felt a shiver at the loss. When she’d been in my arms, I’d forgotten where we were. It had felt like we were alone in our own little world. I wanted to go back there.
“Nonsense. I appreciated your concern.” My delusional self had thought it had been the look of love, when it had been concern over my sister. And it hadn’t been the heated flush of passion that flowed through her like it had for me. For her, it had been embarrassment. I puffed out disappointment.
She sat back down. “Do you want to talk about it? About your sister?”
I’d told her that my sister had passed away, but I’d never told her how it happened. It was time, but I didn’t want to do it here. I pretended to pick my napkin up off the floor to see if she had her usual flats on and not heels. I should have known better. She never wore heels.
“Let me pay the bill. Then, if you’re up to it, we can take a walk.”
She nodded.
Olivia
He described the abuse that his sister had taken from her boyfriend and how she had hidden it from family and friends. It reminded me of what I had done with my ex.
I hugged myself.
The police had arrived on the scene after the neighbors had called them about screams they’d heard from his sister’s home. She’d ended up being rushed to the hospital in an ambulance but had been dead on arrival.
“I never even got to say goodbye to her,” he sniffed. “If it hadn’t been for her diary, we never would have known all the times he had abused her. Our lawyer had placed the diary into evidence. It explained why she’d made up excuses like clumsiness for her injuries. She had been afraid of what the boyfriend would do if he’d found out she had talked.”
My heart broke for him, and my body shook at the thought the same thing could have happened to me. He put his arm around my shoulder. “Are you cold? Do you want to turn back?”
He knew about Braylon hurting me, but not all the details. He had helped protect me, so I felt I should tell him what I was feeling. “No, that’s not it. You know how my ex broke my arm and injured my friend Carlie.”
He squeezed my shoulder. “Yes.”
Well before that he raped me. Michael stopped dead and pulled me into his arms. “I had no idea that it had gone that far. That’s why you broke it off with him and he kept coming after you.”
“Yes,” I said through the lapel of his jacket.
“I’m sorry, baby. I should have protected you more.”
Him calling me baby sounded like music to my ears, even though it was a protective manly thing, not I love you, baby. It was still beautiful to hear, and my insides fluttered.
“Nonsense, you barely knew me then, and I hid things from you, my family, and friends. After my ex did it, he tried to sweet-talk me. When that didn’t work, he blamed me.”
He brushed my bangs from my eyes. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.” I gulped back a sob. “He told me that after five long months he’d gotten sick and tired of me being a cockteaser. He made it sound like it was my fault because he’d never waited so long before and he’d lost his head because he wanted to be closer to me.”
“What a jerk.”
I rubbed my cheek up and down against his chest. He smelled natural, like the outdoors. His scent spread through me and made me feel better. “I had nothing to do with him after that until he accosted me in the athletic field parking lot. You pretty much know the rest of the story. But to this day, I keep my field hockey stick in the car for protection. If I ever need to break someone else’s ribs to protect myself, there’s no better weapon.”
“Attagirl. It still breaks my heart that I had no idea my sister was being abused until it was too late. To be honest, it was the reason I wanted to help you. I didn’t want the same thing happening to another woman. Then I got to know you and, well, it became even more important for me to protect you.”
He squeezed me and a couple of young guys walking by called out, “Get a room.”
“Real mature,” Michael growled.
I giggled nervously and released him. I thought of telling him about Braylon’s note, but I wanted more from him than just being my protector. “We better head back or the staff will send out a search party for us.” I must have lost my mind. I finally had him to myself. No dragon lady in sight and what did I do? I pushed him away. I was hopeless.
July 26, 2021
Be Patient With My Love
Be Patient With My Love
Keren Hughes
ISBN 978-1-914301-14-8
https://books2read.com/u/me9y5R
Chapter One
It’s a cold morning, and as I walk down the familiar high street with its hustle and bustle of everyday life, I can’t help but think of all the times we walked this street hand in hand. I stand on the footpath outside the window of the little coffee shop where we would often stop in for a morning caffeine boost before heading our separate ways to work. The aroma from inside causes my heart to skip a beat.
We were young and in love. We had the rest of our lives ahead of us together to figure out what we wanted to do. I had a job, but it wasn’t a career. He had a career, but it wasn’t the one he had in mind. But none of that mattered as long as we had each other. That was until the day he left. That was ten years ago. He’d finally found the career he wanted, but it was on the other side of the world. When it had come down to a choice between the career and the girl, he’d chosen the career. I didn’t blame him. He was young and had to follow his dreams until the bitter end.
I decide to go into the shop and order a pumpkin spice latte, my drink of choice back in those days. I haven’t been to the shop since he left, and I have stayed away from pumpkin spice lattes too. Maybe that seems silly, but it always reminds me of what I lost.
I also haven’t been able to keep a relationship for very long. A few months here, a few months there. No one could live up to my first love. I know it may not be fair to judge everyone by his standards, but he was my first everything. My first kiss, my first boyfriend, my first lover. He took my virginity and later stole my heart.
The girl at the counter smiles and hands me my polystyrene cup. I pay and go to sit at the corner table where we used to sit and laugh, cuddle, kiss…
Everything about the shop has remained the same over the years except for the staff. The décor is still the welcoming warm tones of red and beige. The floor is still the same slate grey tiles. The tables are still packed into every nook and cranny.
At least I’m safe in the knowledge that he’s on the other side of the world. I can sit here and enjoy reminiscing about my youth.
Talking and laughter can be heard all around me. There are couples both young and old. There are businessmen and women in their suits, getting their morning cup of caffeine before work. People are all going at different paces. Some fast, wanting to get in and out as fast as they can on their way to work. Some slow, enjoying the friendly environment of the coffee shop. Me? I’m just relishing in the memories that are so sacred to me. I don’t know why I feel drawn to a trip down memory lane, but what harm can it do?
I haven’t been down this road much since our split. I’ve found a career as a freelance journalist. It gives me the freedom to come and go; I never have to use the same route twice if I don’t want to.
I take my laptop from my bag and connect to the shop’s Wi-Fi—I have a deadline for a piece I have nearly finished writing.
I’m just finishing my second cup of the morning when a squeal catches my attention. Lifting my head, I see what all the commotion is about—a couple are standing at the counter and the girl serving is gushing over the girl’s left hand. The light catches on something shiny on her ring finger. I smile at the couple’s obvious happiness and would have turned my attention straight back to my laptop except for something that catches my eye.
It’s the way he’s standing. That confident stance with his broad shoulders, his hair that brushes against his collar—it’s longer than I remember, but it suits him. I would know that body anywhere from any angle, after all, I’ve seen it from every angle many times before. My heart begins thumping wildly in my chest. He can’t be here, he just can’t—he’s meant to be on the other side of the world, not here in our old coffee shop, and especially not bringing another woman to what had been “our place.” What the hell is he doing here? I haven’t seen him in ten years, and now the one time I come into our old place, he turns up.
I try to take my eyes away from his beautiful form, but I can’t stop staring. As if my gaze alerts him, he turns to look around the little shop. I try to slump in my seat and hide behind my cup. Too late. I’ve been seen. I know it. He looks right at me, and even from a distance, I see the glint in his chocolate brown eyes.
“Carly,” comes that lilting voice that never failed to send shivers down my spine.
I look up but can’t speak. My breath is lodged in my throat.
“Greyston,” I manage to gasp out and immediately regret the sigh that comes out at the end.
“How have you been?” he asks casually.
“I’ve been fine. You?” I stumble over my words. He always caused me to be a little nervous, even when we were together. He’s so good-looking. Every woman notices him. But it isn’t just his looks. He oozes charisma. Every woman in town swooned over Greyston Sterling.
“I’m good, too,” he says as he gestures to the empty chair opposite me, a question to see if it’s okay for him to sit.
I nod at the chair, and he takes it as his cue to sit down.
“Good to know. What are you doing back here?” I ask quietly.
“My Aunt Lizzie is sick. You remember Lizzie, don’t you?”
“Yes, I remember her.”
Of course, I remember every member of his family. I still see a few of them from time to time. How could he even think I could possibly forget?
“I’m sorry she’s been taken ill. Is it serious?”
“Hopefully not. She’s been having tests at the hospital. I was planning a trip home anyway,” he says as he looks around the small room. The girl he came in with is still chatting at the counter.
“Oh, well…umm… It’s good to see you. You look well,” I say as I take my cup to the trashcan.
“Thanks. So do you,” he says as he stands, scraping the chair against the tiles.
He looks at me and I see myself reflected in those beautiful eyes. I am instantly transported back to the time we shared and I have to blink back my tears. It might have been ten years, but I’ve never gotten over Grey. What we had wasn’t something one got over easily. He was charming, charismatic, and so very handsome. But he was also kind, thoughtful, and honest—everything you could want in a man. I was so lost when he left.
A coughing sound brings me back to the present. I look at Grey and see that dazzling smile he always has when he finds something amusing. Annoyed at being thought of as amusing, I don’t return the smile. We stand there saying nothing for a moment. Then a girl’s voice breaks the silence.
“Oh, Greyston darling, there you are,” she drawls as she puts her finely manicured hand on his arm.
“Hey, Maggie,” he says, not looking at her, “Carly, this is Maggie.”
“Hi, Maggie,” I say as politely as I can.
“Hello,” she replies a little abruptly.
“Well, it was good seeing you, Grey, but I have to run. So many things to do today, and here I’ve been avoiding them,” I say casually and make to move past the two of them.
“It was good to see you too, Carls,” he says as he leans over to kiss my cheek.
I look at him one last time and offer a small smile before walking out of the coffee shop into the frigid morning that somehow seems colder than when I entered.
***
As I walk through my front door, I’m greeted by my constant companion, Millie.
I’ve had Millie since Grey left. I found her at a rescue centre. She’s the cutest thing you ever did see. Someone had been cruel enough to leave her by the roadside, tied to a lamp post. The centre had rescued her and needed to rehome her. She was only a puppy, and I couldn’t believe how poorly she had been treated. When I went that day, she won my heart in an instant. She’s the most beautiful little dachshund with the sweetest eyes. She loves me for who I am, and she doesn’t run away to the other side of the world.
I have some paperwork to catch up on, so I boot up my laptop. I have a quick look at Facebook and see that I have a new friend request. Greyston. Part of me wants to accept and part of me doesn’t. I can’t help but feel like being nosy. I want to look at his photographs and maybe piece together what he’s been up to in the last ten years. He’s a photographer, so there’s bound to be many pictures of the places he’s been. Then the other part of me doesn’t want to see that girl, Maggie, in all his pictures. I leave his friend request unaccepted—just sitting there in cyberspace waiting for me to make up my mind.
I catch up on my paperwork and cook a quick supper of meatballs and tagliatelle. Millie is lying asleep on the sofa next to me and I curl up with my Kindle to catch up on the latest release by my favourite author.
***
The next morning, I wake up to a text message from a number I don’t recognise.
>It was good to see you. I’ve missed you. G xx
I don’t know how Grey has managed to get hold of my number. I decide to just send a very short message in response.
>It was good to see you too Grey.
I save his number, though I don’t know why, and put my phone on the coffee table. I’m not sure I want a conversation with Grey right now. Unfortunately, I get an instant reply.
>You looked great, as always. I feel like fate drew us both to the coffee shop yesterday.
>Fate? Huh! You think some weird things Grey—it was pure coincidence.
I have no intention of getting caught up in his game, whatever game he’s playing. He shouldn’t be texting me.
>Carls, don’t be stroppy. I’ve missed you, it’s been a long time. I know it was my doing but I’m back now and I am so glad I saw you.
I decide not to reply and go about my morning routine—in the back of my mind though, there’s one thought: Grey. Where did what we shared go? I remember the first time we met. We were fifteen and we were at a baseball game—I’d been captivated from that first moment. From then on, we had been inseparable. Many days were spent at games; he stole my breath with his kisses underneath the stadium steps. He was warm and kind—my love for him blossomed more every day. I held on like crazy until that moment we were torn apart—that was the day he chose his career as a photographer over being with me. We were just eighteen when he left, we’d had just three short years together. I’d always thought I meant more to him than I obviously did. I came second, and not even a close second. The moment he was offered the job, he accepted, and just like that he was on the other side of the world taking pictures of who knows what.
I shower and get dressed for work. I have to get to my shift at my second job. I’m a waitress at a local restaurant—my job as a freelance journalist is good but I still have to pick up the odd shift now and then to help with the bills.
My boss, Jim, greets me as I walk through the door to his office where the staff lockers were kept. “Hey, Carly, you’re ten minutes late.”
“Sorry, Jim, traffic was a nightmare,” I reply as I grab my apron and tie it around my waist.
“No problem, as long as you can still stay until closing time tonight,” he says. He has a funny accent I can never place and have never asked him about.
“Yeah, sure thing,” I reply with a smile as we walk out of the office. I begin bussing tables. It’s busy in the morning with businessmen and women that like the breakfasts our chef Tito cooks up.
I work hard all morning and nearly don’t get to stop for lunch. When I do get a break, I go to my locker and retrieve my phone to text my best friend, Jodie. I look at the screen and it says I have one new message. I open it.
>I know you were surprised to see me, but it felt like old times, sitting and talking with you while you drank your pumpkin spice latte.
I don’t know what to reply. I don’t want to talk while I’m at work, so I quickly text Jodie and tell her I’m working until closing time. I don’t respond to Grey’s text, although my heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. How can he be so casual after so many years apart? I’m not sure what to make of his texts—he’s obviously engaged to Maggie now, so why is he so interested in talking to me that he went to the lengths of asking someone for my number? I know I’m not going to figure it out, so I go back to my lunch break and eat in the broom-closet-sized staff room.
Lunch over, I get back to work. My back is aching by closing time. Jodie came in about an hour before we closed, but I have been too busy bussing tables to get time to talk to her. We get in my car and head back to mine for a pizza and a film. I can always count on Jodie to pick a really cheesy chick flick. I like action films myself.
It turns out Jodie wants to watch The Phantom of the Opera. I should have guessed; she is obsessed with the soundtrack. So, after watching it for the umpteenth time, Jodie crashes in my spare room on the futon.
***
“So are we going to talk about you bumping into Grey, or are you going to keep pretending it never happened?” Jodie questions over coffee.
It’s too early to have this conversation.
“Umm… let me see… forget about it!” I reply in a fake, breezy tone of voice.
“That wasn’t a question. Let me rephrase it. Let’s talk about you bumping into Grey. Tell me everything!”
“Well, there’s nothing really to tell. He stopped into the old coffee shop and had his fiancée with him. We made small talk and then I made my excuses and left.”
“Does the fiancée have a name? Did he introduce you? Let me guess, she’s tall, blonde, and supermodel looking.”
“Her name is Maggie, and yes, he introduced us. As for supermodel? Maybe. She has sleek dark hair, finely manicured nails, and couldn’t wait to pry him away from me.”
“Wow. So I should look out for a girl round town with nice hair and nails? Good description, Carls,” she says as she bumps my hip with hers.
“Don’t call me that,” I say sternly as I go to sit at the small island in my kitchen.
“What?” she looks at me innocently.
“Don’t play the innocent. Do not call me Carls. You know only Grey got to call me that. I hate my name being shortened.”
“You didn’t seem to mind when Grey did it!” she claims in mock indignation.
“Shut up and drink your coffee. You’ll be late for your shift,” I say as I put my cup in the dishwasher. “Besides, I have errands to run, so you’re cutting into my day.” I playfully pull on her ponytail as I walk by her to get dressed.
“Okay, well, I’ll be off then,” Jodie says as she stands and straightens out her too-short skirt. Goodness knows how she gets away with not wearing a regulation skirt like the rest of us at the restaurant. Well, I do know—she’s sleeping with the boss’s son, Xander. He’s “alternative” about his clothing choices, too. He’s got piercings, including one I’d rather not think about. He also has lots of tattoos and works as the town mechanic. He’s his own boss, so there’s no one to moan about the way he looks.
Jodie breezes out the door in her too-high heels and too-short skirt. She is so gorgeous, and I’m envious of her silken hair, great tan, long legs—everything about her, really. I’m rather plain to look at in my opinion—long brown hair and hazel eyes, average height, average build—though Grey always said I was the most beautiful girl in the world. Not that he’d met all the women in the world back then, but he’s probably met a fair few since, being a photographer and all. God, I’m even envious of Grey. He managed to land his dream job and now has a gorgeous fiancée to parade around town. Funny how life works out. You think that you’ll be with the one forever, but in reality, forever is but a daydream. Call me a cynic, say what you like—I just don’t believe in the things I used to when I was a teenager. I’ve grown up and seen the world for what it really is.
I have some work to do, so I turn my laptop on and put the coffee back on—I need caffeine when I write. Funny really, I always drank tea before becoming a journalist, but ever since, I’m exhausted all the time and need to drink more coffee.
While I wait for the laptop to start and the coffee to be ready, I reminisce about Grey. Seeing him recently has stirred up undesired feelings in me. I don’t want to be the girl that has her heartstrings pulled by a man. If anything, it’s very empowering to be an independent woman. I rely on no one and am not dominated by the fact that I have a guy in my life. Sure, I miss the nights in with a DVD and a takeaway. I miss snuggling with someone, and of course, I miss the sex, too. But a strong, single woman doesn’t let her heart rule her mind. Seeing him has made me re-evaluate where I stand on the whole “single woman” issue, though. Grey was my first and only real love. Will I ever get over him fully? Not with him being back in town, that’s for sure.
My phone rings, and without looking at the caller ID, I answer, assuming it’s Jodie on her break. How wrong I am.
“Hey, Carls,” comes the unmistakable voice of the very ex I’ve been thinking about.
“Hi, Grey. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you had some free time and maybe wanted to meet up for lunch.”
“Umm…”
Floored by his question, I’m not sure I’m able to form a response.
“Oh… if you’d rather not…” he trails off.
“No, it’s not that, Grey. I was just wondering how Maggie would feel about it, that’s all.” There, I’ve managed to come up with a reasonable argument for getting out of it.
“Maggie? Why would she mind?”
If my mind isn’t deceiving me, he sounds shocked that I asked.
“Well, I would if I was her.”
“Trust me, Maggie won’t mind. So how about it? My treat, of course.”
I can’t get the thought of time alone with him out of my head, and before my brain has a chance to wade in any further, I agree.
“What time and where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Oh, okay.”
Curse my heart for speeding up at the thought. Grey always was one to surprise me.
“Wrap up warm, it’s cold out today. I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty, if that’s okay?”
“Sure,” I agree before realising he’s never been to my house before. I’d bought it with an inheritance from my late aunt a few years after Grey left town.
“Where do you live?”
“You know the old schoolhouse? I live a few minutes from there. I’ll text you with directions, it’s easier.”
“Okay, great. See you then.” He sounds pleased that he’s gotten me to agree.
“Bye, Grey,” I say, a little excitedly.
I hang up the phone and quickly send him the directions. Then I head to my bedroom. My walk-in wardrobe has a vast array of clothes for me to choose from, so I’ll have to hurry up. I quickly choose my favourite powder pink cashmere sweater and a pair of skinny jeans. I top the look off with a pair of woollen Ugg boots. I sit at my vanity, tie my hair up and do my makeup. I don’t like to be too heavily made up, but I choose a pink eye shadow to match my sweater and apply some mascara. Once that’s done, I let my hair down and use my straighteners to make it look sleek and straight.
At twelve-thirty on the dot, Grey rings my doorbell. It’s no surprise that he’s on time, he always was punctual. I open the door and have to look him up and down. He’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a charcoal sweater that hugs his muscular frame. Damn, he looks good. My heart thrashes around my rib cage as I try to get my feelings under control.
“Hey, Carls,” he says as he leans in to kiss my cheek. My stomach is full of butterflies, and I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks, making me blush just as I used to whenever he was around.
“Good afternoon, Grey,” I reply and grab my purse from beside the door.
“Are we good to go?” he asks with a broad smile that lights up his handsome face.
“Yep,” I reply, and make to walk towards his car parked on my drive. He’s using the car that he drove us around in as teenagers. I get in and am suddenly thrown back to the night we argued, the last night I saw Grey before he left.
***
“But you wanted me to have a career that I enjoyed, Carls. I love you, you know I do, but this is a huge thing for me and I need to go,” he says as he looks anywhere but at me. He won’t catch my eye. He knows I’m going to cry and he can’t face it like a man.
“I wanted you to have a career here, Grey. Of course, I want you to be happy and follow your heart, but I’m devastated that it has to be on the other side of the world,” I say as tears roll down my face. I wipe them away with the backs of my hands and try to pull myself together.
“I didn’t want to go so far away either. I wanted to stay here with you and be happy. But I’m doing what we said—I found a career that I love. I hate having to go abroad because I’ll be away from you, but at the same time, I want to travel and see different things, experience things I couldn’t if I was here.”
“So your career comes before me?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “At least look me in the eye and answer me, it’s the least you owe me, Grey.”
“I don’t want to have to choose, Carls,” he says as he catches my eye. “I just don’t want to miss out on the experience of a lifetime. I get to see amazing things and capture them on film while I experience the different cultures.”
“Just answer the question, Grey. You want your career more than you want me.” I start to cry again. I had wanted to get through this without crying but I was fooling myself when I thought that.
“I’m sorry, Carls,” he says as he takes my hand into his. “I love you, I always will. But this is the opportunity of a lifetime. It may never happen again. I need to do this. I’m not making a conscious choice to put you second, but if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d come with me like I asked.”
“I’m not upending my life because you want to go travelling, Grey. Do what you have to, but don’t expect me to wait around for you when you finally return,” I say as I open the door to get out of the car.
“Carly, please…” I hear as I get out and slam the door. He can choose his career over me, but he isn’t man enough to say the words.
***
“Carls?” Grey asks, pulling me back to the here and now. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”
“Sorry, I was just thinking,” I reply and give him a casual smile.
“Well, I said we’re here. You were so quiet on the journey—you didn’t even answer my questions.”
“Questions?” I ask, puzzled.
“Yeah, I asked how you’ve been and what you’ve been up to.”
How do I explain that I was lost in a memory of the fight that left us two very different people than the ones who had fallen in love? I can’t tell him that, it isn’t fair, so I just babble on about what I’ve been up to. I tell him about my journalism course and how I became a freelance journalist.
We have arrived at a local restaurant, but it’s empty. We walk in and are greeted by the manager. He shakes hands with Grey, and a waiter seats us at a booth in a cosy little corner. He pours us each a glass of water and leaves the jug on the table. We look at the menu and I decide on the lasagne. Once we order, Grey tells me more about his job as a freelance photographer. He’s managed to see and do a lot of things, and it’s been ten years apart, so there’s a lot to catch up on.
We eat and swap stories. For a little while, I forget he has a fiancée waiting somewhere for him. Oh well, there’s plenty of time to feel guilty later.
Grey pays our bill and we go for a walk. He takes my hand in his as we walk, and for a moment it feels like the good old days. I don’t want anyone to see us holding hands and tell Maggie, but I don’t want to let go because it feels too good.
As we walk and talk, it feels good to tell Grey about my life. I am proud of my achievements, and he’s happy for me, oohing and aahing in all the right places. He tells me about the places he’s visited and the people he’s photographed, including some celebrities. I’m jealous he has been to so many beautiful places but happy that he’s finally doing something he loves so much.
***
Grey drives me home, and when he parks outside the house, he takes my hand in his and looks at me with that amazing smile I used to love so much.
“I’ve missed you, Carls. I know it was my fault for leaving, but I’ve missed you so damn much. I wanted to come home so badly.”
“You pursued your dream. You should be proud of how far you’ve come. I know I wasn’t very understanding when you left, but time has passed and I’m so happy for you,” I reply.
It’s true, I was furious and beyond upset when he left. I thought we were forever and held on until the very last minute.
“I never stopped loving you, Carls, not for one second,” he says quietly. Then he takes my face in the palm of his hand and brushes a soft kiss across my lips. My lips feel like they’re on fire. I still love Grey so much, and for him to be here now feels amazing. The only thing is Maggie. He’s engaged and shouldn’t be kissing me.
“I have to go,” I say as I open the door and bolt from the car.
“Carls, wait!” Grey shouts and rushes to get out of the car.
I put my key in the lock and manage to shut the door before he makes it to me.
“Carly, please… I’m confused… open the door and talk to me… what’s wrong?”
I sink to the floor behind the door and put my head in my hands.
“I can’t talk to you, Grey. Go away. Go home. Go and be with Maggie,” I reply on the verge of tears.
“Maggie?” he asks softly.
“Yes, you know, the gorgeous girl with the long legs, sleek hair, manicured hands and great dress sense. Oh, and not forgetting the engagement ring on her finger!” I shout in frustration.
“I’ll talk to you when you’re making sense, Carls.”
I hear his footsteps retreat to his car. He starts the engine and drives off—that’s when I allow myself to cry.
Keren Hughes
ISBN 978-1-914301-14-8
https://books2read.com/u/me9y5R
Chapter One
It’s a cold morning, and as I walk down the familiar high street with its hustle and bustle of everyday life, I can’t help but think of all the times we walked this street hand in hand. I stand on the footpath outside the window of the little coffee shop where we would often stop in for a morning caffeine boost before heading our separate ways to work. The aroma from inside causes my heart to skip a beat.
We were young and in love. We had the rest of our lives ahead of us together to figure out what we wanted to do. I had a job, but it wasn’t a career. He had a career, but it wasn’t the one he had in mind. But none of that mattered as long as we had each other. That was until the day he left. That was ten years ago. He’d finally found the career he wanted, but it was on the other side of the world. When it had come down to a choice between the career and the girl, he’d chosen the career. I didn’t blame him. He was young and had to follow his dreams until the bitter end.
I decide to go into the shop and order a pumpkin spice latte, my drink of choice back in those days. I haven’t been to the shop since he left, and I have stayed away from pumpkin spice lattes too. Maybe that seems silly, but it always reminds me of what I lost.
I also haven’t been able to keep a relationship for very long. A few months here, a few months there. No one could live up to my first love. I know it may not be fair to judge everyone by his standards, but he was my first everything. My first kiss, my first boyfriend, my first lover. He took my virginity and later stole my heart.
The girl at the counter smiles and hands me my polystyrene cup. I pay and go to sit at the corner table where we used to sit and laugh, cuddle, kiss…
Everything about the shop has remained the same over the years except for the staff. The décor is still the welcoming warm tones of red and beige. The floor is still the same slate grey tiles. The tables are still packed into every nook and cranny.
At least I’m safe in the knowledge that he’s on the other side of the world. I can sit here and enjoy reminiscing about my youth.
Talking and laughter can be heard all around me. There are couples both young and old. There are businessmen and women in their suits, getting their morning cup of caffeine before work. People are all going at different paces. Some fast, wanting to get in and out as fast as they can on their way to work. Some slow, enjoying the friendly environment of the coffee shop. Me? I’m just relishing in the memories that are so sacred to me. I don’t know why I feel drawn to a trip down memory lane, but what harm can it do?
I haven’t been down this road much since our split. I’ve found a career as a freelance journalist. It gives me the freedom to come and go; I never have to use the same route twice if I don’t want to.
I take my laptop from my bag and connect to the shop’s Wi-Fi—I have a deadline for a piece I have nearly finished writing.
I’m just finishing my second cup of the morning when a squeal catches my attention. Lifting my head, I see what all the commotion is about—a couple are standing at the counter and the girl serving is gushing over the girl’s left hand. The light catches on something shiny on her ring finger. I smile at the couple’s obvious happiness and would have turned my attention straight back to my laptop except for something that catches my eye.
It’s the way he’s standing. That confident stance with his broad shoulders, his hair that brushes against his collar—it’s longer than I remember, but it suits him. I would know that body anywhere from any angle, after all, I’ve seen it from every angle many times before. My heart begins thumping wildly in my chest. He can’t be here, he just can’t—he’s meant to be on the other side of the world, not here in our old coffee shop, and especially not bringing another woman to what had been “our place.” What the hell is he doing here? I haven’t seen him in ten years, and now the one time I come into our old place, he turns up.
I try to take my eyes away from his beautiful form, but I can’t stop staring. As if my gaze alerts him, he turns to look around the little shop. I try to slump in my seat and hide behind my cup. Too late. I’ve been seen. I know it. He looks right at me, and even from a distance, I see the glint in his chocolate brown eyes.
“Carly,” comes that lilting voice that never failed to send shivers down my spine.
I look up but can’t speak. My breath is lodged in my throat.
“Greyston,” I manage to gasp out and immediately regret the sigh that comes out at the end.
“How have you been?” he asks casually.
“I’ve been fine. You?” I stumble over my words. He always caused me to be a little nervous, even when we were together. He’s so good-looking. Every woman notices him. But it isn’t just his looks. He oozes charisma. Every woman in town swooned over Greyston Sterling.
“I’m good, too,” he says as he gestures to the empty chair opposite me, a question to see if it’s okay for him to sit.
I nod at the chair, and he takes it as his cue to sit down.
“Good to know. What are you doing back here?” I ask quietly.
“My Aunt Lizzie is sick. You remember Lizzie, don’t you?”
“Yes, I remember her.”
Of course, I remember every member of his family. I still see a few of them from time to time. How could he even think I could possibly forget?
“I’m sorry she’s been taken ill. Is it serious?”
“Hopefully not. She’s been having tests at the hospital. I was planning a trip home anyway,” he says as he looks around the small room. The girl he came in with is still chatting at the counter.
“Oh, well…umm… It’s good to see you. You look well,” I say as I take my cup to the trashcan.
“Thanks. So do you,” he says as he stands, scraping the chair against the tiles.
He looks at me and I see myself reflected in those beautiful eyes. I am instantly transported back to the time we shared and I have to blink back my tears. It might have been ten years, but I’ve never gotten over Grey. What we had wasn’t something one got over easily. He was charming, charismatic, and so very handsome. But he was also kind, thoughtful, and honest—everything you could want in a man. I was so lost when he left.
A coughing sound brings me back to the present. I look at Grey and see that dazzling smile he always has when he finds something amusing. Annoyed at being thought of as amusing, I don’t return the smile. We stand there saying nothing for a moment. Then a girl’s voice breaks the silence.
“Oh, Greyston darling, there you are,” she drawls as she puts her finely manicured hand on his arm.
“Hey, Maggie,” he says, not looking at her, “Carly, this is Maggie.”
“Hi, Maggie,” I say as politely as I can.
“Hello,” she replies a little abruptly.
“Well, it was good seeing you, Grey, but I have to run. So many things to do today, and here I’ve been avoiding them,” I say casually and make to move past the two of them.
“It was good to see you too, Carls,” he says as he leans over to kiss my cheek.
I look at him one last time and offer a small smile before walking out of the coffee shop into the frigid morning that somehow seems colder than when I entered.
***
As I walk through my front door, I’m greeted by my constant companion, Millie.
I’ve had Millie since Grey left. I found her at a rescue centre. She’s the cutest thing you ever did see. Someone had been cruel enough to leave her by the roadside, tied to a lamp post. The centre had rescued her and needed to rehome her. She was only a puppy, and I couldn’t believe how poorly she had been treated. When I went that day, she won my heart in an instant. She’s the most beautiful little dachshund with the sweetest eyes. She loves me for who I am, and she doesn’t run away to the other side of the world.
I have some paperwork to catch up on, so I boot up my laptop. I have a quick look at Facebook and see that I have a new friend request. Greyston. Part of me wants to accept and part of me doesn’t. I can’t help but feel like being nosy. I want to look at his photographs and maybe piece together what he’s been up to in the last ten years. He’s a photographer, so there’s bound to be many pictures of the places he’s been. Then the other part of me doesn’t want to see that girl, Maggie, in all his pictures. I leave his friend request unaccepted—just sitting there in cyberspace waiting for me to make up my mind.
I catch up on my paperwork and cook a quick supper of meatballs and tagliatelle. Millie is lying asleep on the sofa next to me and I curl up with my Kindle to catch up on the latest release by my favourite author.
***
The next morning, I wake up to a text message from a number I don’t recognise.
>It was good to see you. I’ve missed you. G xx
I don’t know how Grey has managed to get hold of my number. I decide to just send a very short message in response.
>It was good to see you too Grey.
I save his number, though I don’t know why, and put my phone on the coffee table. I’m not sure I want a conversation with Grey right now. Unfortunately, I get an instant reply.
>You looked great, as always. I feel like fate drew us both to the coffee shop yesterday.
>Fate? Huh! You think some weird things Grey—it was pure coincidence.
I have no intention of getting caught up in his game, whatever game he’s playing. He shouldn’t be texting me.
>Carls, don’t be stroppy. I’ve missed you, it’s been a long time. I know it was my doing but I’m back now and I am so glad I saw you.
I decide not to reply and go about my morning routine—in the back of my mind though, there’s one thought: Grey. Where did what we shared go? I remember the first time we met. We were fifteen and we were at a baseball game—I’d been captivated from that first moment. From then on, we had been inseparable. Many days were spent at games; he stole my breath with his kisses underneath the stadium steps. He was warm and kind—my love for him blossomed more every day. I held on like crazy until that moment we were torn apart—that was the day he chose his career as a photographer over being with me. We were just eighteen when he left, we’d had just three short years together. I’d always thought I meant more to him than I obviously did. I came second, and not even a close second. The moment he was offered the job, he accepted, and just like that he was on the other side of the world taking pictures of who knows what.
I shower and get dressed for work. I have to get to my shift at my second job. I’m a waitress at a local restaurant—my job as a freelance journalist is good but I still have to pick up the odd shift now and then to help with the bills.
My boss, Jim, greets me as I walk through the door to his office where the staff lockers were kept. “Hey, Carly, you’re ten minutes late.”
“Sorry, Jim, traffic was a nightmare,” I reply as I grab my apron and tie it around my waist.
“No problem, as long as you can still stay until closing time tonight,” he says. He has a funny accent I can never place and have never asked him about.
“Yeah, sure thing,” I reply with a smile as we walk out of the office. I begin bussing tables. It’s busy in the morning with businessmen and women that like the breakfasts our chef Tito cooks up.
I work hard all morning and nearly don’t get to stop for lunch. When I do get a break, I go to my locker and retrieve my phone to text my best friend, Jodie. I look at the screen and it says I have one new message. I open it.
>I know you were surprised to see me, but it felt like old times, sitting and talking with you while you drank your pumpkin spice latte.
I don’t know what to reply. I don’t want to talk while I’m at work, so I quickly text Jodie and tell her I’m working until closing time. I don’t respond to Grey’s text, although my heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. How can he be so casual after so many years apart? I’m not sure what to make of his texts—he’s obviously engaged to Maggie now, so why is he so interested in talking to me that he went to the lengths of asking someone for my number? I know I’m not going to figure it out, so I go back to my lunch break and eat in the broom-closet-sized staff room.
Lunch over, I get back to work. My back is aching by closing time. Jodie came in about an hour before we closed, but I have been too busy bussing tables to get time to talk to her. We get in my car and head back to mine for a pizza and a film. I can always count on Jodie to pick a really cheesy chick flick. I like action films myself.
It turns out Jodie wants to watch The Phantom of the Opera. I should have guessed; she is obsessed with the soundtrack. So, after watching it for the umpteenth time, Jodie crashes in my spare room on the futon.
***
“So are we going to talk about you bumping into Grey, or are you going to keep pretending it never happened?” Jodie questions over coffee.
It’s too early to have this conversation.
“Umm… let me see… forget about it!” I reply in a fake, breezy tone of voice.
“That wasn’t a question. Let me rephrase it. Let’s talk about you bumping into Grey. Tell me everything!”
“Well, there’s nothing really to tell. He stopped into the old coffee shop and had his fiancée with him. We made small talk and then I made my excuses and left.”
“Does the fiancée have a name? Did he introduce you? Let me guess, she’s tall, blonde, and supermodel looking.”
“Her name is Maggie, and yes, he introduced us. As for supermodel? Maybe. She has sleek dark hair, finely manicured nails, and couldn’t wait to pry him away from me.”
“Wow. So I should look out for a girl round town with nice hair and nails? Good description, Carls,” she says as she bumps my hip with hers.
“Don’t call me that,” I say sternly as I go to sit at the small island in my kitchen.
“What?” she looks at me innocently.
“Don’t play the innocent. Do not call me Carls. You know only Grey got to call me that. I hate my name being shortened.”
“You didn’t seem to mind when Grey did it!” she claims in mock indignation.
“Shut up and drink your coffee. You’ll be late for your shift,” I say as I put my cup in the dishwasher. “Besides, I have errands to run, so you’re cutting into my day.” I playfully pull on her ponytail as I walk by her to get dressed.
“Okay, well, I’ll be off then,” Jodie says as she stands and straightens out her too-short skirt. Goodness knows how she gets away with not wearing a regulation skirt like the rest of us at the restaurant. Well, I do know—she’s sleeping with the boss’s son, Xander. He’s “alternative” about his clothing choices, too. He’s got piercings, including one I’d rather not think about. He also has lots of tattoos and works as the town mechanic. He’s his own boss, so there’s no one to moan about the way he looks.
Jodie breezes out the door in her too-high heels and too-short skirt. She is so gorgeous, and I’m envious of her silken hair, great tan, long legs—everything about her, really. I’m rather plain to look at in my opinion—long brown hair and hazel eyes, average height, average build—though Grey always said I was the most beautiful girl in the world. Not that he’d met all the women in the world back then, but he’s probably met a fair few since, being a photographer and all. God, I’m even envious of Grey. He managed to land his dream job and now has a gorgeous fiancée to parade around town. Funny how life works out. You think that you’ll be with the one forever, but in reality, forever is but a daydream. Call me a cynic, say what you like—I just don’t believe in the things I used to when I was a teenager. I’ve grown up and seen the world for what it really is.
I have some work to do, so I turn my laptop on and put the coffee back on—I need caffeine when I write. Funny really, I always drank tea before becoming a journalist, but ever since, I’m exhausted all the time and need to drink more coffee.
While I wait for the laptop to start and the coffee to be ready, I reminisce about Grey. Seeing him recently has stirred up undesired feelings in me. I don’t want to be the girl that has her heartstrings pulled by a man. If anything, it’s very empowering to be an independent woman. I rely on no one and am not dominated by the fact that I have a guy in my life. Sure, I miss the nights in with a DVD and a takeaway. I miss snuggling with someone, and of course, I miss the sex, too. But a strong, single woman doesn’t let her heart rule her mind. Seeing him has made me re-evaluate where I stand on the whole “single woman” issue, though. Grey was my first and only real love. Will I ever get over him fully? Not with him being back in town, that’s for sure.
My phone rings, and without looking at the caller ID, I answer, assuming it’s Jodie on her break. How wrong I am.
“Hey, Carls,” comes the unmistakable voice of the very ex I’ve been thinking about.
“Hi, Grey. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you had some free time and maybe wanted to meet up for lunch.”
“Umm…”
Floored by his question, I’m not sure I’m able to form a response.
“Oh… if you’d rather not…” he trails off.
“No, it’s not that, Grey. I was just wondering how Maggie would feel about it, that’s all.” There, I’ve managed to come up with a reasonable argument for getting out of it.
“Maggie? Why would she mind?”
If my mind isn’t deceiving me, he sounds shocked that I asked.
“Well, I would if I was her.”
“Trust me, Maggie won’t mind. So how about it? My treat, of course.”
I can’t get the thought of time alone with him out of my head, and before my brain has a chance to wade in any further, I agree.
“What time and where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Oh, okay.”
Curse my heart for speeding up at the thought. Grey always was one to surprise me.
“Wrap up warm, it’s cold out today. I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty, if that’s okay?”
“Sure,” I agree before realising he’s never been to my house before. I’d bought it with an inheritance from my late aunt a few years after Grey left town.
“Where do you live?”
“You know the old schoolhouse? I live a few minutes from there. I’ll text you with directions, it’s easier.”
“Okay, great. See you then.” He sounds pleased that he’s gotten me to agree.
“Bye, Grey,” I say, a little excitedly.
I hang up the phone and quickly send him the directions. Then I head to my bedroom. My walk-in wardrobe has a vast array of clothes for me to choose from, so I’ll have to hurry up. I quickly choose my favourite powder pink cashmere sweater and a pair of skinny jeans. I top the look off with a pair of woollen Ugg boots. I sit at my vanity, tie my hair up and do my makeup. I don’t like to be too heavily made up, but I choose a pink eye shadow to match my sweater and apply some mascara. Once that’s done, I let my hair down and use my straighteners to make it look sleek and straight.
At twelve-thirty on the dot, Grey rings my doorbell. It’s no surprise that he’s on time, he always was punctual. I open the door and have to look him up and down. He’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a charcoal sweater that hugs his muscular frame. Damn, he looks good. My heart thrashes around my rib cage as I try to get my feelings under control.
“Hey, Carls,” he says as he leans in to kiss my cheek. My stomach is full of butterflies, and I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks, making me blush just as I used to whenever he was around.
“Good afternoon, Grey,” I reply and grab my purse from beside the door.
“Are we good to go?” he asks with a broad smile that lights up his handsome face.
“Yep,” I reply, and make to walk towards his car parked on my drive. He’s using the car that he drove us around in as teenagers. I get in and am suddenly thrown back to the night we argued, the last night I saw Grey before he left.
***
“But you wanted me to have a career that I enjoyed, Carls. I love you, you know I do, but this is a huge thing for me and I need to go,” he says as he looks anywhere but at me. He won’t catch my eye. He knows I’m going to cry and he can’t face it like a man.
“I wanted you to have a career here, Grey. Of course, I want you to be happy and follow your heart, but I’m devastated that it has to be on the other side of the world,” I say as tears roll down my face. I wipe them away with the backs of my hands and try to pull myself together.
“I didn’t want to go so far away either. I wanted to stay here with you and be happy. But I’m doing what we said—I found a career that I love. I hate having to go abroad because I’ll be away from you, but at the same time, I want to travel and see different things, experience things I couldn’t if I was here.”
“So your career comes before me?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “At least look me in the eye and answer me, it’s the least you owe me, Grey.”
“I don’t want to have to choose, Carls,” he says as he catches my eye. “I just don’t want to miss out on the experience of a lifetime. I get to see amazing things and capture them on film while I experience the different cultures.”
“Just answer the question, Grey. You want your career more than you want me.” I start to cry again. I had wanted to get through this without crying but I was fooling myself when I thought that.
“I’m sorry, Carls,” he says as he takes my hand into his. “I love you, I always will. But this is the opportunity of a lifetime. It may never happen again. I need to do this. I’m not making a conscious choice to put you second, but if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d come with me like I asked.”
“I’m not upending my life because you want to go travelling, Grey. Do what you have to, but don’t expect me to wait around for you when you finally return,” I say as I open the door to get out of the car.
“Carly, please…” I hear as I get out and slam the door. He can choose his career over me, but he isn’t man enough to say the words.
***
“Carls?” Grey asks, pulling me back to the here and now. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”
“Sorry, I was just thinking,” I reply and give him a casual smile.
“Well, I said we’re here. You were so quiet on the journey—you didn’t even answer my questions.”
“Questions?” I ask, puzzled.
“Yeah, I asked how you’ve been and what you’ve been up to.”
How do I explain that I was lost in a memory of the fight that left us two very different people than the ones who had fallen in love? I can’t tell him that, it isn’t fair, so I just babble on about what I’ve been up to. I tell him about my journalism course and how I became a freelance journalist.
We have arrived at a local restaurant, but it’s empty. We walk in and are greeted by the manager. He shakes hands with Grey, and a waiter seats us at a booth in a cosy little corner. He pours us each a glass of water and leaves the jug on the table. We look at the menu and I decide on the lasagne. Once we order, Grey tells me more about his job as a freelance photographer. He’s managed to see and do a lot of things, and it’s been ten years apart, so there’s a lot to catch up on.
We eat and swap stories. For a little while, I forget he has a fiancée waiting somewhere for him. Oh well, there’s plenty of time to feel guilty later.
Grey pays our bill and we go for a walk. He takes my hand in his as we walk, and for a moment it feels like the good old days. I don’t want anyone to see us holding hands and tell Maggie, but I don’t want to let go because it feels too good.
As we walk and talk, it feels good to tell Grey about my life. I am proud of my achievements, and he’s happy for me, oohing and aahing in all the right places. He tells me about the places he’s visited and the people he’s photographed, including some celebrities. I’m jealous he has been to so many beautiful places but happy that he’s finally doing something he loves so much.
***
Grey drives me home, and when he parks outside the house, he takes my hand in his and looks at me with that amazing smile I used to love so much.
“I’ve missed you, Carls. I know it was my fault for leaving, but I’ve missed you so damn much. I wanted to come home so badly.”
“You pursued your dream. You should be proud of how far you’ve come. I know I wasn’t very understanding when you left, but time has passed and I’m so happy for you,” I reply.
It’s true, I was furious and beyond upset when he left. I thought we were forever and held on until the very last minute.
“I never stopped loving you, Carls, not for one second,” he says quietly. Then he takes my face in the palm of his hand and brushes a soft kiss across my lips. My lips feel like they’re on fire. I still love Grey so much, and for him to be here now feels amazing. The only thing is Maggie. He’s engaged and shouldn’t be kissing me.
“I have to go,” I say as I open the door and bolt from the car.
“Carls, wait!” Grey shouts and rushes to get out of the car.
I put my key in the lock and manage to shut the door before he makes it to me.
“Carly, please… I’m confused… open the door and talk to me… what’s wrong?”
I sink to the floor behind the door and put my head in my hands.
“I can’t talk to you, Grey. Go away. Go home. Go and be with Maggie,” I reply on the verge of tears.
“Maggie?” he asks softly.
“Yes, you know, the gorgeous girl with the long legs, sleek hair, manicured hands and great dress sense. Oh, and not forgetting the engagement ring on her finger!” I shout in frustration.
“I’ll talk to you when you’re making sense, Carls.”
I hear his footsteps retreat to his car. He starts the engine and drives off—that’s when I allow myself to cry.
July 2, 2021
Mischief and Secrets
Mischief and Secrets
Starla Kaye
ISBN 978-1-914301-09-4
Lady Rose’s Secret
Chapter One
Yardley Estate
Berkshire, England
April 1817
Lady Georgina Rose Desmond’s day was taking a turn for the worse. Her life had become complicated four months ago and each new day got more out of control. Many people believed her meek and weak because of her diminutive size. Not so. She considered herself tiny but mighty. It felt like she’d battled through all her two and twenty years and she would keep on battling. Even with this latest disaster she sensed coming.
She shouldn’t be in here. Her housemaid duties didn’t include the drawing room. The maid whose duty was to clean in here wasn’t feeling well today. She hadn’t wanted Fanny to get in more trouble than she already was, so she’d taken some initiative and helped. Mrs. Sternly, the housekeeper, hadn’t asked Rose to do this, which could prove to be a problem later. But she would get her own chores completed.
It was unfortunate that she had a knack for being a tad clumsy, something that annoyed Mrs. Sternly, leading to many lectures and some unpleasant discipline a few times during the three months she’d worked here in secret as a housemaid. This time it wasn’t just clumsiness that plagued her. She’d been fighting a sneezing fit while using the dusty rag. She should have taken it outside and given it a good shaking. Instead, she’d forged ahead with the dusting to get it done quickly and struggled since because of her poor decision.
She glanced around the spacious room. There were several seating areas consisting of velvet settees, handsomely carved and upholstered chairs, and small tables holding exquisite vases of various sizes. So far, she’d had no accidents. Only one superb, hefty vase remained to dust and she would finish this room. Then she could go back to her assigned chores of taking care of the bedrooms and hallways.
Her nose twitched again when she lifted the rag over the marble-topped table. No, no, no! Her hand shook as it drew closer to the vase. No, no, no!
She tried wiggling her nose against the urge to sneeze. Her eyes burned from the battle.
“What are you doing in here?” Mrs. Sternly barked from the doorway. “Are you thinking of stealing His Grace’s treasured vase? Just as you attempted to steal the silver candlestick from his bedchamber last week?”
Surprised, heart pounding as she looked across the room, Rose’s hand hit the side of the vase. A final tiny cloud of dust rose from the rag and tortured her nose again.
Her foe won. She sneezed, closing her eyes for a hairsbreadth of a second. Her hand jerked and sent the wobbling vase off the table before she could attempt to stop it.
“Oh, no!”
The crash of expensive china hitting the wood floor resonated around the elegant room and seemed to echo throughout the entire house. At least to Rose’s horrified ears. But it wasn’t the shattered vase that upset her, it was the unfair accusation.
Heat rising in her cheeks, she sputtered, “I did not steal that candlestick!” The very idea of her stealing anything was ludicrous. Her gaze shifted to what appeared to be a thousand pieces of porcelain near her feet. Cleaning it up would be a trial. “Nor did I intend to steal this vase.”
Mrs. Sternly snorted, her thin lips pressed tight. The fifty-something, contrary woman hadn’t accepted Rose’s explanation for why she’d had the candlestick in her apron pocket last week. She’d had a good reason, but the judgmental woman had deemed her a liar. And “liars” and “potential thieves” received harsh punishment. After the tawsing Rose had received, she’d been quite sore as she’d finished her chores. The next day too. It seemed she’d been judged a liar and a thief again.
“You are an impudent one.” Mrs. Sternly declared it, as if stating a deplorable fact. “I do not tolerate such attitude in this household, nor lying.” She sucked in a deep breath, her buxom form blowing up to stretch the bodice of her gray work dress to its limit. “I do not tolerate disobedience either. You have assigned duties. You do not work in unassigned areas.”
“I did not disobey,” Rose countered, stopping at the housekeeper’s narrowed eyes. “I-I…” She gave up her defense, knowing she had overstepped what they allowed.
At the other woman’s smirk, Rose wanted to try defending herself again, but her nose twitched in warning. She scrunched it and held her breath, hoping to fend off another sneeze. She couldn’t stop it and it came out in a most unladylike manner, earning another disapproving glower from the housekeeper.
“This is your second breakage in a week. Unacceptable. And costly.” Mrs. Sternly had reached her limit of tolerance for anything dealing with Rose. “You will take yourself to His Grace’s library. Immediately.”
Although another session with the housekeeper’s tawse was something to dread, Rose feared the duke’s treatment could be far worse. So far, she had had no interactions with him besides passing him in the hallway one time. Since she’d come here in disguise to get to know him before making an ultimate decision that would change both of their lives, she didn’t want to see him now.
“Must we bother His Grace with this?” She swallowed her pride and pressed, “Could we not just go to your office again?” She didn’t voice the rest of her thought, that Mrs. Sternly perform whatever discipline she felt necessary.
The stout woman shifted in the doorway and pointed a pudgy finger to the hallway. “You will do as I say.” Their gazes met. “Unless you would like a few lashes of the tawse after whatever His Grace does.”
Rose wanted to protest all of it, protect her poor bottom. If she ended her farce… But the time for admitting her secret wasn’t right. She needed to know more about the man known for intimidating others by just narrowing his devilish black eyes. And his portrait in the gallery reinforced the image of a dark and brooding man. Add to that, his reputation in London society was enough to frighten off most people, most women. She wasn’t like most women. She observed, analyzed, and made her own judgments. In her opinion, rumors and gossip could not be trusted. Her gut told her there was more to the Duke of Berkshire than he shared, or that others noted.
She stopped her musings and continued her charade, even if it meant facing the grim side of her employer. The man she’d never met but had agreed to marry. By her stipulations, not his. Again, her instincts told her they needed each other. He just didn’t know that yet.
With a curt nod of acceptance, she walked with a nervous stomach from the room. The enormous manor house felt cold, unfriendly. From the second she’d arrived at Yardley Estate, she’d sensed this had never been a house of happiness. The walls had never echoed with laughter. As difficult as her life had been with her gruff father, there had been times of warmth and joy in their house. Rare times. When her mother was alive. The changes there after her death in yet another failed childbirth were part of why Rose had left and concocted this plan, one that proved unpleasant at times such as this.
Head high, she marched in resignation through the house ahead of Mrs. Sternly. Other than the rigid and grumpy housekeeper, the other staff members got along well. It had surprised them when she’d showed up on the doorstep one breezy, frigid February afternoon asking to work here. In her determined way, she’d taken a chance. The butler had met her at the massive front doors. He’d taken in her weary face, faded and dirty dress peeking out of the ragged wool coat, and the worn satchel she’d carried. His confused frown had changed into a warm smile, and he’d led her straight to Mrs. Sternly. Ignoring her irritated look, he’d informed her His Grace had told him he had been seeking another housemaid. Turner had been her first friend here. This house and those who lived here needed her. She knew it soul deep.
Why was she thinking about that now when she would soon experience the Duke of Berkshire’s wrath? Even with what she faced, and intending to keep her secret, she looked forward to seeing him in person. Since they’d never met, he wouldn’t recognize her. The woman to whom he’d had his solicitor deliver an offer of a rather complicated marriage of convenience. A dozen pages of his terms, his requirements of her, and what he would provide for her in exchange. Utter nonsense, in her opinion. Yet from what a few of her trusted friends had told her about past dealings with him, she’d suspected those pages of legal talk hid a guarded heart. A wounded one, like hers. And that was why she’d signed the papers, then added her own twist. She would discover the truth behind the man before she married him on her terms.
***
Miles Yardley wasn’t in the best of moods. He’d spent several hours that morning there in his library, trying to make sense of some reports he’d received from his London solicitor. The man had hired an investigator on his behalf to track down the missing Lady Georgina Desmond. She had given her agreement to his marriage offer over four months ago. And then she had sent him word that she would see him sometime this fall. Sometime? Unacceptable.
He ground his teeth in annoyance, still unable to believe her daring. She intended to spend the summer with an elderly widowed aunt in Scotland. An aunt who didn’t exist, so he’d learned. She’d lied and disappeared. He’d heard via his solicitor and London gossip that neither her disagreeable father, the Earl of Desmond, nor her friends knew where she’d gone.
He sat back in his desk chair and it gave a soft creak. He closed his eyes. A headache pounded at his temple. His life had never been easy. This was just another frustration to add to everything else that weighed on him as a prominent duke with large landholdings. He didn’t want to get married, but it was necessary. For his estate to carry on, his lineage must carry on. He needed at least an heir. A spare would be good too. He had no use for a wife otherwise. The women in his household worked quietly, caused him no grief. Except for one scullery maid who was no longer here. Besides these women he barely knew but lived with, women were a bother.
His jaw tightened, as he remembered the last woman he’d proposed to. She’d not taken one second to think about his powerful position and what he could offer her. She’d refused, her look telling him he was crazy to think any woman would want him. At one time he’d had many ladies desiring him. Before the Battle of Waterloo. Before having the left side of his face sliced, leaving him with a long, thin scar that repelled women. Not that he had a problem finding a willing mistress when he desired one. He was a passionate lover, and his lovers appreciated his generous gifts. Finding a wife had proven to be a trial he couldn’t endure.
Miles blew out a frustrated breath and sat straighter, stacking together the reports he’d spread out. He needed an heir, and he was getting older, two and thirty. Through his connections, he’d heard about Lady Georgina Desmond and her problem with her father, who he had never met. The Earl of Desmond had long been a pompous ass with few friends among the ton. After the death of his first wife, he’d sought and found a much younger second wife. The greedy woman wanted Georgina out of her house. So, her father planned to force his only daughter—only child—to marry an ancient earl by some means of blackmail. Except she’d refused to cooperate and had moved in with a friend in London.
Soon after learning about her, Miles had seen her from a distance at a London ball he’d heard she would be attending. Petite and spirited had been the impression he’d gotten. Far different from him. She had danced and laughed with many a dashing rake that night. Yet she had allowed each only one dance. And she’d not appeared interested in any of them. The one time she’d swirled by him without even glancing in his direction, he’d seen something she tried to keep hidden in her surprising violet eyes. A hint of sadness. It had touched him. He hadn’t been able to forget it or her. In that instant, he’d desired her with a fierceness he’d never experienced before.
Which led him to this idea that his solicitor thought was insane. Crazy or not, he saw it as the answer they both needed. He needed a respectable wife his peers would accept to give him an heir and nothing more. She needed rid of her father’s threat so she could live the life she wanted. If she gave him a child, Miles would let her lead whatever life she wanted. As long as…
They would sort all of that out.
“Bloody hell!” He growled and pounded his fist on the desktop, scattering the papers again. She’d given her agreement. He had her signature on the complicated document in his desk drawer. She’d given her word and she needed to stand by it. When he promised something, he stood by it.
Where the bloody hell was she?
Chapter Two
And there she stood in the doorway of his library. Not the lively, youthful beauty with pale blonde hair done up in long ringlets that had brushed her bare shoulders. The woman who had caught the approving eye of every man there at the ball with her trim form and plump breasts displayed in the striking pink gown. The one with enticing violet eyes that he hadn’t been able to forget. But this woman in the light gray work dress and long brown apron, hair tucked under a white mob cap, was Lady Georgina Desmond.
She stood next to his very glum-looking housekeeper. A housekeeper who had become suspicious of this maid. Or so he’d overheard Turner, his butler, and Hathaway, his valet, talking about a couple of days ago. It appeared the older woman, who had been part of the household staff for over twenty years, had good instincts.
Instead of confronting the woman he’d been searching for, he waited for an explanation.
Mrs. Sternly took hold of Georgina’s arm, firmly enough he suspected would leave bruises, and thrust her into the bookshelf-lined room. He frowned at that but forced himself to remain quiet as she stumbled but didn’t fall. Irritation creased her brow and she mumbled something under her breath in displeasure. He found her attitude intriguing and amusing, though he would not let either of them know it.
“Your Grace, it is your troublesome new housemaid again. Rose. She deserves punishment, and this time it should be by you.”
His mind was awash with confusion. Turner had informed him a while back that he’d had Mrs. Sternly hire a new housemaid. He hadn’t recalled needing another staff member, but let the matter go. The expense was a mere trifle. Rose? If he remembered right, she had signed the agreement Georgina Rose Holton, Lady Desmond. Housemaid? In disguise? What was her game?
Miles kept all his muddled thoughts inside and controlled his expression. “You have punished her before?” How did he feel about that? He knew Mrs. Sternly lived up to her name and managed his female household staff with strict rules. She believed in a wrongdoer paying consequences. He’d not seen or heard of abuses, so he didn’t get involved. Still, this was his future wife.
“Not overly much, Your Grace,” Mrs. Sternly conceded. “Just when necessary.”
Spots of color blossomed on Rose’s fair cheeks and she appeared sheepish. He sensed she wanted to speak, but she remained silent. How had she been disciplined? When? What had she done?
“This is one of those ‘necessary’ times. And you believe whatever she did was bad enough to warrant that I handle the discipline. Am I correct?” It wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with one of the maids. There had been the contrary scullery maid that he’d had to give a caning to more than once before firing her.
“I do, Your Grace.”
Rose’s tempting pink lips pressed together, and her nostrils flared. She wanted to protest yet didn’t. She darted a glance at him and then down at her feet. What was she up to? Playing at being a housemaid in his house, enduring punishment by his less-than-tolerant housekeeper. For whatever reason she was doing this, she appeared determined to keep her charade going. He’d had no one challenge him before, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He’d admired her striving for independence from her father. But how would such daring on her part work in their marriage?
“Rose has only been here three months and she has already broken numerous items. The girl is clumsy, careless.” Mrs. Sternly shot Rose a disgusted look. “She lies, too. Tried to steal one of the silver candlesticks from your bedchamber last week. Claimed she didn’t. But it was in her pocket.”
Did she just growl? Even if he’d been mistaken about that, those violet eyes sparked with indignation.
So, she’d been here three of the months he’d had people searching for her. Right in his own house. Unbelievable. He’d heard about some argument over a candlestick in his room, but had thought nothing of it since it was still there. He needed to pay more attention to what happened in his household. And to who worked here.
“What has she done this time?” He studied the woman who couldn’t have been much over five feet. A good wind would blow her away. She might be diminutive, but she held herself regally, her small chin jutting up. A slip in her intended disguise of a housemaid who should cringe in distress at being brought before her employer.
Mrs. Sternly puffed up in displeasure and blurted, “That exquisite Chinese vase in the drawing room. The one everyone knows only I dust. She broke it. She should not have been working there.”
She faced Rose and shook her head. “I have told her many times to only do the chores assigned to her. Even those chores she struggles to perform.”
The vase had been one of his father’s most prized possessions. If any of the staff even got close to it, his father had lectured them. As long as he’d known, only Mrs. Sternly could dust it. When he’d been eight, his father had caught him about to touch one of the intricate designs one day. He’d gone to bed with a very sore bottom after a blistering lecture too. He hated that vase. Good riddance to it!
Still, she had destroyed a priceless item. Word would spread throughout the house of what had happened, especially if she wasn’t supposed to even be in the room. Clear disobedience to orders. All would expect him to handle this. He had to do something memorable. It didn’t matter that she was his intended bride. Only he was aware of that matter.
Reluctant but resigned, Miles reached into the bottom desk drawer where his father had kept the strap used far too often on him. He pulled out the twenty-inch long piece of heavy cowhide. He saw a surprising mix of regret and approval in Mrs. Sternly’s eyes, and she headed for the door.
“I will leave you to it, then, Your Grace.” She closed the thick double wooden doors as she left the room.
When he focused on Rose, the color had leeched from her face. Her beautiful eyes widened. He saw her shallow breaths as she stared at the hard piece of leather. He’d known that awful sense of dread. Why didn’t she admit her trickery and stop him from punishing her? But that pert chin of hers thrust up again. Determination to not reveal her secret. If she was so set on deceiving him, she could endure his wrath then. Because now he was angry.
“You will come here at once.”
“It was an accident,” she protested at last. Her eyes flashed with irritation.
She’d had her chance to end this and had chosen not to. He nodded toward the desk. “Even so, you were not supposed to be in there.”
She worried her lower lip. “I decided to help a friend who was not feeling well today.”
Her sympathy for someone else touched him, but he had to stand by the staff rules. “Did she ask you to do her work?”
Her shoulders slumped and she heaved a sigh. “No. I just—”
“You have assigned duties, correct? Are they all done for the day? You had so much free time that you did more than asked?” He watched the way she worried her lips again. The desire to put his mouth to hers, to take her in his arms shocked him.
“No, Your Grace, I still have more of my own duties to perform.” Her admission jerked him from his inappropriate thoughts. She met him eye to eye. “I will get them done, have no worry.”
She looked straight at him. She had to see the long scar on the side of his face. He savored her not appearing repulsed. And he almost forgot the entire discipline matter. Almost went to her to pull her into his embrace, admit that he knew her secret.
Her secret. Her intention to keep it renewed his displeasure.
“You will do your chores, yes.” He motioned her forward, holding up the strap. “After I have disciplined you.”
It took her several seconds to approach the desk, her feet seeming to drag with reluctance. She regarded him with concerned eyes, yet she didn’t protest again. Independent and daring. Submissive to an acceptable extent, too. They would get along well in marriage, even if he planned it only to be long enough for her to give him an heir. Then he would either give her whatever she needed to leave and go her own way, without his child, or she could stay in her own wing of this house and lead her own life.
“Turn around and raise your garments. Then bend over the desk.” He moved to stand behind her and smelled the sweat from her work, the hint of dust. She would understand that he intended to thrash her bare bottom. Would she do as he asked? Or would she now resist? He held his breath, waiting.
She hesitated, then tugged up the long day dress, petticoat, and chemise, all well-worn garments, and he wondered where she had gotten them. With some awkwardness, she held them up to lean over the desk. Tucking the wad of fabric under her stomach, she braced herself on her forearms.
He stared at the creamy buttocks that would soon be striped with his lashes. His body hardened and wanted to do something far different with her. His palms grew moist and he nearly dropped the strap. The urge to take her was fierce. He’d gone too long without a willing woman.
“Your Grace?” she whispered, yanking his thoughts back to the reason they were here.
“Ease your feet apart,” he ordered, his voice gruff. As she did and her woman’s place was exposed, he swallowed hard, heart pounding. He needed to get this done, or else he would lose control of his desire and take her hard and fast, right here, right now.
***
Rose felt her face flame in disgrace, and she lowered her head to the desktop. Her father had punished her over the years, a last time before she’d left in the middle of the night. They’d argued about his insistence that she marry the elderly Earl of Ravenshead. He’d punished her for her stubborn refusal, believing a thrashing would change her mind. He’d been so wrong. She hoped never to see the wretch again, or his new bride, Lady Caroline. The self-centered, crafty woman had even watched the thrashing, encouraged it. She doubted either of them really cared that she’d not wed the ancient earl. They’d gotten her out of their home, and that was what they’d wanted.
“I would rather not have had our first meeting be this way,” the Duke of Berkshire said, drawing her back to the unpleasant present. This was the imposing duke, the master of the household. Not the man she’d agreed to marry.
But she’d sensed something hidden in his statement. She couldn’t figure out what, but he sounded more frustrated than simply disciplining one of his staff. “Perhaps we can discuss the situation instead of…”
She heard him blow out a deep breath and wondered even more about his attitude. Why wasn’t he just getting the task done? Why did he appear hesitant?
He moved to her side and placed a big hand in the middle of her back to hold her in place. Still, he didn’t answer right away. “Mrs. Sternly was right to bring you to me. Accident or not, you disobeyed orders and destroyed a priceless vase.”
“I meant no harm, Your Grace. I wanted to help a friend.” She couldn’t deny what she had done. Her tendency to be headstrong rarely worked. This was proof of that.
“Helping someone is commendable.” He laid the cold leather against her bare bottom. “But there are rules in this household. Word will get around about what you did. My dealing with this serious of an infraction is expected.”
Rose understood that and respected his position. She’d done the misdeed and had to pay for her bad decision. At least, her poor bottom would pay. “Get on with this then.” The sooner he did the awful thing, the sooner she could start recovering. The rest of the day would be difficult.
Instead of lifting the strap for a hard strike, he smoothed it slowly across both sensitive buttocks. Then again. The second time he did it, his fingers brushed her skin. She felt a peculiar tingling between her legs. “What… what are you doing?” she gasped.
“Hmmm,” he mumbled, as if he wasn’t aware of what he’d been doing. “Sorry.” He lifted the strap and brought it down in a sizzling strike.
She jerked forward, hissing. Why had he teased her in almost gentleness? Why had he apologized? This all seemed so—
His hand pushed down on her back again and three more rapid strikes landed.
“Aeeiii,” she gritted out, arching into the desk away from the strap.
“A dozen, I believe. Would you like to count them?” Again, he smoothed the heavy leather over her buttocks.
While pain laced her tender bottom, odd quivers again began in her woman’s place. She didn’t understand the reaction. He was disciplining her, but there was something else happening between them. Something fluttered in her stomach, and she whimpered in bewilderment. Finally, she answered his question. “N-no. I would rather not count them.”
“What?” He sounded puzzled and then raised the strap. “Right. The thrashing.”
Had he forgotten what he was doing? How very odd. Had his voice sounded husky?
“Four stripes,” he said and brushed a finger over them, as if to confirm his statement.
Instead of hurting at his touch, she trembled, her breaths shaky. So very confusing. “Your Grace,” she whispered. Was she pleading for him to touch her again? Or urging him to finish this discipline session? She really didn’t know.
His hand pulled away and he cleared his throat. “That leaves eight more, La… Rose.”
Why had he stumbled over her name? Surely he didn’t know her true identity? The thought disappeared as he got down to serious business. She couldn’t lie still, wriggled in misery, kicked out, and nearly bit her lip in two trying to keep from crying out.
The final strike proved her downfall. She cried out her agony, “Aaaaaa!”
“Do not make me do this again,” he growled, tossing the strap to the floor. “You will obey from now on. Understand?”
Her bottom was on fire. Tears streamed down her heated face and she felt truly chastised. “I will… try, Your… Grace,” she vowed on a sob.
His anger of a second before gone, he carefully pulled her to her feet. Hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “I did not like doing that.”
She flinched as the garments fell into place over her throbbing bottom. Her hands flew back to cover the sting and she glanced up at him to see if he wouldn’t allow it. Her father never approved of rubbing away the pain. Not that it really helped. But the duke’s dark eyes weren’t filled with disapproval. He watched her intently, his gaze heated. His broad chest, covered by a fine white shirt and blue waistcoat, expanded in a deep, shuddering breath. Then he reached out and thumbed away her tears.
“Your Grace?” she asked, baffled by his tender actions.
He blinked at her question and his expression turned unreadable. Stepping away, he ordered, “Back to your duties, Rose.” He emphasized her name in a way that troubled her. “Go. Now.”
Starla Kaye
ISBN 978-1-914301-09-4
Lady Rose’s Secret
Chapter One
Yardley Estate
Berkshire, England
April 1817
Lady Georgina Rose Desmond’s day was taking a turn for the worse. Her life had become complicated four months ago and each new day got more out of control. Many people believed her meek and weak because of her diminutive size. Not so. She considered herself tiny but mighty. It felt like she’d battled through all her two and twenty years and she would keep on battling. Even with this latest disaster she sensed coming.
She shouldn’t be in here. Her housemaid duties didn’t include the drawing room. The maid whose duty was to clean in here wasn’t feeling well today. She hadn’t wanted Fanny to get in more trouble than she already was, so she’d taken some initiative and helped. Mrs. Sternly, the housekeeper, hadn’t asked Rose to do this, which could prove to be a problem later. But she would get her own chores completed.
It was unfortunate that she had a knack for being a tad clumsy, something that annoyed Mrs. Sternly, leading to many lectures and some unpleasant discipline a few times during the three months she’d worked here in secret as a housemaid. This time it wasn’t just clumsiness that plagued her. She’d been fighting a sneezing fit while using the dusty rag. She should have taken it outside and given it a good shaking. Instead, she’d forged ahead with the dusting to get it done quickly and struggled since because of her poor decision.
She glanced around the spacious room. There were several seating areas consisting of velvet settees, handsomely carved and upholstered chairs, and small tables holding exquisite vases of various sizes. So far, she’d had no accidents. Only one superb, hefty vase remained to dust and she would finish this room. Then she could go back to her assigned chores of taking care of the bedrooms and hallways.
Her nose twitched again when she lifted the rag over the marble-topped table. No, no, no! Her hand shook as it drew closer to the vase. No, no, no!
She tried wiggling her nose against the urge to sneeze. Her eyes burned from the battle.
“What are you doing in here?” Mrs. Sternly barked from the doorway. “Are you thinking of stealing His Grace’s treasured vase? Just as you attempted to steal the silver candlestick from his bedchamber last week?”
Surprised, heart pounding as she looked across the room, Rose’s hand hit the side of the vase. A final tiny cloud of dust rose from the rag and tortured her nose again.
Her foe won. She sneezed, closing her eyes for a hairsbreadth of a second. Her hand jerked and sent the wobbling vase off the table before she could attempt to stop it.
“Oh, no!”
The crash of expensive china hitting the wood floor resonated around the elegant room and seemed to echo throughout the entire house. At least to Rose’s horrified ears. But it wasn’t the shattered vase that upset her, it was the unfair accusation.
Heat rising in her cheeks, she sputtered, “I did not steal that candlestick!” The very idea of her stealing anything was ludicrous. Her gaze shifted to what appeared to be a thousand pieces of porcelain near her feet. Cleaning it up would be a trial. “Nor did I intend to steal this vase.”
Mrs. Sternly snorted, her thin lips pressed tight. The fifty-something, contrary woman hadn’t accepted Rose’s explanation for why she’d had the candlestick in her apron pocket last week. She’d had a good reason, but the judgmental woman had deemed her a liar. And “liars” and “potential thieves” received harsh punishment. After the tawsing Rose had received, she’d been quite sore as she’d finished her chores. The next day too. It seemed she’d been judged a liar and a thief again.
“You are an impudent one.” Mrs. Sternly declared it, as if stating a deplorable fact. “I do not tolerate such attitude in this household, nor lying.” She sucked in a deep breath, her buxom form blowing up to stretch the bodice of her gray work dress to its limit. “I do not tolerate disobedience either. You have assigned duties. You do not work in unassigned areas.”
“I did not disobey,” Rose countered, stopping at the housekeeper’s narrowed eyes. “I-I…” She gave up her defense, knowing she had overstepped what they allowed.
At the other woman’s smirk, Rose wanted to try defending herself again, but her nose twitched in warning. She scrunched it and held her breath, hoping to fend off another sneeze. She couldn’t stop it and it came out in a most unladylike manner, earning another disapproving glower from the housekeeper.
“This is your second breakage in a week. Unacceptable. And costly.” Mrs. Sternly had reached her limit of tolerance for anything dealing with Rose. “You will take yourself to His Grace’s library. Immediately.”
Although another session with the housekeeper’s tawse was something to dread, Rose feared the duke’s treatment could be far worse. So far, she had had no interactions with him besides passing him in the hallway one time. Since she’d come here in disguise to get to know him before making an ultimate decision that would change both of their lives, she didn’t want to see him now.
“Must we bother His Grace with this?” She swallowed her pride and pressed, “Could we not just go to your office again?” She didn’t voice the rest of her thought, that Mrs. Sternly perform whatever discipline she felt necessary.
The stout woman shifted in the doorway and pointed a pudgy finger to the hallway. “You will do as I say.” Their gazes met. “Unless you would like a few lashes of the tawse after whatever His Grace does.”
Rose wanted to protest all of it, protect her poor bottom. If she ended her farce… But the time for admitting her secret wasn’t right. She needed to know more about the man known for intimidating others by just narrowing his devilish black eyes. And his portrait in the gallery reinforced the image of a dark and brooding man. Add to that, his reputation in London society was enough to frighten off most people, most women. She wasn’t like most women. She observed, analyzed, and made her own judgments. In her opinion, rumors and gossip could not be trusted. Her gut told her there was more to the Duke of Berkshire than he shared, or that others noted.
She stopped her musings and continued her charade, even if it meant facing the grim side of her employer. The man she’d never met but had agreed to marry. By her stipulations, not his. Again, her instincts told her they needed each other. He just didn’t know that yet.
With a curt nod of acceptance, she walked with a nervous stomach from the room. The enormous manor house felt cold, unfriendly. From the second she’d arrived at Yardley Estate, she’d sensed this had never been a house of happiness. The walls had never echoed with laughter. As difficult as her life had been with her gruff father, there had been times of warmth and joy in their house. Rare times. When her mother was alive. The changes there after her death in yet another failed childbirth were part of why Rose had left and concocted this plan, one that proved unpleasant at times such as this.
Head high, she marched in resignation through the house ahead of Mrs. Sternly. Other than the rigid and grumpy housekeeper, the other staff members got along well. It had surprised them when she’d showed up on the doorstep one breezy, frigid February afternoon asking to work here. In her determined way, she’d taken a chance. The butler had met her at the massive front doors. He’d taken in her weary face, faded and dirty dress peeking out of the ragged wool coat, and the worn satchel she’d carried. His confused frown had changed into a warm smile, and he’d led her straight to Mrs. Sternly. Ignoring her irritated look, he’d informed her His Grace had told him he had been seeking another housemaid. Turner had been her first friend here. This house and those who lived here needed her. She knew it soul deep.
Why was she thinking about that now when she would soon experience the Duke of Berkshire’s wrath? Even with what she faced, and intending to keep her secret, she looked forward to seeing him in person. Since they’d never met, he wouldn’t recognize her. The woman to whom he’d had his solicitor deliver an offer of a rather complicated marriage of convenience. A dozen pages of his terms, his requirements of her, and what he would provide for her in exchange. Utter nonsense, in her opinion. Yet from what a few of her trusted friends had told her about past dealings with him, she’d suspected those pages of legal talk hid a guarded heart. A wounded one, like hers. And that was why she’d signed the papers, then added her own twist. She would discover the truth behind the man before she married him on her terms.
***
Miles Yardley wasn’t in the best of moods. He’d spent several hours that morning there in his library, trying to make sense of some reports he’d received from his London solicitor. The man had hired an investigator on his behalf to track down the missing Lady Georgina Desmond. She had given her agreement to his marriage offer over four months ago. And then she had sent him word that she would see him sometime this fall. Sometime? Unacceptable.
He ground his teeth in annoyance, still unable to believe her daring. She intended to spend the summer with an elderly widowed aunt in Scotland. An aunt who didn’t exist, so he’d learned. She’d lied and disappeared. He’d heard via his solicitor and London gossip that neither her disagreeable father, the Earl of Desmond, nor her friends knew where she’d gone.
He sat back in his desk chair and it gave a soft creak. He closed his eyes. A headache pounded at his temple. His life had never been easy. This was just another frustration to add to everything else that weighed on him as a prominent duke with large landholdings. He didn’t want to get married, but it was necessary. For his estate to carry on, his lineage must carry on. He needed at least an heir. A spare would be good too. He had no use for a wife otherwise. The women in his household worked quietly, caused him no grief. Except for one scullery maid who was no longer here. Besides these women he barely knew but lived with, women were a bother.
His jaw tightened, as he remembered the last woman he’d proposed to. She’d not taken one second to think about his powerful position and what he could offer her. She’d refused, her look telling him he was crazy to think any woman would want him. At one time he’d had many ladies desiring him. Before the Battle of Waterloo. Before having the left side of his face sliced, leaving him with a long, thin scar that repelled women. Not that he had a problem finding a willing mistress when he desired one. He was a passionate lover, and his lovers appreciated his generous gifts. Finding a wife had proven to be a trial he couldn’t endure.
Miles blew out a frustrated breath and sat straighter, stacking together the reports he’d spread out. He needed an heir, and he was getting older, two and thirty. Through his connections, he’d heard about Lady Georgina Desmond and her problem with her father, who he had never met. The Earl of Desmond had long been a pompous ass with few friends among the ton. After the death of his first wife, he’d sought and found a much younger second wife. The greedy woman wanted Georgina out of her house. So, her father planned to force his only daughter—only child—to marry an ancient earl by some means of blackmail. Except she’d refused to cooperate and had moved in with a friend in London.
Soon after learning about her, Miles had seen her from a distance at a London ball he’d heard she would be attending. Petite and spirited had been the impression he’d gotten. Far different from him. She had danced and laughed with many a dashing rake that night. Yet she had allowed each only one dance. And she’d not appeared interested in any of them. The one time she’d swirled by him without even glancing in his direction, he’d seen something she tried to keep hidden in her surprising violet eyes. A hint of sadness. It had touched him. He hadn’t been able to forget it or her. In that instant, he’d desired her with a fierceness he’d never experienced before.
Which led him to this idea that his solicitor thought was insane. Crazy or not, he saw it as the answer they both needed. He needed a respectable wife his peers would accept to give him an heir and nothing more. She needed rid of her father’s threat so she could live the life she wanted. If she gave him a child, Miles would let her lead whatever life she wanted. As long as…
They would sort all of that out.
“Bloody hell!” He growled and pounded his fist on the desktop, scattering the papers again. She’d given her agreement. He had her signature on the complicated document in his desk drawer. She’d given her word and she needed to stand by it. When he promised something, he stood by it.
Where the bloody hell was she?
Chapter Two
And there she stood in the doorway of his library. Not the lively, youthful beauty with pale blonde hair done up in long ringlets that had brushed her bare shoulders. The woman who had caught the approving eye of every man there at the ball with her trim form and plump breasts displayed in the striking pink gown. The one with enticing violet eyes that he hadn’t been able to forget. But this woman in the light gray work dress and long brown apron, hair tucked under a white mob cap, was Lady Georgina Desmond.
She stood next to his very glum-looking housekeeper. A housekeeper who had become suspicious of this maid. Or so he’d overheard Turner, his butler, and Hathaway, his valet, talking about a couple of days ago. It appeared the older woman, who had been part of the household staff for over twenty years, had good instincts.
Instead of confronting the woman he’d been searching for, he waited for an explanation.
Mrs. Sternly took hold of Georgina’s arm, firmly enough he suspected would leave bruises, and thrust her into the bookshelf-lined room. He frowned at that but forced himself to remain quiet as she stumbled but didn’t fall. Irritation creased her brow and she mumbled something under her breath in displeasure. He found her attitude intriguing and amusing, though he would not let either of them know it.
“Your Grace, it is your troublesome new housemaid again. Rose. She deserves punishment, and this time it should be by you.”
His mind was awash with confusion. Turner had informed him a while back that he’d had Mrs. Sternly hire a new housemaid. He hadn’t recalled needing another staff member, but let the matter go. The expense was a mere trifle. Rose? If he remembered right, she had signed the agreement Georgina Rose Holton, Lady Desmond. Housemaid? In disguise? What was her game?
Miles kept all his muddled thoughts inside and controlled his expression. “You have punished her before?” How did he feel about that? He knew Mrs. Sternly lived up to her name and managed his female household staff with strict rules. She believed in a wrongdoer paying consequences. He’d not seen or heard of abuses, so he didn’t get involved. Still, this was his future wife.
“Not overly much, Your Grace,” Mrs. Sternly conceded. “Just when necessary.”
Spots of color blossomed on Rose’s fair cheeks and she appeared sheepish. He sensed she wanted to speak, but she remained silent. How had she been disciplined? When? What had she done?
“This is one of those ‘necessary’ times. And you believe whatever she did was bad enough to warrant that I handle the discipline. Am I correct?” It wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with one of the maids. There had been the contrary scullery maid that he’d had to give a caning to more than once before firing her.
“I do, Your Grace.”
Rose’s tempting pink lips pressed together, and her nostrils flared. She wanted to protest yet didn’t. She darted a glance at him and then down at her feet. What was she up to? Playing at being a housemaid in his house, enduring punishment by his less-than-tolerant housekeeper. For whatever reason she was doing this, she appeared determined to keep her charade going. He’d had no one challenge him before, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He’d admired her striving for independence from her father. But how would such daring on her part work in their marriage?
“Rose has only been here three months and she has already broken numerous items. The girl is clumsy, careless.” Mrs. Sternly shot Rose a disgusted look. “She lies, too. Tried to steal one of the silver candlesticks from your bedchamber last week. Claimed she didn’t. But it was in her pocket.”
Did she just growl? Even if he’d been mistaken about that, those violet eyes sparked with indignation.
So, she’d been here three of the months he’d had people searching for her. Right in his own house. Unbelievable. He’d heard about some argument over a candlestick in his room, but had thought nothing of it since it was still there. He needed to pay more attention to what happened in his household. And to who worked here.
“What has she done this time?” He studied the woman who couldn’t have been much over five feet. A good wind would blow her away. She might be diminutive, but she held herself regally, her small chin jutting up. A slip in her intended disguise of a housemaid who should cringe in distress at being brought before her employer.
Mrs. Sternly puffed up in displeasure and blurted, “That exquisite Chinese vase in the drawing room. The one everyone knows only I dust. She broke it. She should not have been working there.”
She faced Rose and shook her head. “I have told her many times to only do the chores assigned to her. Even those chores she struggles to perform.”
The vase had been one of his father’s most prized possessions. If any of the staff even got close to it, his father had lectured them. As long as he’d known, only Mrs. Sternly could dust it. When he’d been eight, his father had caught him about to touch one of the intricate designs one day. He’d gone to bed with a very sore bottom after a blistering lecture too. He hated that vase. Good riddance to it!
Still, she had destroyed a priceless item. Word would spread throughout the house of what had happened, especially if she wasn’t supposed to even be in the room. Clear disobedience to orders. All would expect him to handle this. He had to do something memorable. It didn’t matter that she was his intended bride. Only he was aware of that matter.
Reluctant but resigned, Miles reached into the bottom desk drawer where his father had kept the strap used far too often on him. He pulled out the twenty-inch long piece of heavy cowhide. He saw a surprising mix of regret and approval in Mrs. Sternly’s eyes, and she headed for the door.
“I will leave you to it, then, Your Grace.” She closed the thick double wooden doors as she left the room.
When he focused on Rose, the color had leeched from her face. Her beautiful eyes widened. He saw her shallow breaths as she stared at the hard piece of leather. He’d known that awful sense of dread. Why didn’t she admit her trickery and stop him from punishing her? But that pert chin of hers thrust up again. Determination to not reveal her secret. If she was so set on deceiving him, she could endure his wrath then. Because now he was angry.
“You will come here at once.”
“It was an accident,” she protested at last. Her eyes flashed with irritation.
She’d had her chance to end this and had chosen not to. He nodded toward the desk. “Even so, you were not supposed to be in there.”
She worried her lower lip. “I decided to help a friend who was not feeling well today.”
Her sympathy for someone else touched him, but he had to stand by the staff rules. “Did she ask you to do her work?”
Her shoulders slumped and she heaved a sigh. “No. I just—”
“You have assigned duties, correct? Are they all done for the day? You had so much free time that you did more than asked?” He watched the way she worried her lips again. The desire to put his mouth to hers, to take her in his arms shocked him.
“No, Your Grace, I still have more of my own duties to perform.” Her admission jerked him from his inappropriate thoughts. She met him eye to eye. “I will get them done, have no worry.”
She looked straight at him. She had to see the long scar on the side of his face. He savored her not appearing repulsed. And he almost forgot the entire discipline matter. Almost went to her to pull her into his embrace, admit that he knew her secret.
Her secret. Her intention to keep it renewed his displeasure.
“You will do your chores, yes.” He motioned her forward, holding up the strap. “After I have disciplined you.”
It took her several seconds to approach the desk, her feet seeming to drag with reluctance. She regarded him with concerned eyes, yet she didn’t protest again. Independent and daring. Submissive to an acceptable extent, too. They would get along well in marriage, even if he planned it only to be long enough for her to give him an heir. Then he would either give her whatever she needed to leave and go her own way, without his child, or she could stay in her own wing of this house and lead her own life.
“Turn around and raise your garments. Then bend over the desk.” He moved to stand behind her and smelled the sweat from her work, the hint of dust. She would understand that he intended to thrash her bare bottom. Would she do as he asked? Or would she now resist? He held his breath, waiting.
She hesitated, then tugged up the long day dress, petticoat, and chemise, all well-worn garments, and he wondered where she had gotten them. With some awkwardness, she held them up to lean over the desk. Tucking the wad of fabric under her stomach, she braced herself on her forearms.
He stared at the creamy buttocks that would soon be striped with his lashes. His body hardened and wanted to do something far different with her. His palms grew moist and he nearly dropped the strap. The urge to take her was fierce. He’d gone too long without a willing woman.
“Your Grace?” she whispered, yanking his thoughts back to the reason they were here.
“Ease your feet apart,” he ordered, his voice gruff. As she did and her woman’s place was exposed, he swallowed hard, heart pounding. He needed to get this done, or else he would lose control of his desire and take her hard and fast, right here, right now.
***
Rose felt her face flame in disgrace, and she lowered her head to the desktop. Her father had punished her over the years, a last time before she’d left in the middle of the night. They’d argued about his insistence that she marry the elderly Earl of Ravenshead. He’d punished her for her stubborn refusal, believing a thrashing would change her mind. He’d been so wrong. She hoped never to see the wretch again, or his new bride, Lady Caroline. The self-centered, crafty woman had even watched the thrashing, encouraged it. She doubted either of them really cared that she’d not wed the ancient earl. They’d gotten her out of their home, and that was what they’d wanted.
“I would rather not have had our first meeting be this way,” the Duke of Berkshire said, drawing her back to the unpleasant present. This was the imposing duke, the master of the household. Not the man she’d agreed to marry.
But she’d sensed something hidden in his statement. She couldn’t figure out what, but he sounded more frustrated than simply disciplining one of his staff. “Perhaps we can discuss the situation instead of…”
She heard him blow out a deep breath and wondered even more about his attitude. Why wasn’t he just getting the task done? Why did he appear hesitant?
He moved to her side and placed a big hand in the middle of her back to hold her in place. Still, he didn’t answer right away. “Mrs. Sternly was right to bring you to me. Accident or not, you disobeyed orders and destroyed a priceless vase.”
“I meant no harm, Your Grace. I wanted to help a friend.” She couldn’t deny what she had done. Her tendency to be headstrong rarely worked. This was proof of that.
“Helping someone is commendable.” He laid the cold leather against her bare bottom. “But there are rules in this household. Word will get around about what you did. My dealing with this serious of an infraction is expected.”
Rose understood that and respected his position. She’d done the misdeed and had to pay for her bad decision. At least, her poor bottom would pay. “Get on with this then.” The sooner he did the awful thing, the sooner she could start recovering. The rest of the day would be difficult.
Instead of lifting the strap for a hard strike, he smoothed it slowly across both sensitive buttocks. Then again. The second time he did it, his fingers brushed her skin. She felt a peculiar tingling between her legs. “What… what are you doing?” she gasped.
“Hmmm,” he mumbled, as if he wasn’t aware of what he’d been doing. “Sorry.” He lifted the strap and brought it down in a sizzling strike.
She jerked forward, hissing. Why had he teased her in almost gentleness? Why had he apologized? This all seemed so—
His hand pushed down on her back again and three more rapid strikes landed.
“Aeeiii,” she gritted out, arching into the desk away from the strap.
“A dozen, I believe. Would you like to count them?” Again, he smoothed the heavy leather over her buttocks.
While pain laced her tender bottom, odd quivers again began in her woman’s place. She didn’t understand the reaction. He was disciplining her, but there was something else happening between them. Something fluttered in her stomach, and she whimpered in bewilderment. Finally, she answered his question. “N-no. I would rather not count them.”
“What?” He sounded puzzled and then raised the strap. “Right. The thrashing.”
Had he forgotten what he was doing? How very odd. Had his voice sounded husky?
“Four stripes,” he said and brushed a finger over them, as if to confirm his statement.
Instead of hurting at his touch, she trembled, her breaths shaky. So very confusing. “Your Grace,” she whispered. Was she pleading for him to touch her again? Or urging him to finish this discipline session? She really didn’t know.
His hand pulled away and he cleared his throat. “That leaves eight more, La… Rose.”
Why had he stumbled over her name? Surely he didn’t know her true identity? The thought disappeared as he got down to serious business. She couldn’t lie still, wriggled in misery, kicked out, and nearly bit her lip in two trying to keep from crying out.
The final strike proved her downfall. She cried out her agony, “Aaaaaa!”
“Do not make me do this again,” he growled, tossing the strap to the floor. “You will obey from now on. Understand?”
Her bottom was on fire. Tears streamed down her heated face and she felt truly chastised. “I will… try, Your… Grace,” she vowed on a sob.
His anger of a second before gone, he carefully pulled her to her feet. Hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “I did not like doing that.”
She flinched as the garments fell into place over her throbbing bottom. Her hands flew back to cover the sting and she glanced up at him to see if he wouldn’t allow it. Her father never approved of rubbing away the pain. Not that it really helped. But the duke’s dark eyes weren’t filled with disapproval. He watched her intently, his gaze heated. His broad chest, covered by a fine white shirt and blue waistcoat, expanded in a deep, shuddering breath. Then he reached out and thumbed away her tears.
“Your Grace?” she asked, baffled by his tender actions.
He blinked at her question and his expression turned unreadable. Stepping away, he ordered, “Back to your duties, Rose.” He emphasized her name in a way that troubled her. “Go. Now.”
May 21, 2021
Secret Love
Secret Love F. Burn
https://amzn.to/3b8V5Io
ISBN 978-1-914301-06-3
Chapter One
You read about teachers developing inappropriate relationships with pupils and you wonder how it all happened. At what point did they finally decide to cross that line? Whose fault was it? Ultimately the responsibility lies with the adult they say, but when is the student considered an adult? You imagine yourself in that position and you tell yourself that you would never do that, but I found myself in an impossible situation.
It all started when I saw a job vacancy advertised at St. Paul’s Catholic Secondary School for Boys in Kensington. They were looking for a Learning Support Assistant with a particular interest in dyslexia. I did have an interest in dyslexia and had been on the lookout for a chance to develop a specialism. They offered training and a generous benefits package. I’d also had enough of working in primary schools and fancied a change of scene. I wanted something that would challenge me intellectually. This seemed like the perfect opportunity, so I decided to apply.
After spending hours filling in the forms and writing up a statement, which sounded like complete waffle to me, I submitted the application. I didn’t have too much hope as it was a private school and I wasn’t Catholic. Even though I had been baptised as a child, I had decided years ago that I was actually agnostic. However, I described myself as a non-practising Catholic and emphasised the importance of Catholic values. A few days later, I ended up being shortlisted for interview.
The interview consisted of three parts: a short literacy and numeracy test, a tour of the school and a formal interview. The tests were fairly straightforward and I made sure that I was friendly and communicative towards the students giving the tour. The interview that followed consisted of a panel of three senior members of staff, which was a bit daunting at first, but went really well. They seemed impressed with my experience, qualifications and the answers I gave, so I felt that I just might have a chance.
Later that afternoon, I waited anxiously for the outcome. My enthusiasm waned with each hour that passed. I’d almost given up on hearing back that evening, when my phone rang. Jumping out of my skin, I dived towards my mobile. To my utter relief, I’d been successful. I eagerly accepted the position which would commence in September.
Once I had received all the relevant documents in the post, I returned them in person to try and speed up the process. After signing the contract, I officially handed in my resignation.
I don’t know how I managed to do it, but I survived the rest of a particularly difficult summer term. Perhaps the knowledge that I was leaving helped motivate me. By the end of it, I felt so drained, and I needed a holiday. There were no tears on my last day because the thought of a long summer holiday ahead was enough to comfort me. Part of me was glad to be leaving – no more HR screw-ups. But the other part would miss the staff. I was also a little bit nervous about starting a new job. I’d have to form new relationships and get used to the layout of the school all over again. Undoubtedly, I would discover cracks in a seemingly perfect school, as one always does.
Once the summer holidays started, I planned lots of things to keep myself and my partner, John, busy. We couldn’t afford a big expensive holiday, so we went on day trips to Calais and Brighton, as well as doing things in London. I spent a lot of time catching up with family and friends and even got involved in some sporting activities.
As the weeks went by, I began to dread the thought of returning to normal working life. My excitement about starting a new job was replaced with apprehension, and I found myself worrying about silly little things. I decided to research as much as I could about dyslexia to prepare for the role and this seemed to help a bit. The holidays seem to pass in the blink of an eye, and before I knew it, I was starting at St. Paul’s.
My first day at St. Paul’s began in the staffroom. Despite my fears about snobby staff, they seemed friendly enough. They all do at first. We had to attend morning mass at St. Paul’s Church. Listening to sermons and singing dreary hymns was not my cup of tea. I didn’t do listening for long periods of time or singing in public very well either.
The teachers and learning support assistants then separated to attend training. It was actually quite useful, but everyone looked half asleep. I can only describe it as that ‘deer in the headlights’ look. Once the summer holidays end and you return to work, it’s like an electrical shock to your system and you suddenly have to switch your brain on and come to terms with having a job again.
After lunch, I finally met with my line manager, Sue. I recognised her from the interview. She was the special needs coordinator. I was feeling positive until she said, “Due to your experience, we’ve decided to have you support Richard Cunningham. He’s in Year Eleven and has a statement for severe dyslexia. He’s entitled to twenty hours of one-to-one support per week. He also has behavioural and emotional difficulties.”
I was not happy. Not another bloody difficult student. But, wanting to make a good impression, I just nodded and said, “No problem.”
“He’s two years behind due to repeating Year Seven and now he’s retaking his GCSEs. He’ll be finishing his GCSEs at age eighteen, which means he’s below age-related expectations. Obviously, he has some issues with his self-esteem and acts out from time to time.”
Interestingly, though, last year he managed to pass maths, DT and music. Surely he couldn’t be that bad then? This year, he was retaking English, science, history and geography and had chosen art as an additional subject. I was pleased to see that he was going to be doing art, as I was particularly good at art and hoped that would enable me to form some kind of bond. Considering that he’d studied music previously, I imagined he would have a creative side.
And so the following day, after a restless sleep, I started officially. I was introduced to the two other students that I would be expected to support: Joseph – a charming Year Seven boy with Asperger’s, and Stuart – a quiet boy with global delay. I then met the infamous Richard. I’d already heard staff speaking about him in the staffroom. Apparently, he was moody, miserable and volatile, often didn’t respond to adults and liked running off. Great, I thought. But I had to judge for myself. It’s all too easy to pigeonhole and label. I’d had some success with difficult students before and hoped that I’d be able to manage the situation.
I was led to one of the Year Eleven classrooms during registration. The form tutor kindly brought me over to Richard. He was holding a pen over an open notebook and he was staring at it, as if lost in his thoughts. I stood next to his table, and then he finally turned towards us with a slightly puzzled expression on his face when his tutor spoke to him, or rather, rambled on nervously. His gaze turned to me while I patiently waited to be introduced. The whole time, he made it obvious to me that he was staring. I wasn’t really sure at what, though. To break the awkwardness of the moment, I interrupted by quickly introducing myself.
“Hello. My name is Miss Gabel and I’ll be supporting you in class. Nice to meet you.” I reached out to shake his hand and he shakily took mine. He studied my face as if trying to gauge what kind of person I was.
“Nice to meet you too,” he replied in a quiet voice. He spoke slowly, as if he was unsure of himself. He also seemed incredibly shy. I just hoped he wasn’t as bad as they said he was. I guess I got some comfort from the fact that I usually build good relationships with students who had speech and language difficulties – to the point where they don’t shut up.
The bell went and I managed to navigate through the hallway to the English class where I’d be supporting Richard. I ended up being a few minutes late, and unfortunately almost everyone was already seated. There was an empty seat beside Richard. As I walked towards him, it suddenly dawned on me that he was actually quite handsome and looked older than a seventeen-year-old. I got a little bit annoyed with myself for noticing that he was handsome, as it was kind of unprofessional.
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
“No, I don’t mind,” he replied softly. I hesitantly sat next to him, wondering if it was a good idea or not.
He seemed uncomfortable at first – twitchy and fidgety. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was self-conscious about sitting next to an LSA. I averted my vision and kind of kept a watch on him from the corner of my eye. Eventually, he seemed to settle down.
The teacher began the lesson by discussing colloquialisms and the differences between formal and informal speech. They had to discuss with their partners what they thought. I assumed that I was Richard’s partner.
“So, what do you think?” He just sat there and, after a while, I thought he wasn’t going to respond. To my relief, he started to answer the question.
“I think that, ummm... formal speech is more for school or work, and informal speech is how you speak to your friends.”
“You’ve pretty much summed it up there. What exactly is a colloquialism?”
“I think it’s a word that you use when you speak informally. Am I right?”
“Yes, you are.”
Well, he seemed intelligent enough. The students were presented with a written paragraph, which they had to rewrite. He just stared at it like it was written in Latin. I’d been told that he found reading difficult and would often become unresponsive if he felt he couldn’t do something. I’d also been told he was extremely self-conscious about reading aloud in front of others; apparently, he read slowly and often confused words. I imagined that would be worse today, especially because we had just met. I’d read that dyslexic people often understood verbal information better than written information, so I gently asked if he’d like me to start reading it. He gave me a pained expression, blushed, and nodded.
It was at that very moment that I looked into his eyes that I noticed how unusual they were. Like kaleidoscopic gems. Mostly green, with amber and almost yellow highlights around the pupil area. Slightly embarrassed, my face grew hot and I swallowed, hoping that he hadn’t noticed. I tried to avoid eye contact and focus on the task at hand. He was able to complete his work with my support.
At the end of the lesson, I was about to leave when I felt a light tap on my shoulder. When I turned around, Richard was standing behind me. “Thank you for your help.” He said earnestly.
“You’re more than welcome,” I said, and I thought, Well, that was a pleasant surprise. Maybe it won’t be that bad after all.
When I arrived home that evening, I thought about that lesson a lot. I didn’t know what had got into me when I had looked into his eyes, but that night I kept seeing his face in my mind.
***
That first week went by without incident. In class, he was usually very polite and respectful. Some days, he could be quite sullen. But, I didn’t want to push him, so I never asked what was wrong. I supposed that he might tell me in his own time. I would wonder when the horror stories I had heard would come true and hoped they wouldn’t. No matter how morose he appeared to be, he always responded to my questions in class. One thing I couldn’t stand was an unresponsive student. It made life extremely difficult.
He didn’t speak much at this point, but he did seem to listen to me ramble on – a ‘method’ I used with students who had problems communicating. I found that a lot of students would open up to me once they had got to know me a bit. I usually tried to find some kind of common ground. After looking at Richard’s timetable, I noticed that he had tennis club once a week. I was a little uncertain as to whether it was too soon to take an interest in his extra-curricular activities but decided to go and watch him play.
During the second week, on a Tuesday, I was on my way out and then I remembered that Richard had tennis club. I thought I’d pass by the court briefly to see Richard play. I wasn’t sure how he would react, but I was curious. I sat at the far end, so he wouldn’t really notice me, as I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable. I watched and came to the conclusion that he was a pretty good player. All that frustration he may have was being worked off and it would help him to stay fit, both physically and psychologically.
I got caught up in the games and ended up moving closer to watch. That was when he noticed me. He did a kind of double take, peering questioningly as if he was wondering why I was there. I just hoped he wouldn’t mind me watching. He must have realised that I was there to see him, and to my surprise he tentatively gave me a small wave. I smiled and waved back. When the matches were over, he came over to me, but didn’t say anything. I spoke first.
“You were very good, Richard.”
He shrugged his shoulders modestly and replied, “Guess I’m okay. Got to work on my backhand though.”
“Maybe, but it was good to see you playing. I actually really enjoyed it. Would you mind if I came to see you play again some time?”
“No, that would be nice.” Even though I wanted to stay and chat some more, I could see how much he was sweating.
“Well, I guess you better hit the showers. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks for coming, miss.”
***
The following week, there was a trip to the British Museum. They were going to look at Greek mythology in art for a project. I was asked to go because Richard would be going. You could visibly see the relief on the teachers’ faces because they wouldn’t be alone with him, though I had yet to see what was so awful about him. The art teacher wanted Richard at the front, so I suggested that I lead the way to the station.
“Richard? Come here for a second.” He walked up to me.
“Yes, miss?”
“I’m going to be leading the way, but I’m probably going to go in the wrong direction. Can you help me? Be my partner?” I hoped my strategy would work.
“Yes, of course, I’ll help.”
It was clear that he felt awkward in social situations. Throughout the whole trip, he stood near me on the train and in the museum. It was painfully obvious that he had no friends, so I discussed ideas with him whilst we looked at the pieces. I decided to try and sketch one of the monoliths myself.
“So, what do you think?” I said, while showing him my sketch.
“Wow, that’s really good. Where did you learn how to do that?”
“Nowhere in particular. It’s something I’ve always been good at. You’re pretty good yourself.” He gave me a look of disbelief and slight confusion.
“Me? Really?”
“Why? Is that so hard to believe?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe you could give me some tips,” he replied, still not convinced.
We continued to sketch some of the pieces and record ideas for the project until lunchtime. We sat in a dining area especially designated for school visits. I deliberately sat next to Richard, as this was a good time to get to know him a bit more. I smiled at him when I sat down, and he gave me the barest hint of a smile.
“I can’t believe I’ve forgotten my water bottle,” I complained when I looked through my bag.
“You can have mine if you want.”
“No, thanks. You need it.”
He took a few sips and put the bottle in front of me.
“You have the rest.
“Okay, thank you.”
***
After that, we became a lot more comfortable around each other. I began to really care about Richard’s education, because it was his last year in high school and he needed the grades to progress further. I had no idea how he’d cope in the future as he had real needs. It was frustrating because it was obvious that he was trying hard. I began to suspect that the staff hadn’t given him much of a chance and that he was misunderstood. It seemed as if they’d written him off. His grades wouldn’t affect the school’s results, because he had a statement of special educational needs.
Although I’d had a fairly good start at St. Paul’s, I did find the staff to be quite cliquey. That was normal in schools, though, and probably in other employment sectors. I mostly kept myself to myself and juggled with the idea of eating with the students in the dining hall. Lunch was free when you sat with the students, which would mean I wouldn’t have to prepare lunch for work in the evenings. The only problem was that staff usually gained weight eating school dinners. They were often stodgy and the portions were too large. Sometimes there would be huge amounts of cheese or pastry and I would end up wondering how schools were promoting their healthy eating policies. I hoped that the menu would be better here.
Chapter Two
It was October when the first incident occurred. I was on early lunch break in the staffroom, as I had to cover lunch duty for an absent member of staff, when Sue approached me with a panicked look on her face.
“I’m afraid we need you right now.”
“What happened?”
“Richard attacked Michael at the end of English and ran off. Can you help find him and coax him back inside? His mum has been called in for an emergency meeting.”
A short while later, I found him sitting on the bench outside the drama block. I didn’t say a word. I just sat next to him. He had tears in his eyes, and in that instant, I really felt for him. Eventually, I had to break the silence.
“Whatever happened, I’m here to support you. You don’t have to go back inside yet. You can take your time.” Oh, how much I wanted to reach out and wipe those tears off his face. I had this overwhelming feeling of wanting to comfort him. I waited patiently until he responded.
“Sorry,” he finally said, as he stared into the distance.
“Sorry for what?” He hadn’t done anything to me.
“Sorry for disturbing you during your lunch break.”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s boring in the staffroom anyway. I’m more concerned about you.”
He put his head down and mumbled, “Do you really care?”
“Well, of course, I do,” I responded a bit too sharply.
“Why? Nobody else does.”
“I’m sure they do. You’re a good person.” I really wanted him to believe what I was saying.
“Do you really believe that?”
“Look at me, Richard. Yes, I do believe in you. Working with you has been a pleasure.” I did reach out to him at this point. I gently touched his arm. He looked down at my hand like he desperately needed human contact. “Tell me what happened.”
“Michael said something and I lost my temper. I had to get out of there or I would have killed him.”
“What did he say?” I probed gently.
“He said... You know what? He’s right. I am stupid and dumb. I’m two years behind and I always need support. I can’t do anything by myself.”
“You’re not stupid. You’re actually an intelligent guy with dyslexia. Even I had to retake some of my exams back in the day. Okay, yes, you do things at a slower pace. But who’s to say that’s abnormal? Everyone learns differently, and maybe you haven’t received the support you needed. I’m available if you need any extra help with anything.”
“I already have a tutor, and I know my mum’s fed up ’cos I haven’t shown much improvement.”
“Is your tutor any good?”
He just shrugged his shoulders.
“I tell you what. I’m not really supposed to do this, but I can give you my email address. Contact me any time if you need to.” I knew it was wrong, but I felt like I really needed to reach out to him.
“Okay, I will. Thank you, miss.”
“And if there’s anything I can do differently – like not sit next to you in class, if it makes you feel uncomfortable – just let me know.”
“No, you don’t have to do that. I focus better when you’re around.”
We spoke for around twenty minutes and then he agreed to go to the Learning Support Unit to wait for his mum. I went to do lunch duty, and then I was asked to attend the meeting. Apparently, Richard had refused to go unless I was there.
His mother was definitely a high maintenance woman. You could tell from her appearance that she was well off. Stylish hair, manicured nails, expensive clothes and what looked like a diamond watch. She barely acknowledged me at first. Her expression said it all. Annoyed that she’d had to come to this meeting. From what Richard told me, she was hardly ever around. They even had a housekeeper.
The meeting was painfully awkward. His mum accused the school of singling Richard out and only now finally getting him the support he needed. She finally acknowledged me, when asked if she was happy with the support. She was more than satisfied with the support I had given so far. Richard must have said something to her. In a way, I found it surprising. I guess I had preconceptions about middle-class people.
The meeting went on for ages and it was almost home-time when it was over. They had decided not to exclude Richard because Michael had played his part. What followed was totally unexpected, though. She approached me at the end of the meeting.
“You seem to have a good connection with Richard. I’m looking for a new tutor to help him in the evenings or weekends. Do you have any tutoring experience?”
“Some. It’s been a while, but I am familiar with what he’s studying. I’d be more than happy to tutor him. Not sure if I’m allowed to, though.”
“Don’t worry about that. The school doesn’t need to know.”
And that was how I got myself into deeper trouble. She offered a generous rate that was too good to refuse. I wanted to save up, as I had been considering moving overseas in a couple of years. I was a bit nervous about spending time alone with him. Whether or not I wanted to admit it, I knew I was attracted to him. At this point, I had no intentions of crossing the line, though. To be honest, what the hell would he see in me anyway? He was young, handsome and well-off and he could probably get any woman. I was approaching thirty, had acne and a really boring taste in clothes. The worst part was that I had a boyfriend, and he would be mortified if he could read my thoughts.
It was weird. I wanted to help him in a sort of motherly way, but sometimes I wanted to touch him in that way. At times, I longed to run my fingers through his curly blond hair, to caress him, to hold him, or to just be in the same vicinity as him. I’d have to try really hard not to notice his lovely eyes, his strong build or his full lips from now on. In two weeks, I was to start tutoring him after school at his house. So I had two weeks to get my act together.
***
It was Monday. School had just finished. I saw him waiting for me outside the school gates. And he was smiling. He hardly ever smiled, but when he did, my heart literally skipped a beat. It was then that I came to this conclusion: not only was he handsome, but he was beautiful. I guess some would say he was kind of androgynous. His facial features were almost feminine, but masculine at the same time. Sort of ethereal.
He stood there wearing his navy blazer and tan trousers, carrying his messenger-style bag.
“Hi, Francesca.”
“Hi, Ritchie.”
“My house is just a short walk away.”
He called me by my first name now, and I’d given him a nickname. For some reason, delightful shivers ran down my spine when he said my name. We walked and talked. I mostly blabbed on about my family, skipping from one subject to another. I also mentioned that I had a boyfriend.
Then, I just blurted out, “So do you have a girlfriend, Ritchie?”
There was a long pause.
“No, I’ve never really had a girlfriend before,” he replied.
I was about to respond by saying that he could easily get any woman, but just then, we arrived at the house. It was huge.
“So, this is where you live? You’ve got a lovely house.”
“Thank you. It’s nice of you to say.” He then cheekily added, “Even though, technically, it’s not mine.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” I accused him mockingly.
“Me? No. Never.”
While we stood in the entrance corridor, he asked, “Would you like to work in the dining room or in my bedroom?” He looked at me expectantly. It felt like some sort of test.
“Do you have a desk in your room?”
“Yes, quite a big one, and all my stuff is upstairs.”
“Well, I guess we can work in your room then.”
“Okay. You can hang your coat up here if you want,” he said, pointing to three empty coat hooks. As I took my coat off, I saw Ritchie’s eyes flick downwards to my chest. At first, I assumed he was looking at my necklace, but then I realised he was looking at my breasts. I was wearing a fairly snug-fitting, red V-neck top and sometimes it rode downwards, though I often pulled it up to prevent that. It definitely wasn’t inappropriate, as some of my colleagues wore clothes that were way more revealing than mine. I usually went for comfort rather than what was fashionable. However, it was hard to hide the fact that I had what some might consider to be large breasts. Feeling a little self-conscious, I adjusted my top, and he realised that I had seen him looking. He cleared his throat and asked if I would like a drink.
We got some juice from the kitchen and walked up to his room. His bedroom was spacious with a minimalist approach – another way of saying it was cold and clinical. He threw his bag on the bed and we sat down at his desk, which was by a large window. The sun was setting just then and we both looked out at it. I was about to say how nice it looked but became distracted by how the orange-red light made his eyes look both stunning and unearthly.
I know he saw me staring, as he turned toward me and smiled shyly. I immediately felt butterflies in my stomach, but managed to shakily get out, “So, let’s have a look at the coursework that’s due and try to come up with a timetable.”
We looked at his diary, coursework requirements, homework due and revision needed. We decided to focus on homework for this first session, until he had done a bit more research for his coursework. Throughout our session, we ended up sitting closer and closer. I was very aware of his cologne and I could smell his hair. I manage to play it cool, trying my best to focus on his work.
Before long, it was six o’clock. I was tempted to stay longer, but I really needed some fresh air.
“Can you come on Wednesday, Francesca?”
“I thought I was only coming twice a week – Monday and Thursday?”
“Mum said you can come more often when I have assignments due, if that’s okay? She’ll pay you.”
“Okay, if she doesn’t mind. Oh yeah, before I go, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Have you said anything about me to your mum?”
“Yes. I told her that you’ve helped me a lot. I don’t hate school so much now.”
“Did you really say that?”
He nodded in response.
“Can I ask – do you hate school that much?”
“With a passion. No one likes me and I’ve got no friends. I’m the weird, quiet guy with special needs and emotional issues. Lunchtimes are the worst.”
“Well... I was thinking about sitting in the lunch hall from now on. Staff can get a free lunch if they sit with the students. You’re more than welcome to sit with me if you don’t think it’s too lame? I don’t really like sitting with the staff anyway.”
He looked at me like he couldn’t believe what I’d just said. Like no one else had given him the time of day.
“It would be nice to talk to someone at lunchtime.”
“Well, I would really like to talk to you at lunchtime.”
It was almost like we’d arranged to have a first date. I felt nervous like a giddy schoolgirl with a crush. The question was whether or not he liked me back? And that was when it occurred to me. I wanted him to be attracted to me too.
For weeks after the incident, I made sure he sat as far away from Michael as possible. Every now and then I would catch Michael giving Ritchie cutting looks. I wished he would just leave Ritchie alone. During parts of the lesson where discussion was involved, Ritchie seemed a lot more animated. He had more of a spring in his step, and he presented me with a tub full of luscious red strawberries and a custard tart at lunchtime. I must say, I felt quite flattered that he’d bought me something.
“I’m sure you’re trying to fatten me up. My partner does this too, but he does it so I can be as fat as him.”
He laughed a real genuine laugh – the first time I’d ever heard him laugh out loud. People looked at him like he had three heads when he laughed. Obviously they’d never seen him laugh before either. The next minute we were both laughing for no apparent reason, just for the joy of it.
“It’s great seeing you smiling and laughing. You have a lovely smile; you should do it more often,” I couldn't help but comment. Then I realised that I may have said too much, as his face turned a light shade of pink.
“Thanks,” he said, almost hesitantly. “You’ve got a nice smile too.”
“No, I look like a chipmunk when I smile. My big, fat cheesy smile.”
He laughed again. “You do not look like a chipmunk!”
“Look, I’m at peace with my chipmunk cheeks, so let’s leave it at that.”
We were finally being ourselves around each other. The rest of the week was good and Ritchie was really coming out of his shell. I was so pleased. His teachers had even commented on the change.
***
A few days later, I was approached about accompanying students on a residential trip. Apparently, Ritchie had signed up and paid a while back, Due to his unpredictable nature, they felt that they needed someone to supervise him, and it was unlikely that his mum would be willing to come. The member of staff who was going didn’t know Ritchie all that well and was a bit unsure of how to deal with him. So Philip, who was normally not particularly likeable, was unusually polite when he started a conversation with me randomly in the staff room. I immediately thought, What do you want? Get to the point? He eventually explained the situation and then, after a whole lot of waffle, finally asked if I’d like to go.
I answered honestly, saying that it depended on the facilities and that I had certain conditions. I insisted that I either get paid for the overtime or get a day off in lieu. I liked to be difficult sometimes. He hastily agreed to the latter, obviously relieved.
Ritchie’s face lit up when I shared the news with him, telling me I was the best teacher ever. Although I wasn’t technically a teacher, I guess we were all educators anyway. I couldn’t help but feel a small rush of pride.
After my conversation with Ritchie, I officially confirmed that I’d go. I thought it slightly odd that they hadn’t asked a male member of staff to supervise him, but the other teacher going was male – the PE teacher, Steve Clapham.
They didn’t give me much time to prepare; we would be going on Monday, which was three days away. I was determined to have a relaxing weekend in preparation, but as is always the case, nothing goes to plan.
On Monday morning, Ritchie lugged his suitcase towards the coach, making sure to say hello to me. Then he offered to bring mine to the cargo hold. When we began to board, Ritchie asked, “Can I sit with you?”
I couldn’t quite hide my enthusiasm or my delight and answered, “Sure – unless I’m told to sit elsewhere. Hopefully, they won’t say anything.” They shouldn’t really have anything to say about it. After all, I was there to support Ritchie, even though I was getting way more enjoyment out of it than I was supposed to be.
“Thanks, miss,” he responded, with a bashful smile on his face. I felt like he could sense the butterflies in my stomach as we locked eyes. He definitely saw me swallow nervously in an attempt to control my feelings.
The journey was fairly short, just over two hours. At first, we just spoke quietly about this and that, finding that we liked a lot of the same movies. Being a bit of a science fiction geek, I got a bit carried away, forgetting about the boy behind us who was about to be sick, but managing to pass the sick bag just in time. As the journey continued, I caught myself stealing quick glances in his direction. Every time we made eye contact, the intensity increased. The few times we unintentionally made physical contact, it sent a jolt of pleasure through me.
I noticed quite a few looks coming our way, as some students overheard our conversation. They had either never seen Ritchie speak much, or they’d never seen a member of staff speaking so openly and humorously.
As soon as we arrived, we were shown to our cabins. I was quite pleased with mine, despite the lack of toilet paper. I even had access to tea-making facilities. We only had a minute to drop off our bags, then we hurried off to lunch, which wasn’t too bad, considering how hungry I was. It wasn’t particularly healthy, but there was a good choice of salads and fruit. Ritchie waited for me to sit before deciding where to sit. I found his mound of beef casserole, potatoes, rice and salad amusing.
I was in the middle of enjoying the lemon cheesecake when Ritchie suddenly disappeared, reappearing with another lemon cheesecake which he gave to me. After a while, I began to feel self-conscious, because he watched me eat it. I felt a bit paranoid, so I talked about everything and anything. The funny thing was that he sat and listened intently. A few minutes later, three other students were listening to me waffle on incessantly as if I was actually interesting.
Back at the cabins, we unpacked our bags. I stood outside the cabins to assist Steve with making sure the boys were doing as they were told. There were three cabins of six boys, and some of the boys had discovered that their shower wasn’t working. Steve decided that it would be okay if they used our showers, but only if theirs hadn’t been fixed by the evening.
The week before us would be packed with activities such as abseiling, rock climbing, camping, raft building and so on. I doubted that I’d be trying many of the activities, though. Although teachers didn’t normally accompany the boys during their activities unless they wanted to, I was expected to supervise Ritchie. I didn’t mind, as I wasn’t too keen on hanging out in the teachers’ lounge anyway. I knew that Ritchie would be up for everything, but anything involving teamwork could be an issue.
That evening was a bit manic because the shower still hadn’t been fixed. Steve felt it was best that we weren’t alone in our rooms while the boys used our bathrooms, so we both sat in my cabin as they either used his shower or mine. Despite Steve suggesting this, he left me to supervise alone while he left to pick up the Wi-Fi password.
By some bizarre twist of fate, Ritchie happened to be one of the boys who needed to have a shower in my room. Initially, when I heard the knock on the door, I assumed Steve had returned to tell me something, but it was Ritchie. It was almost as if our meetings were prearranged by someone or something outside our control. I couldn’t help my intake of breath when I saw him.
He fumbled nervously with his bundle, which consisted of a towel, shower gel, aftershave, a razor and a toothbrush. He dropped everything, due to having too many things in his hands. He quickly bent down to retrieve the items, which now lay by my feet. As he slowly began to stand up again, he ran his eyes over my legs, groin and waist, and they lingered on my breasts. We stood but inches apart, yet I didn’t take a step back. He blushed.
Something passed between us.
An understanding.
This was definitely more than a student-teacher relationship. There was something in the air between us. I had felt it a few times, and I knew for sure that he felt whatever this was too.
I cleared my throat, breaking the spell. He dropped his eyes in what appeared to be embarrassment. I decided to release him from my gaze.
“I guess you’ve come to use the shower?” I tried to say it cheerfully to lighten the mood.
“If you don’t mind?”
As if I would mind.
Doing a mock bow, I replied, “Welcome to my bathroom.”
He smiled at me and stepped in. I stood outside the door, unable to move at first. I wanted to open the door. I wanted to watch him undress.
I then heard a noise and I quickly took a step back. Remembering that I’d promised to post some photographs on the school website, I sat at the desk with my phone, flicking through the better-quality ones. I stopped when I came across a photo of Ritchie completely unaware that he’d been captured. I didn’t want to share that one; it was for my eyes only.
After a while, I wondered why Steve still hadn’t returned and what could possibly be taking him so long. Not that I wanted him back sooner, because I enjoyed the thought of Ritchie naked in my bathroom. Thinking again about the way he looked at me brought heat to my face. I found the wrongness of it strangely arousing.
The bathroom door opened and out stepped a fully clothed Ritchie, much to my disappointment. I stood up to let him out, even though I didn’t need to. I noticed a few blood spots on his chin. He stood very still as I touched his soft skin, tenderly wiping the blood away with my thumb.
“You’re bleeding,” I said.
Glancing down, he said shyly, “I cut myself shaving.”
For the second time, I got the impression he’d never felt this kind of contact before. Had anyone ever shown him compassion, tenderness or affection?
He looked up, meeting my eyes. His expression changed and he reached towards me. I stopped breathing.
“There’s something in your hair,” he said as he reached to retrieve what looked like a leaf. Yet again, neither of us backed up or made a move, despite the proximity of our bodies. We found ourselves frozen in this strange moment.
On more than one occasion, I had felt that there was hidden meaning behind many things that were said or done, but I was unsure of whether it was just a feeling of paranoia. Maybe it wasn’t.
The sound of Steve’s voice emerged. He’d returned. We both immediately took that long overdue step back, like we’d been caught doing something wrong. As Ritchie walked towards the door, he said, “Goodnight, Francesca.”
I didn’t want him to leave, and I gave him what must have looked like a longing look. Sighing heavily, I replied, “Sweet dreams, Ritchie.”
The showers were soon repaired, so there were no more shower-related encounters. I did accompany him while he and his group completed activities and challenges, deciding not to participate myself most of the time. Although I did have a go at less daring sports such as archery and laser tag. Ritchie, on the other hand, threw himself into every challenge, doing as well, if not better, than his classmates. His success did fuel some jealous looks, but he didn’t seem to notice.
***
Wednesday night was camp night. I wasn’t planning to actually camp out with them. I was just there to supervise the pitching of the tents but decided to stay a bit longer. We sat around the campfire and Ritchie handed me a toasted marshmallow on a small thin branch. The camp leader played a few songs on his guitar and we sang few songs. The boys told scary stories while Ritchie and I exchanged looks of scorn, rolling our eyes in jest.
I had just removed the last marshmallow off my twig when Ritchie dropped his. After convincing Ritchie that I didn’t want mine, he comically detached the sticky mess off my fingers. Enjoying the fumbling physical contact, I just sat there, watching unhelpfully.
As he proceeded to eat it, I licked my fingers, realising that he was watching me yet again, and I continued to do so somewhat provocatively. His eyes bore into mine uncompromisingly and seemed to emit the message that he knew.
The time finally came for the boys to settle into their tents. They sorted themselves into groups of three, apart from Ritchie who had to be put into a three. A look of apprehension cast its shadow upon his face, and I got the feeling that he’d find it difficult that night, although Steve reassured me that he would supervise him.
Mid-sleep, I was rudely awakened by the sound of my phone ringing. It was Steve. As soon as I heard his voice, I knew it was something to do with Ritchie. He explained that Ritchie had left his tent and seemed upset. As I wondered where he could possibly be, I heard a familiar knock on my door and I groggily got out of bed, threw on my dressing gown and opened it. It was him. My immediate concern was how I looked, which I knew was absurd, but I didn’t turn on the overhead light. The dull glow of the lamp was enough. He walked in and slumped down on the bed, and I sat beside him.
Finally, he said, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s okay. What happened?”
“They were asking me things.”
“Asking you what?”
“Um, weird questions about...”
He looked down at his hands, obviously uncomfortable. Eventually, he managed to muster the courage to say, “About sex.” And then it all clicked into place. He hadn’t experienced this kind of situation before.
“Oh, I think I understand what you’re saying. Do you want me to have a word with them?”
“No, this is really embarrassing. I’ve never had a girlfriend – I wasn’t sure –”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain. You know what, though? It is normal for boys your age to talk about stuff like that.”
“I know, but...”
“Most of them are in the same boat as you.” I studied his features while I waited for this to sink in a bit. It was incredibly endearing how his creased brow faded, and the tenseness was replaced with uncertainty. He looked up, making eye contact.
“Really?” His expression was expectant, as if I knew all the answers. I think he wanted more information, to ask more questions. Naturally, he was curious, but it was the wrong place, the wrong time, and I was certainly the wrong person. It was sad that he had no one else he could talk to.
“Yes. I better call Mr. Clapham. I’ll just say that you were finding things difficult and needed time out.”
After calling Steve, Ritchie’s eyes followed me as I removed my dressing gown and put on some shoes and a cardigan. He never took his eyes off me, and I thought it unnerving how openly he stared. I felt prickles down my spine, and I realised that I found the discomfort somewhat enjoyable.
Against my better judgement, I sat back down beside him. He turned towards me and said, “Thanks for understanding.” Before I had a chance to respond, he affectionately patted my leg completely unexpectedly. Muted, I sat transfixed by his hand on my thigh.
I willed myself not to give anything away, to keep my expression neutral, and hoped that would calm my beating heart. I tried to get my mouth to say the words I was trying to form, but nothing came out.
I abruptly stood up, unable to retain control. I stood stiffly until I was able to say, “I’ll walk you back now.”
Halfway there, I realised that I was freezing. I’d stupidly thought that my cardigan would keep me warm enough. Consumed by the presence of Ritchie, I’d forgotten how cold it was out here at night. Of course, Ritchie noticed, and he took his jacket off and placed it over my shoulders. I considered giving it back, but I was genuinely very cold. So I shrugged my arms into the jacket and zipped it up. I felt oddly swathed in the feel and scent of him. It was quite intoxicating.
When we arrived, Ritchie asked, “Do you know the way back?” He’d noticed my confusion and lack of coordination on the walk there.
Not wanting to seem pathetic, I replied, “Yes. See you in the morning.”
He looked unconvinced. As I started to take off the jacket he said, “No, keep it for tonight.”
I wandered back to my cabin, unsure of whether I was going in the right direction. Slowly, but surely, I made it back.
I gave myself a mental reminder to return to camp early and give Ritchie back his jacket. I ended up bringing it into bed with me that night, giving into my urge to smell it. Inhaling the fragrance of cologne, fresh leaves and a slightly earthier odour, I fell into a deep sleep.
***
It wasn’t until our last night that things got a bit heated. It was disco night, but Ritchie was reluctant to attend. It wasn’t compulsory for staff to attend, as camp staff would be there.
“I’ll go if you go, Ritchie,” I said in an attempt to convince him. “But I warn you, I might cramp your style,” I added, in reference to the fact that there would be a number of attractive young ladies looking his way. Of that I was sure.
“Would you really do that? Teachers hardly ever go.”
“Of course I would do that. I even brought some clothes for the disco, but I didn’t realise teachers didn’t normally go.”
“Well, some do, but they just sit at the side or pop in at the beginning. I’ll go because you’re going. And you won’t cramp my style. I have no style.”
“Come on, you have style. The strong silent type of style,” I joked. He chuckled in response.
Later on that evening, I tried to put together a decent outfit from what I’d brought. I wore a sheer grey sparkly top with black jeans and red shoes. I shook my hair loose from the bun it was in and it hung in waves down my back.
I made my way to the disco wondering how I would find Ritchie in the dark. However, soon after I stepped in, I spotted him lurking against the wall by the drinks stand. It was the hair I noticed first. The disco lights glinted colourfully off his blond locks.
He didn’t see me approach and I was almost glad it was too dark to see all that well. I had begun to feel that the outfit I had put together was mediocre at best. I gently rubbed his arm to alert him to my presence. He almost jumped when he felt me touching him.
Standing close to him, I said teasingly, “Aren’t you going to dance? Isn’t that why you came?”
He shook his head profusely, refusing to dance. Then he moved even closer, so much so that his hair brushed my cheek. He smelt fresh, like he’d just had a shower. My heartbeat increased unexpectedly.
“But I can’t dance, Francesca. I’ll look like a complete dork.”
We spent most of the night standing in a corner, drinking Pepsi and, with amused fascination, watching a crowd of boys surrounding a group of girls. I began to worry that they would make fun of Ritchie if they saw me standing beside him. Luckily, they were so preoccupied, and it was so dark, that I didn’t spot anyone looking. Still, no matter how much I wanted to grab Ritchie and dance, I didn’t. We managed to find an even darker spot and kind of just nodded our heads to the music.
We were about to leave when a slow dance song started, which was what I assumed was the last song anyway. Just as we left the disco hall, he quickly looked around and took my hand, leading me to a deserted corridor upstairs.
“May I have this dance?”
I laughed and nodded. That explained all the secrecy. He gingerly put his hands on my waist and started to slow dance. He was right about not being able to dance. I didn’t want to even think about how I was dancing, because all I could feel were his warm hands on my waist.
I rested my hands on his shoulders and we swayed side to side to the music. When I finally gathered enough courage to look up, his eyes were already on mine. A surge of heat pushed its way through my body. He held me even closer, his hands lowering, feeling more of my hourglass figure.
The air was so charged that you could practically smell it. As realisation dawned on him, he immediately took his hands off, his face red.
“I think we better leave,” I whispered.
We left before the end of the song and made our way back to the cabins. The stars and constellations were a worthy distraction. As soon as I spotted the Summer Triangle, I stopped in my tracks, craning my neck and trying to get a better view. As we were in the countryside, the sky was black and the Milky Way stood out against the clear sky.
Ritchie followed my gaze to see what I was so intent on seeing. “Wow, there are so many stars,” he said, awe-inspired.
Pointing up towards the constellation of Cygnus, I said, “You see that group of stars there? Look closely and you’ll see the Milky Way.”
He looked up for a long time, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. “Oh my god, I think I can see it. Is it that blurry looking cloudy bit?”
“Yes, that’s it. Beautiful, isn’t it, Ritchie?”
We stood there caught in the moment. Glad to share the moment with him, I let it go on until I heard the music from the disco end. We hurried down the path before it was filled with over-excited teenagers.
It was quiet when we arrived back at the cabins. I rubbed his arm affectionately and said goodnight. That was about as much as I could do.
It was all over too quickly, and by Friday afternoon we were back in Kensington. A cab came to pick him up, his mother apparently abroad and unable to greet him. We said a quick goodbye, and when he was driven away, I felt hollow inside. An emptiness that I wasn’t accustomed to
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Chapter One
You read about teachers developing inappropriate relationships with pupils and you wonder how it all happened. At what point did they finally decide to cross that line? Whose fault was it? Ultimately the responsibility lies with the adult they say, but when is the student considered an adult? You imagine yourself in that position and you tell yourself that you would never do that, but I found myself in an impossible situation.
It all started when I saw a job vacancy advertised at St. Paul’s Catholic Secondary School for Boys in Kensington. They were looking for a Learning Support Assistant with a particular interest in dyslexia. I did have an interest in dyslexia and had been on the lookout for a chance to develop a specialism. They offered training and a generous benefits package. I’d also had enough of working in primary schools and fancied a change of scene. I wanted something that would challenge me intellectually. This seemed like the perfect opportunity, so I decided to apply.
After spending hours filling in the forms and writing up a statement, which sounded like complete waffle to me, I submitted the application. I didn’t have too much hope as it was a private school and I wasn’t Catholic. Even though I had been baptised as a child, I had decided years ago that I was actually agnostic. However, I described myself as a non-practising Catholic and emphasised the importance of Catholic values. A few days later, I ended up being shortlisted for interview.
The interview consisted of three parts: a short literacy and numeracy test, a tour of the school and a formal interview. The tests were fairly straightforward and I made sure that I was friendly and communicative towards the students giving the tour. The interview that followed consisted of a panel of three senior members of staff, which was a bit daunting at first, but went really well. They seemed impressed with my experience, qualifications and the answers I gave, so I felt that I just might have a chance.
Later that afternoon, I waited anxiously for the outcome. My enthusiasm waned with each hour that passed. I’d almost given up on hearing back that evening, when my phone rang. Jumping out of my skin, I dived towards my mobile. To my utter relief, I’d been successful. I eagerly accepted the position which would commence in September.
Once I had received all the relevant documents in the post, I returned them in person to try and speed up the process. After signing the contract, I officially handed in my resignation.
I don’t know how I managed to do it, but I survived the rest of a particularly difficult summer term. Perhaps the knowledge that I was leaving helped motivate me. By the end of it, I felt so drained, and I needed a holiday. There were no tears on my last day because the thought of a long summer holiday ahead was enough to comfort me. Part of me was glad to be leaving – no more HR screw-ups. But the other part would miss the staff. I was also a little bit nervous about starting a new job. I’d have to form new relationships and get used to the layout of the school all over again. Undoubtedly, I would discover cracks in a seemingly perfect school, as one always does.
Once the summer holidays started, I planned lots of things to keep myself and my partner, John, busy. We couldn’t afford a big expensive holiday, so we went on day trips to Calais and Brighton, as well as doing things in London. I spent a lot of time catching up with family and friends and even got involved in some sporting activities.
As the weeks went by, I began to dread the thought of returning to normal working life. My excitement about starting a new job was replaced with apprehension, and I found myself worrying about silly little things. I decided to research as much as I could about dyslexia to prepare for the role and this seemed to help a bit. The holidays seem to pass in the blink of an eye, and before I knew it, I was starting at St. Paul’s.
My first day at St. Paul’s began in the staffroom. Despite my fears about snobby staff, they seemed friendly enough. They all do at first. We had to attend morning mass at St. Paul’s Church. Listening to sermons and singing dreary hymns was not my cup of tea. I didn’t do listening for long periods of time or singing in public very well either.
The teachers and learning support assistants then separated to attend training. It was actually quite useful, but everyone looked half asleep. I can only describe it as that ‘deer in the headlights’ look. Once the summer holidays end and you return to work, it’s like an electrical shock to your system and you suddenly have to switch your brain on and come to terms with having a job again.
After lunch, I finally met with my line manager, Sue. I recognised her from the interview. She was the special needs coordinator. I was feeling positive until she said, “Due to your experience, we’ve decided to have you support Richard Cunningham. He’s in Year Eleven and has a statement for severe dyslexia. He’s entitled to twenty hours of one-to-one support per week. He also has behavioural and emotional difficulties.”
I was not happy. Not another bloody difficult student. But, wanting to make a good impression, I just nodded and said, “No problem.”
“He’s two years behind due to repeating Year Seven and now he’s retaking his GCSEs. He’ll be finishing his GCSEs at age eighteen, which means he’s below age-related expectations. Obviously, he has some issues with his self-esteem and acts out from time to time.”
Interestingly, though, last year he managed to pass maths, DT and music. Surely he couldn’t be that bad then? This year, he was retaking English, science, history and geography and had chosen art as an additional subject. I was pleased to see that he was going to be doing art, as I was particularly good at art and hoped that would enable me to form some kind of bond. Considering that he’d studied music previously, I imagined he would have a creative side.
And so the following day, after a restless sleep, I started officially. I was introduced to the two other students that I would be expected to support: Joseph – a charming Year Seven boy with Asperger’s, and Stuart – a quiet boy with global delay. I then met the infamous Richard. I’d already heard staff speaking about him in the staffroom. Apparently, he was moody, miserable and volatile, often didn’t respond to adults and liked running off. Great, I thought. But I had to judge for myself. It’s all too easy to pigeonhole and label. I’d had some success with difficult students before and hoped that I’d be able to manage the situation.
I was led to one of the Year Eleven classrooms during registration. The form tutor kindly brought me over to Richard. He was holding a pen over an open notebook and he was staring at it, as if lost in his thoughts. I stood next to his table, and then he finally turned towards us with a slightly puzzled expression on his face when his tutor spoke to him, or rather, rambled on nervously. His gaze turned to me while I patiently waited to be introduced. The whole time, he made it obvious to me that he was staring. I wasn’t really sure at what, though. To break the awkwardness of the moment, I interrupted by quickly introducing myself.
“Hello. My name is Miss Gabel and I’ll be supporting you in class. Nice to meet you.” I reached out to shake his hand and he shakily took mine. He studied my face as if trying to gauge what kind of person I was.
“Nice to meet you too,” he replied in a quiet voice. He spoke slowly, as if he was unsure of himself. He also seemed incredibly shy. I just hoped he wasn’t as bad as they said he was. I guess I got some comfort from the fact that I usually build good relationships with students who had speech and language difficulties – to the point where they don’t shut up.
The bell went and I managed to navigate through the hallway to the English class where I’d be supporting Richard. I ended up being a few minutes late, and unfortunately almost everyone was already seated. There was an empty seat beside Richard. As I walked towards him, it suddenly dawned on me that he was actually quite handsome and looked older than a seventeen-year-old. I got a little bit annoyed with myself for noticing that he was handsome, as it was kind of unprofessional.
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
“No, I don’t mind,” he replied softly. I hesitantly sat next to him, wondering if it was a good idea or not.
He seemed uncomfortable at first – twitchy and fidgety. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was self-conscious about sitting next to an LSA. I averted my vision and kind of kept a watch on him from the corner of my eye. Eventually, he seemed to settle down.
The teacher began the lesson by discussing colloquialisms and the differences between formal and informal speech. They had to discuss with their partners what they thought. I assumed that I was Richard’s partner.
“So, what do you think?” He just sat there and, after a while, I thought he wasn’t going to respond. To my relief, he started to answer the question.
“I think that, ummm... formal speech is more for school or work, and informal speech is how you speak to your friends.”
“You’ve pretty much summed it up there. What exactly is a colloquialism?”
“I think it’s a word that you use when you speak informally. Am I right?”
“Yes, you are.”
Well, he seemed intelligent enough. The students were presented with a written paragraph, which they had to rewrite. He just stared at it like it was written in Latin. I’d been told that he found reading difficult and would often become unresponsive if he felt he couldn’t do something. I’d also been told he was extremely self-conscious about reading aloud in front of others; apparently, he read slowly and often confused words. I imagined that would be worse today, especially because we had just met. I’d read that dyslexic people often understood verbal information better than written information, so I gently asked if he’d like me to start reading it. He gave me a pained expression, blushed, and nodded.
It was at that very moment that I looked into his eyes that I noticed how unusual they were. Like kaleidoscopic gems. Mostly green, with amber and almost yellow highlights around the pupil area. Slightly embarrassed, my face grew hot and I swallowed, hoping that he hadn’t noticed. I tried to avoid eye contact and focus on the task at hand. He was able to complete his work with my support.
At the end of the lesson, I was about to leave when I felt a light tap on my shoulder. When I turned around, Richard was standing behind me. “Thank you for your help.” He said earnestly.
“You’re more than welcome,” I said, and I thought, Well, that was a pleasant surprise. Maybe it won’t be that bad after all.
When I arrived home that evening, I thought about that lesson a lot. I didn’t know what had got into me when I had looked into his eyes, but that night I kept seeing his face in my mind.
***
That first week went by without incident. In class, he was usually very polite and respectful. Some days, he could be quite sullen. But, I didn’t want to push him, so I never asked what was wrong. I supposed that he might tell me in his own time. I would wonder when the horror stories I had heard would come true and hoped they wouldn’t. No matter how morose he appeared to be, he always responded to my questions in class. One thing I couldn’t stand was an unresponsive student. It made life extremely difficult.
He didn’t speak much at this point, but he did seem to listen to me ramble on – a ‘method’ I used with students who had problems communicating. I found that a lot of students would open up to me once they had got to know me a bit. I usually tried to find some kind of common ground. After looking at Richard’s timetable, I noticed that he had tennis club once a week. I was a little uncertain as to whether it was too soon to take an interest in his extra-curricular activities but decided to go and watch him play.
During the second week, on a Tuesday, I was on my way out and then I remembered that Richard had tennis club. I thought I’d pass by the court briefly to see Richard play. I wasn’t sure how he would react, but I was curious. I sat at the far end, so he wouldn’t really notice me, as I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable. I watched and came to the conclusion that he was a pretty good player. All that frustration he may have was being worked off and it would help him to stay fit, both physically and psychologically.
I got caught up in the games and ended up moving closer to watch. That was when he noticed me. He did a kind of double take, peering questioningly as if he was wondering why I was there. I just hoped he wouldn’t mind me watching. He must have realised that I was there to see him, and to my surprise he tentatively gave me a small wave. I smiled and waved back. When the matches were over, he came over to me, but didn’t say anything. I spoke first.
“You were very good, Richard.”
He shrugged his shoulders modestly and replied, “Guess I’m okay. Got to work on my backhand though.”
“Maybe, but it was good to see you playing. I actually really enjoyed it. Would you mind if I came to see you play again some time?”
“No, that would be nice.” Even though I wanted to stay and chat some more, I could see how much he was sweating.
“Well, I guess you better hit the showers. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks for coming, miss.”
***
The following week, there was a trip to the British Museum. They were going to look at Greek mythology in art for a project. I was asked to go because Richard would be going. You could visibly see the relief on the teachers’ faces because they wouldn’t be alone with him, though I had yet to see what was so awful about him. The art teacher wanted Richard at the front, so I suggested that I lead the way to the station.
“Richard? Come here for a second.” He walked up to me.
“Yes, miss?”
“I’m going to be leading the way, but I’m probably going to go in the wrong direction. Can you help me? Be my partner?” I hoped my strategy would work.
“Yes, of course, I’ll help.”
It was clear that he felt awkward in social situations. Throughout the whole trip, he stood near me on the train and in the museum. It was painfully obvious that he had no friends, so I discussed ideas with him whilst we looked at the pieces. I decided to try and sketch one of the monoliths myself.
“So, what do you think?” I said, while showing him my sketch.
“Wow, that’s really good. Where did you learn how to do that?”
“Nowhere in particular. It’s something I’ve always been good at. You’re pretty good yourself.” He gave me a look of disbelief and slight confusion.
“Me? Really?”
“Why? Is that so hard to believe?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe you could give me some tips,” he replied, still not convinced.
We continued to sketch some of the pieces and record ideas for the project until lunchtime. We sat in a dining area especially designated for school visits. I deliberately sat next to Richard, as this was a good time to get to know him a bit more. I smiled at him when I sat down, and he gave me the barest hint of a smile.
“I can’t believe I’ve forgotten my water bottle,” I complained when I looked through my bag.
“You can have mine if you want.”
“No, thanks. You need it.”
He took a few sips and put the bottle in front of me.
“You have the rest.
“Okay, thank you.”
***
After that, we became a lot more comfortable around each other. I began to really care about Richard’s education, because it was his last year in high school and he needed the grades to progress further. I had no idea how he’d cope in the future as he had real needs. It was frustrating because it was obvious that he was trying hard. I began to suspect that the staff hadn’t given him much of a chance and that he was misunderstood. It seemed as if they’d written him off. His grades wouldn’t affect the school’s results, because he had a statement of special educational needs.
Although I’d had a fairly good start at St. Paul’s, I did find the staff to be quite cliquey. That was normal in schools, though, and probably in other employment sectors. I mostly kept myself to myself and juggled with the idea of eating with the students in the dining hall. Lunch was free when you sat with the students, which would mean I wouldn’t have to prepare lunch for work in the evenings. The only problem was that staff usually gained weight eating school dinners. They were often stodgy and the portions were too large. Sometimes there would be huge amounts of cheese or pastry and I would end up wondering how schools were promoting their healthy eating policies. I hoped that the menu would be better here.
Chapter Two
It was October when the first incident occurred. I was on early lunch break in the staffroom, as I had to cover lunch duty for an absent member of staff, when Sue approached me with a panicked look on her face.
“I’m afraid we need you right now.”
“What happened?”
“Richard attacked Michael at the end of English and ran off. Can you help find him and coax him back inside? His mum has been called in for an emergency meeting.”
A short while later, I found him sitting on the bench outside the drama block. I didn’t say a word. I just sat next to him. He had tears in his eyes, and in that instant, I really felt for him. Eventually, I had to break the silence.
“Whatever happened, I’m here to support you. You don’t have to go back inside yet. You can take your time.” Oh, how much I wanted to reach out and wipe those tears off his face. I had this overwhelming feeling of wanting to comfort him. I waited patiently until he responded.
“Sorry,” he finally said, as he stared into the distance.
“Sorry for what?” He hadn’t done anything to me.
“Sorry for disturbing you during your lunch break.”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s boring in the staffroom anyway. I’m more concerned about you.”
He put his head down and mumbled, “Do you really care?”
“Well, of course, I do,” I responded a bit too sharply.
“Why? Nobody else does.”
“I’m sure they do. You’re a good person.” I really wanted him to believe what I was saying.
“Do you really believe that?”
“Look at me, Richard. Yes, I do believe in you. Working with you has been a pleasure.” I did reach out to him at this point. I gently touched his arm. He looked down at my hand like he desperately needed human contact. “Tell me what happened.”
“Michael said something and I lost my temper. I had to get out of there or I would have killed him.”
“What did he say?” I probed gently.
“He said... You know what? He’s right. I am stupid and dumb. I’m two years behind and I always need support. I can’t do anything by myself.”
“You’re not stupid. You’re actually an intelligent guy with dyslexia. Even I had to retake some of my exams back in the day. Okay, yes, you do things at a slower pace. But who’s to say that’s abnormal? Everyone learns differently, and maybe you haven’t received the support you needed. I’m available if you need any extra help with anything.”
“I already have a tutor, and I know my mum’s fed up ’cos I haven’t shown much improvement.”
“Is your tutor any good?”
He just shrugged his shoulders.
“I tell you what. I’m not really supposed to do this, but I can give you my email address. Contact me any time if you need to.” I knew it was wrong, but I felt like I really needed to reach out to him.
“Okay, I will. Thank you, miss.”
“And if there’s anything I can do differently – like not sit next to you in class, if it makes you feel uncomfortable – just let me know.”
“No, you don’t have to do that. I focus better when you’re around.”
We spoke for around twenty minutes and then he agreed to go to the Learning Support Unit to wait for his mum. I went to do lunch duty, and then I was asked to attend the meeting. Apparently, Richard had refused to go unless I was there.
His mother was definitely a high maintenance woman. You could tell from her appearance that she was well off. Stylish hair, manicured nails, expensive clothes and what looked like a diamond watch. She barely acknowledged me at first. Her expression said it all. Annoyed that she’d had to come to this meeting. From what Richard told me, she was hardly ever around. They even had a housekeeper.
The meeting was painfully awkward. His mum accused the school of singling Richard out and only now finally getting him the support he needed. She finally acknowledged me, when asked if she was happy with the support. She was more than satisfied with the support I had given so far. Richard must have said something to her. In a way, I found it surprising. I guess I had preconceptions about middle-class people.
The meeting went on for ages and it was almost home-time when it was over. They had decided not to exclude Richard because Michael had played his part. What followed was totally unexpected, though. She approached me at the end of the meeting.
“You seem to have a good connection with Richard. I’m looking for a new tutor to help him in the evenings or weekends. Do you have any tutoring experience?”
“Some. It’s been a while, but I am familiar with what he’s studying. I’d be more than happy to tutor him. Not sure if I’m allowed to, though.”
“Don’t worry about that. The school doesn’t need to know.”
And that was how I got myself into deeper trouble. She offered a generous rate that was too good to refuse. I wanted to save up, as I had been considering moving overseas in a couple of years. I was a bit nervous about spending time alone with him. Whether or not I wanted to admit it, I knew I was attracted to him. At this point, I had no intentions of crossing the line, though. To be honest, what the hell would he see in me anyway? He was young, handsome and well-off and he could probably get any woman. I was approaching thirty, had acne and a really boring taste in clothes. The worst part was that I had a boyfriend, and he would be mortified if he could read my thoughts.
It was weird. I wanted to help him in a sort of motherly way, but sometimes I wanted to touch him in that way. At times, I longed to run my fingers through his curly blond hair, to caress him, to hold him, or to just be in the same vicinity as him. I’d have to try really hard not to notice his lovely eyes, his strong build or his full lips from now on. In two weeks, I was to start tutoring him after school at his house. So I had two weeks to get my act together.
***
It was Monday. School had just finished. I saw him waiting for me outside the school gates. And he was smiling. He hardly ever smiled, but when he did, my heart literally skipped a beat. It was then that I came to this conclusion: not only was he handsome, but he was beautiful. I guess some would say he was kind of androgynous. His facial features were almost feminine, but masculine at the same time. Sort of ethereal.
He stood there wearing his navy blazer and tan trousers, carrying his messenger-style bag.
“Hi, Francesca.”
“Hi, Ritchie.”
“My house is just a short walk away.”
He called me by my first name now, and I’d given him a nickname. For some reason, delightful shivers ran down my spine when he said my name. We walked and talked. I mostly blabbed on about my family, skipping from one subject to another. I also mentioned that I had a boyfriend.
Then, I just blurted out, “So do you have a girlfriend, Ritchie?”
There was a long pause.
“No, I’ve never really had a girlfriend before,” he replied.
I was about to respond by saying that he could easily get any woman, but just then, we arrived at the house. It was huge.
“So, this is where you live? You’ve got a lovely house.”
“Thank you. It’s nice of you to say.” He then cheekily added, “Even though, technically, it’s not mine.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” I accused him mockingly.
“Me? No. Never.”
While we stood in the entrance corridor, he asked, “Would you like to work in the dining room or in my bedroom?” He looked at me expectantly. It felt like some sort of test.
“Do you have a desk in your room?”
“Yes, quite a big one, and all my stuff is upstairs.”
“Well, I guess we can work in your room then.”
“Okay. You can hang your coat up here if you want,” he said, pointing to three empty coat hooks. As I took my coat off, I saw Ritchie’s eyes flick downwards to my chest. At first, I assumed he was looking at my necklace, but then I realised he was looking at my breasts. I was wearing a fairly snug-fitting, red V-neck top and sometimes it rode downwards, though I often pulled it up to prevent that. It definitely wasn’t inappropriate, as some of my colleagues wore clothes that were way more revealing than mine. I usually went for comfort rather than what was fashionable. However, it was hard to hide the fact that I had what some might consider to be large breasts. Feeling a little self-conscious, I adjusted my top, and he realised that I had seen him looking. He cleared his throat and asked if I would like a drink.
We got some juice from the kitchen and walked up to his room. His bedroom was spacious with a minimalist approach – another way of saying it was cold and clinical. He threw his bag on the bed and we sat down at his desk, which was by a large window. The sun was setting just then and we both looked out at it. I was about to say how nice it looked but became distracted by how the orange-red light made his eyes look both stunning and unearthly.
I know he saw me staring, as he turned toward me and smiled shyly. I immediately felt butterflies in my stomach, but managed to shakily get out, “So, let’s have a look at the coursework that’s due and try to come up with a timetable.”
We looked at his diary, coursework requirements, homework due and revision needed. We decided to focus on homework for this first session, until he had done a bit more research for his coursework. Throughout our session, we ended up sitting closer and closer. I was very aware of his cologne and I could smell his hair. I manage to play it cool, trying my best to focus on his work.
Before long, it was six o’clock. I was tempted to stay longer, but I really needed some fresh air.
“Can you come on Wednesday, Francesca?”
“I thought I was only coming twice a week – Monday and Thursday?”
“Mum said you can come more often when I have assignments due, if that’s okay? She’ll pay you.”
“Okay, if she doesn’t mind. Oh yeah, before I go, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Have you said anything about me to your mum?”
“Yes. I told her that you’ve helped me a lot. I don’t hate school so much now.”
“Did you really say that?”
He nodded in response.
“Can I ask – do you hate school that much?”
“With a passion. No one likes me and I’ve got no friends. I’m the weird, quiet guy with special needs and emotional issues. Lunchtimes are the worst.”
“Well... I was thinking about sitting in the lunch hall from now on. Staff can get a free lunch if they sit with the students. You’re more than welcome to sit with me if you don’t think it’s too lame? I don’t really like sitting with the staff anyway.”
He looked at me like he couldn’t believe what I’d just said. Like no one else had given him the time of day.
“It would be nice to talk to someone at lunchtime.”
“Well, I would really like to talk to you at lunchtime.”
It was almost like we’d arranged to have a first date. I felt nervous like a giddy schoolgirl with a crush. The question was whether or not he liked me back? And that was when it occurred to me. I wanted him to be attracted to me too.
For weeks after the incident, I made sure he sat as far away from Michael as possible. Every now and then I would catch Michael giving Ritchie cutting looks. I wished he would just leave Ritchie alone. During parts of the lesson where discussion was involved, Ritchie seemed a lot more animated. He had more of a spring in his step, and he presented me with a tub full of luscious red strawberries and a custard tart at lunchtime. I must say, I felt quite flattered that he’d bought me something.
“I’m sure you’re trying to fatten me up. My partner does this too, but he does it so I can be as fat as him.”
He laughed a real genuine laugh – the first time I’d ever heard him laugh out loud. People looked at him like he had three heads when he laughed. Obviously they’d never seen him laugh before either. The next minute we were both laughing for no apparent reason, just for the joy of it.
“It’s great seeing you smiling and laughing. You have a lovely smile; you should do it more often,” I couldn't help but comment. Then I realised that I may have said too much, as his face turned a light shade of pink.
“Thanks,” he said, almost hesitantly. “You’ve got a nice smile too.”
“No, I look like a chipmunk when I smile. My big, fat cheesy smile.”
He laughed again. “You do not look like a chipmunk!”
“Look, I’m at peace with my chipmunk cheeks, so let’s leave it at that.”
We were finally being ourselves around each other. The rest of the week was good and Ritchie was really coming out of his shell. I was so pleased. His teachers had even commented on the change.
***
A few days later, I was approached about accompanying students on a residential trip. Apparently, Ritchie had signed up and paid a while back, Due to his unpredictable nature, they felt that they needed someone to supervise him, and it was unlikely that his mum would be willing to come. The member of staff who was going didn’t know Ritchie all that well and was a bit unsure of how to deal with him. So Philip, who was normally not particularly likeable, was unusually polite when he started a conversation with me randomly in the staff room. I immediately thought, What do you want? Get to the point? He eventually explained the situation and then, after a whole lot of waffle, finally asked if I’d like to go.
I answered honestly, saying that it depended on the facilities and that I had certain conditions. I insisted that I either get paid for the overtime or get a day off in lieu. I liked to be difficult sometimes. He hastily agreed to the latter, obviously relieved.
Ritchie’s face lit up when I shared the news with him, telling me I was the best teacher ever. Although I wasn’t technically a teacher, I guess we were all educators anyway. I couldn’t help but feel a small rush of pride.
After my conversation with Ritchie, I officially confirmed that I’d go. I thought it slightly odd that they hadn’t asked a male member of staff to supervise him, but the other teacher going was male – the PE teacher, Steve Clapham.
They didn’t give me much time to prepare; we would be going on Monday, which was three days away. I was determined to have a relaxing weekend in preparation, but as is always the case, nothing goes to plan.
On Monday morning, Ritchie lugged his suitcase towards the coach, making sure to say hello to me. Then he offered to bring mine to the cargo hold. When we began to board, Ritchie asked, “Can I sit with you?”
I couldn’t quite hide my enthusiasm or my delight and answered, “Sure – unless I’m told to sit elsewhere. Hopefully, they won’t say anything.” They shouldn’t really have anything to say about it. After all, I was there to support Ritchie, even though I was getting way more enjoyment out of it than I was supposed to be.
“Thanks, miss,” he responded, with a bashful smile on his face. I felt like he could sense the butterflies in my stomach as we locked eyes. He definitely saw me swallow nervously in an attempt to control my feelings.
The journey was fairly short, just over two hours. At first, we just spoke quietly about this and that, finding that we liked a lot of the same movies. Being a bit of a science fiction geek, I got a bit carried away, forgetting about the boy behind us who was about to be sick, but managing to pass the sick bag just in time. As the journey continued, I caught myself stealing quick glances in his direction. Every time we made eye contact, the intensity increased. The few times we unintentionally made physical contact, it sent a jolt of pleasure through me.
I noticed quite a few looks coming our way, as some students overheard our conversation. They had either never seen Ritchie speak much, or they’d never seen a member of staff speaking so openly and humorously.
As soon as we arrived, we were shown to our cabins. I was quite pleased with mine, despite the lack of toilet paper. I even had access to tea-making facilities. We only had a minute to drop off our bags, then we hurried off to lunch, which wasn’t too bad, considering how hungry I was. It wasn’t particularly healthy, but there was a good choice of salads and fruit. Ritchie waited for me to sit before deciding where to sit. I found his mound of beef casserole, potatoes, rice and salad amusing.
I was in the middle of enjoying the lemon cheesecake when Ritchie suddenly disappeared, reappearing with another lemon cheesecake which he gave to me. After a while, I began to feel self-conscious, because he watched me eat it. I felt a bit paranoid, so I talked about everything and anything. The funny thing was that he sat and listened intently. A few minutes later, three other students were listening to me waffle on incessantly as if I was actually interesting.
Back at the cabins, we unpacked our bags. I stood outside the cabins to assist Steve with making sure the boys were doing as they were told. There were three cabins of six boys, and some of the boys had discovered that their shower wasn’t working. Steve decided that it would be okay if they used our showers, but only if theirs hadn’t been fixed by the evening.
The week before us would be packed with activities such as abseiling, rock climbing, camping, raft building and so on. I doubted that I’d be trying many of the activities, though. Although teachers didn’t normally accompany the boys during their activities unless they wanted to, I was expected to supervise Ritchie. I didn’t mind, as I wasn’t too keen on hanging out in the teachers’ lounge anyway. I knew that Ritchie would be up for everything, but anything involving teamwork could be an issue.
That evening was a bit manic because the shower still hadn’t been fixed. Steve felt it was best that we weren’t alone in our rooms while the boys used our bathrooms, so we both sat in my cabin as they either used his shower or mine. Despite Steve suggesting this, he left me to supervise alone while he left to pick up the Wi-Fi password.
By some bizarre twist of fate, Ritchie happened to be one of the boys who needed to have a shower in my room. Initially, when I heard the knock on the door, I assumed Steve had returned to tell me something, but it was Ritchie. It was almost as if our meetings were prearranged by someone or something outside our control. I couldn’t help my intake of breath when I saw him.
He fumbled nervously with his bundle, which consisted of a towel, shower gel, aftershave, a razor and a toothbrush. He dropped everything, due to having too many things in his hands. He quickly bent down to retrieve the items, which now lay by my feet. As he slowly began to stand up again, he ran his eyes over my legs, groin and waist, and they lingered on my breasts. We stood but inches apart, yet I didn’t take a step back. He blushed.
Something passed between us.
An understanding.
This was definitely more than a student-teacher relationship. There was something in the air between us. I had felt it a few times, and I knew for sure that he felt whatever this was too.
I cleared my throat, breaking the spell. He dropped his eyes in what appeared to be embarrassment. I decided to release him from my gaze.
“I guess you’ve come to use the shower?” I tried to say it cheerfully to lighten the mood.
“If you don’t mind?”
As if I would mind.
Doing a mock bow, I replied, “Welcome to my bathroom.”
He smiled at me and stepped in. I stood outside the door, unable to move at first. I wanted to open the door. I wanted to watch him undress.
I then heard a noise and I quickly took a step back. Remembering that I’d promised to post some photographs on the school website, I sat at the desk with my phone, flicking through the better-quality ones. I stopped when I came across a photo of Ritchie completely unaware that he’d been captured. I didn’t want to share that one; it was for my eyes only.
After a while, I wondered why Steve still hadn’t returned and what could possibly be taking him so long. Not that I wanted him back sooner, because I enjoyed the thought of Ritchie naked in my bathroom. Thinking again about the way he looked at me brought heat to my face. I found the wrongness of it strangely arousing.
The bathroom door opened and out stepped a fully clothed Ritchie, much to my disappointment. I stood up to let him out, even though I didn’t need to. I noticed a few blood spots on his chin. He stood very still as I touched his soft skin, tenderly wiping the blood away with my thumb.
“You’re bleeding,” I said.
Glancing down, he said shyly, “I cut myself shaving.”
For the second time, I got the impression he’d never felt this kind of contact before. Had anyone ever shown him compassion, tenderness or affection?
He looked up, meeting my eyes. His expression changed and he reached towards me. I stopped breathing.
“There’s something in your hair,” he said as he reached to retrieve what looked like a leaf. Yet again, neither of us backed up or made a move, despite the proximity of our bodies. We found ourselves frozen in this strange moment.
On more than one occasion, I had felt that there was hidden meaning behind many things that were said or done, but I was unsure of whether it was just a feeling of paranoia. Maybe it wasn’t.
The sound of Steve’s voice emerged. He’d returned. We both immediately took that long overdue step back, like we’d been caught doing something wrong. As Ritchie walked towards the door, he said, “Goodnight, Francesca.”
I didn’t want him to leave, and I gave him what must have looked like a longing look. Sighing heavily, I replied, “Sweet dreams, Ritchie.”
The showers were soon repaired, so there were no more shower-related encounters. I did accompany him while he and his group completed activities and challenges, deciding not to participate myself most of the time. Although I did have a go at less daring sports such as archery and laser tag. Ritchie, on the other hand, threw himself into every challenge, doing as well, if not better, than his classmates. His success did fuel some jealous looks, but he didn’t seem to notice.
***
Wednesday night was camp night. I wasn’t planning to actually camp out with them. I was just there to supervise the pitching of the tents but decided to stay a bit longer. We sat around the campfire and Ritchie handed me a toasted marshmallow on a small thin branch. The camp leader played a few songs on his guitar and we sang few songs. The boys told scary stories while Ritchie and I exchanged looks of scorn, rolling our eyes in jest.
I had just removed the last marshmallow off my twig when Ritchie dropped his. After convincing Ritchie that I didn’t want mine, he comically detached the sticky mess off my fingers. Enjoying the fumbling physical contact, I just sat there, watching unhelpfully.
As he proceeded to eat it, I licked my fingers, realising that he was watching me yet again, and I continued to do so somewhat provocatively. His eyes bore into mine uncompromisingly and seemed to emit the message that he knew.
The time finally came for the boys to settle into their tents. They sorted themselves into groups of three, apart from Ritchie who had to be put into a three. A look of apprehension cast its shadow upon his face, and I got the feeling that he’d find it difficult that night, although Steve reassured me that he would supervise him.
Mid-sleep, I was rudely awakened by the sound of my phone ringing. It was Steve. As soon as I heard his voice, I knew it was something to do with Ritchie. He explained that Ritchie had left his tent and seemed upset. As I wondered where he could possibly be, I heard a familiar knock on my door and I groggily got out of bed, threw on my dressing gown and opened it. It was him. My immediate concern was how I looked, which I knew was absurd, but I didn’t turn on the overhead light. The dull glow of the lamp was enough. He walked in and slumped down on the bed, and I sat beside him.
Finally, he said, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s okay. What happened?”
“They were asking me things.”
“Asking you what?”
“Um, weird questions about...”
He looked down at his hands, obviously uncomfortable. Eventually, he managed to muster the courage to say, “About sex.” And then it all clicked into place. He hadn’t experienced this kind of situation before.
“Oh, I think I understand what you’re saying. Do you want me to have a word with them?”
“No, this is really embarrassing. I’ve never had a girlfriend – I wasn’t sure –”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain. You know what, though? It is normal for boys your age to talk about stuff like that.”
“I know, but...”
“Most of them are in the same boat as you.” I studied his features while I waited for this to sink in a bit. It was incredibly endearing how his creased brow faded, and the tenseness was replaced with uncertainty. He looked up, making eye contact.
“Really?” His expression was expectant, as if I knew all the answers. I think he wanted more information, to ask more questions. Naturally, he was curious, but it was the wrong place, the wrong time, and I was certainly the wrong person. It was sad that he had no one else he could talk to.
“Yes. I better call Mr. Clapham. I’ll just say that you were finding things difficult and needed time out.”
After calling Steve, Ritchie’s eyes followed me as I removed my dressing gown and put on some shoes and a cardigan. He never took his eyes off me, and I thought it unnerving how openly he stared. I felt prickles down my spine, and I realised that I found the discomfort somewhat enjoyable.
Against my better judgement, I sat back down beside him. He turned towards me and said, “Thanks for understanding.” Before I had a chance to respond, he affectionately patted my leg completely unexpectedly. Muted, I sat transfixed by his hand on my thigh.
I willed myself not to give anything away, to keep my expression neutral, and hoped that would calm my beating heart. I tried to get my mouth to say the words I was trying to form, but nothing came out.
I abruptly stood up, unable to retain control. I stood stiffly until I was able to say, “I’ll walk you back now.”
Halfway there, I realised that I was freezing. I’d stupidly thought that my cardigan would keep me warm enough. Consumed by the presence of Ritchie, I’d forgotten how cold it was out here at night. Of course, Ritchie noticed, and he took his jacket off and placed it over my shoulders. I considered giving it back, but I was genuinely very cold. So I shrugged my arms into the jacket and zipped it up. I felt oddly swathed in the feel and scent of him. It was quite intoxicating.
When we arrived, Ritchie asked, “Do you know the way back?” He’d noticed my confusion and lack of coordination on the walk there.
Not wanting to seem pathetic, I replied, “Yes. See you in the morning.”
He looked unconvinced. As I started to take off the jacket he said, “No, keep it for tonight.”
I wandered back to my cabin, unsure of whether I was going in the right direction. Slowly, but surely, I made it back.
I gave myself a mental reminder to return to camp early and give Ritchie back his jacket. I ended up bringing it into bed with me that night, giving into my urge to smell it. Inhaling the fragrance of cologne, fresh leaves and a slightly earthier odour, I fell into a deep sleep.
***
It wasn’t until our last night that things got a bit heated. It was disco night, but Ritchie was reluctant to attend. It wasn’t compulsory for staff to attend, as camp staff would be there.
“I’ll go if you go, Ritchie,” I said in an attempt to convince him. “But I warn you, I might cramp your style,” I added, in reference to the fact that there would be a number of attractive young ladies looking his way. Of that I was sure.
“Would you really do that? Teachers hardly ever go.”
“Of course I would do that. I even brought some clothes for the disco, but I didn’t realise teachers didn’t normally go.”
“Well, some do, but they just sit at the side or pop in at the beginning. I’ll go because you’re going. And you won’t cramp my style. I have no style.”
“Come on, you have style. The strong silent type of style,” I joked. He chuckled in response.
Later on that evening, I tried to put together a decent outfit from what I’d brought. I wore a sheer grey sparkly top with black jeans and red shoes. I shook my hair loose from the bun it was in and it hung in waves down my back.
I made my way to the disco wondering how I would find Ritchie in the dark. However, soon after I stepped in, I spotted him lurking against the wall by the drinks stand. It was the hair I noticed first. The disco lights glinted colourfully off his blond locks.
He didn’t see me approach and I was almost glad it was too dark to see all that well. I had begun to feel that the outfit I had put together was mediocre at best. I gently rubbed his arm to alert him to my presence. He almost jumped when he felt me touching him.
Standing close to him, I said teasingly, “Aren’t you going to dance? Isn’t that why you came?”
He shook his head profusely, refusing to dance. Then he moved even closer, so much so that his hair brushed my cheek. He smelt fresh, like he’d just had a shower. My heartbeat increased unexpectedly.
“But I can’t dance, Francesca. I’ll look like a complete dork.”
We spent most of the night standing in a corner, drinking Pepsi and, with amused fascination, watching a crowd of boys surrounding a group of girls. I began to worry that they would make fun of Ritchie if they saw me standing beside him. Luckily, they were so preoccupied, and it was so dark, that I didn’t spot anyone looking. Still, no matter how much I wanted to grab Ritchie and dance, I didn’t. We managed to find an even darker spot and kind of just nodded our heads to the music.
We were about to leave when a slow dance song started, which was what I assumed was the last song anyway. Just as we left the disco hall, he quickly looked around and took my hand, leading me to a deserted corridor upstairs.
“May I have this dance?”
I laughed and nodded. That explained all the secrecy. He gingerly put his hands on my waist and started to slow dance. He was right about not being able to dance. I didn’t want to even think about how I was dancing, because all I could feel were his warm hands on my waist.
I rested my hands on his shoulders and we swayed side to side to the music. When I finally gathered enough courage to look up, his eyes were already on mine. A surge of heat pushed its way through my body. He held me even closer, his hands lowering, feeling more of my hourglass figure.
The air was so charged that you could practically smell it. As realisation dawned on him, he immediately took his hands off, his face red.
“I think we better leave,” I whispered.
We left before the end of the song and made our way back to the cabins. The stars and constellations were a worthy distraction. As soon as I spotted the Summer Triangle, I stopped in my tracks, craning my neck and trying to get a better view. As we were in the countryside, the sky was black and the Milky Way stood out against the clear sky.
Ritchie followed my gaze to see what I was so intent on seeing. “Wow, there are so many stars,” he said, awe-inspired.
Pointing up towards the constellation of Cygnus, I said, “You see that group of stars there? Look closely and you’ll see the Milky Way.”
He looked up for a long time, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. “Oh my god, I think I can see it. Is it that blurry looking cloudy bit?”
“Yes, that’s it. Beautiful, isn’t it, Ritchie?”
We stood there caught in the moment. Glad to share the moment with him, I let it go on until I heard the music from the disco end. We hurried down the path before it was filled with over-excited teenagers.
It was quiet when we arrived back at the cabins. I rubbed his arm affectionately and said goodnight. That was about as much as I could do.
It was all over too quickly, and by Friday afternoon we were back in Kensington. A cab came to pick him up, his mother apparently abroad and unable to greet him. We said a quick goodbye, and when he was driven away, I felt hollow inside. An emptiness that I wasn’t accustomed to
March 29, 2021
The Bookshop
The Bookshop
Simone Francis
ISBN 978-1-914301-04-9
https://amzn.to/38aSPz5
Chapter One
Amelia’s boots crunched on the fresh snow and she glanced down at the hem of her dress which, despite being fashionably above her ankles, was creating its own little drifts as she walked. An empty hansom cab manoeuvred along the narrow street towards her. The two and three-storey buildings on either side were old and decrepit. She glanced up; they seemed to lean inward almost as if threatening to topple in on her. She shivered and wished for a moment that she had summoned a cab.
An ancient farmer’s cart laden with winter cabbages rattled slowly past, its horse treading carefully on the unfamiliar ground. She lifted her dress to shake off some of the cloying snow and a muscular labourer lounging on the tailboard of the cart smiled appreciatively at the sight of more than her ankle. For a moment Amelia was tempted to lift the material higher to see what reaction she got, but as the cart clattered on it revealed the bookshop she was searching for on the opposite side of the road.
Seemingly jammed in as an afterthought to fill the vacant space between an ironmonger’s and a tailor’s, both of which had awnings shielding the pavement below from the worst of the snow, it looked small and inconsequential. With no awning to protect it, snow had drifted against the wall and gathered on the doorstep. Its single window was divided into small rectangular panes, each one with a small drift of white making it look like a Christmas card illustration.
Above the window, a sign simply said The Bookshop as if to confirm that this was the place she sought. To the left of the window a solid wooden door, its timbers black with age, opened. A young man dressed like a clerk emerged, carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper. The woollen scarf wound around his face and a cap jammed onto his head left only his eyes visible to Amelia. He glanced furtively left then right before treading carefully on the snow-covered step and then scurried away down the street.
Amelia took a deep breath; the air was cold and clouded in front of her as she exhaled. She stepped into the road, and another Hansom cab skidded to a halt blocking her path, its driver shouting at her and his horse. The horse struggled for a moment until its hooves bit into the compacted snow and the cab moved on.
Amelia trod carefully in the tracks until she was safely on the opposite pavement. She peered into the bookshop window. Books piled untidily almost hid the interior from view, but between the stacks the inside looked dark and still. She stood back; there was no sign in the window to suggest the shop was open. She looked at the doorstep. There were only the clerk’s footprints in the fresh snow. She turned the handle on the door and pushed. Its old hinges creaked as it opened slowly, almost as if grudgingly allowing her in.
The inside of the shop was lit only by what grey winter light from the window had managed to sneak in between the piles of books. Amelia was forced to pause for a moment as her eyes adjusted to gloom. The smell of antique paper and the accumulation of years of dusty knowledge made her nose itch. It was cold inside and her breath still misted the air.
“Good morning, madam, may I be of service?” The weak, crackling voice seemed to emerge from nothing but darkness.
“Yes.” Amelia straightened her back and lifted her chin in an attempt to exert her position and demonstrate, more to herself than the owner of the voice, that she was confident. “I am searching for a book.” Although this was the truth, she suddenly felt a little foolish since she was clearly in a bookshop. In fact, the whole expedition suddenly seemed more than a little absurd.
“We have many,” the voice said, apparently without irony. “Are you searching for a particular title or maybe on a specific subject?”
The question made Amelia even more uncomfortable. “May I just look around?”
“Certainly, madam. I will light some lamps in case you wish to explore the darker recesses of the collection.”
Darker recesses. Amelia almost turned to leave. That was exactly why she was here.
No, she told herself. This shop was her only clue; she must be strong.
A pool of light appeared in the back of the shop and revealed a small, grey-haired man stooped with age behind a sloping desk. In his right hand he held a dip pen as if he had been writing in the ledger open on the desk. How he could have seen to write in the gloom, Amelia had no idea. He adjusted a pair of round spectacles that perched on his nose and peered at her.
“It would save some time, and a considerable amount of oil, if madam could give me some idea of the section she would like to view.” His voice crackled and he coughed into his sleeve.
Amelia shuffled her feet. The old man raised his nose as if enquiring as to her reply.
“I …” Amelia looked down at the floor. Piles of books two or three feet high almost seemed to crowd around her feet. For a moment, as the light flickered, her imagination saw them moving like naughty children attempting to bar her way into the shop. “I found a book in my uncle’s library. It was of interest to me. Your label was inside the front cover. I wondered if you have more works on that subject.”
“And the title?” The old man leant forward.
“It had no title; the cover was blank.”
“I see. And the subject?”
“I should go.” Amelia turned toward the door. “I probably have the wrong shop. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“Wait.” The old man’s voice was suddenly firm. “I believe I know what you seek. One of our more specialist titles, on domestic improvement? Follow me.”
Without waiting for her reply, he picked up the lantern and shuffled behind a bookshelf that ran across the back of the shop.
Amelia hesitated as indecision welled up inside her. She straightened her back, lifted her chin and followed.
Behind the apparently singular bookcase, three more disappeared into the darkness perpendicular to the front one. The old man was making his way down the first aisle. The bookshelves were close together and Amelia felt her dress brushing against the lower books on each side. Where the spines of larger books jutted out from the shelves, she found she had to turn her shoulders at an angle to squeeze through. Their progress seemed to disturb more dust and she sneezed.
Whilst the shop had appeared small and inconsequential from the outside, it obviously extended back a long way. As they pushed deeper between the shelves, she began to feel like Theseus entering the labyrinth in search of the Minotaur. She hoped, for a moment, that there was not a monster at the centre and began to wish that she had brought a ball of string. The old man continued to lead the way, turning left then right to enter another and then yet another room. It was reasonable, she considered, that the type of book she sought would be hidden away from casual, prying eyes. Finally, he led her through an opening in the centre of one of the bookshelves. Amelia had to stoop to prevent knocking her hat off on the shelves above.
She straightened up and found herself in a small chamber.
“I believe these shelves may contain what you seek.” The old man croaked as he placed the lamp down on a stool.
Although the room was small, the two side walls were lined their full height with books. The portal of shelves they had entered through was repeated on the inner wall, and on the end wall more shelves framed a closed door.
“What’s through there?” Amelia asked.
The old man smiled. “Just some old tunnels. Nothing that would be of interest to you.” The smile seemed to bring on another cough. “I will leave you to browse the collection.” He turned and disappeared through the opening.
Amelia wondered how he would find his way back without a lamp, but she assumed he knew the shop like a mole knows its tunnels.
She looked at the spines of some of the books. Titles such as How To Be a Dutiful Wife, The Housekeeper’s Guide and Advice to Single Women were really not what she sought. She lifted random books from the shelves and flicked through them, hoping that the titles might simply be another disguise, but the contents were as just as innocent. She scanned the rest of the selves. All the books seemed to be of a similar nature.
Dispirited and feeling anger rising inside her, she picked up the lamp and ducked through the portal. She glanced left and right; all the book-lined walls looked identical. She remembered coming from the right and headed back between the shelves. At the end, the maze branched left and right. She could not remember which way she had come. Left, she was sure it was left.
This led her to another room; the lamplight flickered on the surrounding books, creating the illusion that they were moving, awakened from the deep sleep of the dead by the first light to fall on them in years. She was sure she had not come this way.
She retraced her steps. Almost immediately there was another junction. She turned left again and found it was a dead end. She turned around and just managed to strangle a shriek. She put her hand to her mouth. A tall silhouette lit from behind by a second lamp stood at the end of the canyon formed by the bookshelves. Was this her Minotaur? The shadow turned and picked up a lamp from a small table behind him.
The light revealed an aristocratic looking man, probably, Amelia guessed, in his thirties. His face had a strongly defined jawline and his dark, almost black, hair was cut short in the military fashion. He held his top hat in his left hand.
“Are you lost, my dear?”
Amelia instinctively disliked anyone who called her “my dear”. She felt herself about to say no out of defiance, but her common sense prevailed. Sometimes it paid to act the vulnerable little woman.
“I believe I am,” she said, as sweetly as she could.
“Follow me.” The man turned and disappeared around the corner formed by the bookshelves.
Amelia raised her lamp and dutifully obeyed.
The man weaved through the bookshelves. It seemed that he knew the route well. Was this the person she was looking for; the mysterious person her friend Frances had spoken about?
The man stopped when they reached the bookshelf that ran at right angles to the others. He turned to Amelia, stepped back into the aisle between the shelves and, snapping his heels together, he bowed his head slightly like a Prussian officer. Amelia noticed that although his head tipped down, his eyes never left her. His arm swept out to the right. “This way, my dear.”
Amelia moved closer to him. Looking round the end of the bookcase to the right, she could just see the faint grey glow of light from the shopfront window falling on the old man’s desk. “Thank you.” She squeezed past him and felt the bookshelves pressing against her back as if trying to push them together. Once past, she turned and looked at him again. He was handsome and had broad shoulders beneath the long, grey coat he wore. Such a pity he was so priggish, she thought. She glanced down; his black boots shone with polish.
“It is my pleasure.” He bowed again. If he was foreign, his English was faultless and he spoke with only the slightest of accents.
“I really am very grateful.” Amelia moved towards the door. “I cannot thank you enough.”
“In which case, I will reserve the right to extract a penance from you next time we meet.”
Amelia turned and frowned. She was not used to such forwardness. Most Englishmen seemed to expend so much energy in being obsequious that their fawning became annoying, “I doubt we will meet again,” she said. “Unless …”
This was her only chance. She had come here to find out what had happened to Frances and this man might hold the key.
“Unless you know Mrs. Mathews. Frances Mathews?”
“Although I spent some considerable time in England when I was a boy, I have only recently returned here after spending most of the intervening years in my homeland. Alas, I do not think I have made that lady’s acquaintance in the short time I have been here.”
“In that case, I doubt we will meet again,” Amelia said frostily.
“Oh, we will. My name is Konrad von Schellenberg.”
Amelia was tempted to shrug. He had said his name as if that should mean something to her.
She turned and squeezed back into the front of the shop. She looked for the old man, tempted to chide him for abandoning her in the depths of the maze, but his stool was empty. She decided she did not want to discuss the true subject of the book in front of the other gentleman anyway, so she turned and tugged at the door.
The snow outside was melting into pools of slush but the air was still cold enough to make her gasp. Despite her heavy coat, something was causing tingles of excitement to flow over her skin. She pulled her coat tighter around her but her skin still prickled as if charged with static. She stood on the pavement, unsure as to what to do next. A hansom cab appeared around the corner and she waved at the driver. It continued straight past her, the wheels splashing slush onto her dress.
Von Schellenberg appeared next to her. The next cab, an older four-wheeled carriage, halted as soon as he raised his arm. He held the door open for her as she lifted her skirt and climbed aboard. She sat and turned to look at him. “It seems I am in your debt again.”
He bowed that strange, clipped bow. “Where to?”
“Forty-three Richmond Terrace.” That was James and Frances’s address, or had been until Frances disappeared, so she saw no reason to hide it from von Schellenberg. In fact, if he came calling, he and James would be welcome to each other.
As soon as they were round the first corner she leant out of the window.
“Driver,” she called. “Please go to Manchester Mansions, Hogarth Road in Islington instead.”
The driver, a huge bear of a man perched on the seat of the carriage, did not look down.
“Yes, madam,” he grunted.
Chapter Two
White stars of snow began to appear on von Schellenberg’s top hat as he watched the carriage manoeuvre down the narrow street. Peter was sitting upright in the driver’s seat as if it were a summer’s day, whilst other drivers pulled their coats around themselves and hunched their shoulders against the cold. Peter noticed everything but seemed affected by nothing. They had served together, Peter as an experienced sergeant and he as a new lieutenant who thought he knew everything. Peter had taken a liking to him, which was lucky as it seemed he usually he regarded officers as expendable junk. For some reason he had seen potential in him and had stepped in to prevent him getting himself killed on several occasions. Despite Peter’s bulk, bullets had just seemed to whizz past him, and spears thrown at him dropped short. Von Schellenberg had even seen one bounce off as the great bear of a man moved lithely into the midst of the enemy to wreak havoc.
He began to walk the nine kilometres back to the house. His intuition told him that this woman was not the enemy, but who was she? It was unlikely that she had sought out this obscure little shop merely to buy a book. A member of The Order? Unlikely, if she did not know her way around the bookshop. She was certainly pretty, sensual lips set in a half smile below a pert nose and inquisitive green eyes. He pushed the thoughts from his mind; pretty could still be dangerous. Despite her slight nervousness, her confidence did not seem to suggest that she was running from something.
But then some of the women The Order had lured into their web were intelligent and strong-willed; that was precisely why they joined. She was young, maybe in her mid-twenties, and despite her winter clothes he surmised that she was long-legged and slender, although there were feminine curves under the material as well. The modern style of her narrow and almost indecently short dress, her small turban hat, and the dark hair that waved from beneath it so that it covered her ears, suggested that she looked too modern, practical fashions. Maybe that was it; she was newly married, frustrated by her new husband’s lack of attention and looking for some excitement.
No, there was something else there, but he could not quite bring it to the forefront of his mind. And who was Frances Mathews? He had never heard the name, certainly not in connection with The Order. They were so secretive that any name was valuable. He walked on; Peter would find out more when he delivered her to her destination.
He knew The Order operated in Berlin and most of the capital cities of Europe. Their activities were mostly harmless. but this group was different. The bookshop was the only clue as to their presence in London that he had managed to find, thanks largely to a drunken gentleman in a less than salubrious establishment that offered ladies for a particular type of entertainment.
He knew The Order used it as a rendezvous. Like a jar laced with honey to trap the unsuspecting insects, they lured women there. What the women who entered the trap did not realise was that with this jar the wasps were on the outside. Where the women went after that was a mystery. He had visited the shop on several occasions but had never been able to solicit an invitation to any meetings or get any information from the old man. This woman was only the third person he had encountered in the shop and unfortunately she did not seem to be much of a clue.
He thought about the others as he trudged on. The first had been the odd little man. Young, probably in his early thirties, thin, almost skinny, with round glasses. He wore a tweed suit which made him look like an academic, but there was something in the way he moved. His fingers roved skittishly over the books, touching each one but never pulling one from the shelves, almost as if he was sizing them up, evaluating them for a later theft. The man had glanced nervously in his direction several times when he thought he was not being observed.
He was sure he was a member of The Order and had probably been sent to find out who this strange man who kept appearing at the bookshop was. When he attempted to engage him in conversation he had heard a slight accent that he could not place. He had tried to lead the conversation delicately to other matters, but the man had been wary. He noticed the merest shake of his head as he passed the old man at his ledger on the way out. Peter had followed him down the road, but he had disappeared into an importers and exporters office and never reappeared. Peter had checked at the rear and there was no back entrance, so they could not work out how he had eluded them.
The second was the nervous woman. Her hair was pompadoured with a loose bun and she had dark eyes that darted about in the gloom like a hunted mouse. She was fashionably but conservatively dressed so obviously came from a respectable family. He was sure that she was a potential victim of The Order who had been lured to the shop. When he’d said good afternoon to her all she had said was “Are you Dr. Eustace?” When he responded negatively she had turned away. He had considered trying to recruit her to help but had decided her disposition was not suitable. Dr. Eustace, he thought. Who was he? That was the first name he had been able to acquire, and he was sure this man was connected to The Order.
This latest woman was more confident. If she had been lured there as a potential victim, she might prove suitable. He might be able to convince her to help him and Peter. He would need to be careful; it was also possible that she was the bait sent to trap him, in which case she could be dangerous.
By the time he reached home, Peter had returned and stabled the horse. Von Schellenberg shook the melting snow from his coat and hat and handed them to Peter. “Was that the correct address?”
“No, she changed it to an Islington address as soon as we were out of your sight.” His face remained expressionless. “I dropped her at a mansion block in Hogarth Road. I went and spoke to the doorman and said I thought she might have left a glove in my cab. It seems she lives in apartment number sixteen. She is unmarried, a widow he thinks. Pleasant, does not treat him like a servant. He did not know much else.”
“What would you have done if he’d asked for the glove?”
Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a grey lady’s glove.
“Where on earth did you get that?”
Peter shrugged and looked for a moment as if he might smile.
Von Schellenberg walked into the drawing room. “Can you put one of your boys to watch her?”
Peter seemed to command a small army of streetwise boys who, although sometimes unreliable, carried messages and ran errands for him in exchange for a few pennies.
Peter hung up the coat and followed. “It is cold so it will be difficult.”
“We need to find out more about her?” Von Schellenberg stared into the fire
“I will make enquiries.”
“If she visits the bookshop again we need to know.” Von Schellenberg turned to Peter. “We will have to pick her up outside and see what we can find out direct from her. If, as I think, she is a potential victim, we must see if we can recruit her.”
“You have a plan, sir?”
“I do.” He lit a cheroot with a taper and sat back in an armchair, his eyes focused on some distant thought.
Simone Francis
ISBN 978-1-914301-04-9
https://amzn.to/38aSPz5
Chapter One
Amelia’s boots crunched on the fresh snow and she glanced down at the hem of her dress which, despite being fashionably above her ankles, was creating its own little drifts as she walked. An empty hansom cab manoeuvred along the narrow street towards her. The two and three-storey buildings on either side were old and decrepit. She glanced up; they seemed to lean inward almost as if threatening to topple in on her. She shivered and wished for a moment that she had summoned a cab.
An ancient farmer’s cart laden with winter cabbages rattled slowly past, its horse treading carefully on the unfamiliar ground. She lifted her dress to shake off some of the cloying snow and a muscular labourer lounging on the tailboard of the cart smiled appreciatively at the sight of more than her ankle. For a moment Amelia was tempted to lift the material higher to see what reaction she got, but as the cart clattered on it revealed the bookshop she was searching for on the opposite side of the road.
Seemingly jammed in as an afterthought to fill the vacant space between an ironmonger’s and a tailor’s, both of which had awnings shielding the pavement below from the worst of the snow, it looked small and inconsequential. With no awning to protect it, snow had drifted against the wall and gathered on the doorstep. Its single window was divided into small rectangular panes, each one with a small drift of white making it look like a Christmas card illustration.
Above the window, a sign simply said The Bookshop as if to confirm that this was the place she sought. To the left of the window a solid wooden door, its timbers black with age, opened. A young man dressed like a clerk emerged, carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper. The woollen scarf wound around his face and a cap jammed onto his head left only his eyes visible to Amelia. He glanced furtively left then right before treading carefully on the snow-covered step and then scurried away down the street.
Amelia took a deep breath; the air was cold and clouded in front of her as she exhaled. She stepped into the road, and another Hansom cab skidded to a halt blocking her path, its driver shouting at her and his horse. The horse struggled for a moment until its hooves bit into the compacted snow and the cab moved on.
Amelia trod carefully in the tracks until she was safely on the opposite pavement. She peered into the bookshop window. Books piled untidily almost hid the interior from view, but between the stacks the inside looked dark and still. She stood back; there was no sign in the window to suggest the shop was open. She looked at the doorstep. There were only the clerk’s footprints in the fresh snow. She turned the handle on the door and pushed. Its old hinges creaked as it opened slowly, almost as if grudgingly allowing her in.
The inside of the shop was lit only by what grey winter light from the window had managed to sneak in between the piles of books. Amelia was forced to pause for a moment as her eyes adjusted to gloom. The smell of antique paper and the accumulation of years of dusty knowledge made her nose itch. It was cold inside and her breath still misted the air.
“Good morning, madam, may I be of service?” The weak, crackling voice seemed to emerge from nothing but darkness.
“Yes.” Amelia straightened her back and lifted her chin in an attempt to exert her position and demonstrate, more to herself than the owner of the voice, that she was confident. “I am searching for a book.” Although this was the truth, she suddenly felt a little foolish since she was clearly in a bookshop. In fact, the whole expedition suddenly seemed more than a little absurd.
“We have many,” the voice said, apparently without irony. “Are you searching for a particular title or maybe on a specific subject?”
The question made Amelia even more uncomfortable. “May I just look around?”
“Certainly, madam. I will light some lamps in case you wish to explore the darker recesses of the collection.”
Darker recesses. Amelia almost turned to leave. That was exactly why she was here.
No, she told herself. This shop was her only clue; she must be strong.
A pool of light appeared in the back of the shop and revealed a small, grey-haired man stooped with age behind a sloping desk. In his right hand he held a dip pen as if he had been writing in the ledger open on the desk. How he could have seen to write in the gloom, Amelia had no idea. He adjusted a pair of round spectacles that perched on his nose and peered at her.
“It would save some time, and a considerable amount of oil, if madam could give me some idea of the section she would like to view.” His voice crackled and he coughed into his sleeve.
Amelia shuffled her feet. The old man raised his nose as if enquiring as to her reply.
“I …” Amelia looked down at the floor. Piles of books two or three feet high almost seemed to crowd around her feet. For a moment, as the light flickered, her imagination saw them moving like naughty children attempting to bar her way into the shop. “I found a book in my uncle’s library. It was of interest to me. Your label was inside the front cover. I wondered if you have more works on that subject.”
“And the title?” The old man leant forward.
“It had no title; the cover was blank.”
“I see. And the subject?”
“I should go.” Amelia turned toward the door. “I probably have the wrong shop. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“Wait.” The old man’s voice was suddenly firm. “I believe I know what you seek. One of our more specialist titles, on domestic improvement? Follow me.”
Without waiting for her reply, he picked up the lantern and shuffled behind a bookshelf that ran across the back of the shop.
Amelia hesitated as indecision welled up inside her. She straightened her back, lifted her chin and followed.
Behind the apparently singular bookcase, three more disappeared into the darkness perpendicular to the front one. The old man was making his way down the first aisle. The bookshelves were close together and Amelia felt her dress brushing against the lower books on each side. Where the spines of larger books jutted out from the shelves, she found she had to turn her shoulders at an angle to squeeze through. Their progress seemed to disturb more dust and she sneezed.
Whilst the shop had appeared small and inconsequential from the outside, it obviously extended back a long way. As they pushed deeper between the shelves, she began to feel like Theseus entering the labyrinth in search of the Minotaur. She hoped, for a moment, that there was not a monster at the centre and began to wish that she had brought a ball of string. The old man continued to lead the way, turning left then right to enter another and then yet another room. It was reasonable, she considered, that the type of book she sought would be hidden away from casual, prying eyes. Finally, he led her through an opening in the centre of one of the bookshelves. Amelia had to stoop to prevent knocking her hat off on the shelves above.
She straightened up and found herself in a small chamber.
“I believe these shelves may contain what you seek.” The old man croaked as he placed the lamp down on a stool.
Although the room was small, the two side walls were lined their full height with books. The portal of shelves they had entered through was repeated on the inner wall, and on the end wall more shelves framed a closed door.
“What’s through there?” Amelia asked.
The old man smiled. “Just some old tunnels. Nothing that would be of interest to you.” The smile seemed to bring on another cough. “I will leave you to browse the collection.” He turned and disappeared through the opening.
Amelia wondered how he would find his way back without a lamp, but she assumed he knew the shop like a mole knows its tunnels.
She looked at the spines of some of the books. Titles such as How To Be a Dutiful Wife, The Housekeeper’s Guide and Advice to Single Women were really not what she sought. She lifted random books from the shelves and flicked through them, hoping that the titles might simply be another disguise, but the contents were as just as innocent. She scanned the rest of the selves. All the books seemed to be of a similar nature.
Dispirited and feeling anger rising inside her, she picked up the lamp and ducked through the portal. She glanced left and right; all the book-lined walls looked identical. She remembered coming from the right and headed back between the shelves. At the end, the maze branched left and right. She could not remember which way she had come. Left, she was sure it was left.
This led her to another room; the lamplight flickered on the surrounding books, creating the illusion that they were moving, awakened from the deep sleep of the dead by the first light to fall on them in years. She was sure she had not come this way.
She retraced her steps. Almost immediately there was another junction. She turned left again and found it was a dead end. She turned around and just managed to strangle a shriek. She put her hand to her mouth. A tall silhouette lit from behind by a second lamp stood at the end of the canyon formed by the bookshelves. Was this her Minotaur? The shadow turned and picked up a lamp from a small table behind him.
The light revealed an aristocratic looking man, probably, Amelia guessed, in his thirties. His face had a strongly defined jawline and his dark, almost black, hair was cut short in the military fashion. He held his top hat in his left hand.
“Are you lost, my dear?”
Amelia instinctively disliked anyone who called her “my dear”. She felt herself about to say no out of defiance, but her common sense prevailed. Sometimes it paid to act the vulnerable little woman.
“I believe I am,” she said, as sweetly as she could.
“Follow me.” The man turned and disappeared around the corner formed by the bookshelves.
Amelia raised her lamp and dutifully obeyed.
The man weaved through the bookshelves. It seemed that he knew the route well. Was this the person she was looking for; the mysterious person her friend Frances had spoken about?
The man stopped when they reached the bookshelf that ran at right angles to the others. He turned to Amelia, stepped back into the aisle between the shelves and, snapping his heels together, he bowed his head slightly like a Prussian officer. Amelia noticed that although his head tipped down, his eyes never left her. His arm swept out to the right. “This way, my dear.”
Amelia moved closer to him. Looking round the end of the bookcase to the right, she could just see the faint grey glow of light from the shopfront window falling on the old man’s desk. “Thank you.” She squeezed past him and felt the bookshelves pressing against her back as if trying to push them together. Once past, she turned and looked at him again. He was handsome and had broad shoulders beneath the long, grey coat he wore. Such a pity he was so priggish, she thought. She glanced down; his black boots shone with polish.
“It is my pleasure.” He bowed again. If he was foreign, his English was faultless and he spoke with only the slightest of accents.
“I really am very grateful.” Amelia moved towards the door. “I cannot thank you enough.”
“In which case, I will reserve the right to extract a penance from you next time we meet.”
Amelia turned and frowned. She was not used to such forwardness. Most Englishmen seemed to expend so much energy in being obsequious that their fawning became annoying, “I doubt we will meet again,” she said. “Unless …”
This was her only chance. She had come here to find out what had happened to Frances and this man might hold the key.
“Unless you know Mrs. Mathews. Frances Mathews?”
“Although I spent some considerable time in England when I was a boy, I have only recently returned here after spending most of the intervening years in my homeland. Alas, I do not think I have made that lady’s acquaintance in the short time I have been here.”
“In that case, I doubt we will meet again,” Amelia said frostily.
“Oh, we will. My name is Konrad von Schellenberg.”
Amelia was tempted to shrug. He had said his name as if that should mean something to her.
She turned and squeezed back into the front of the shop. She looked for the old man, tempted to chide him for abandoning her in the depths of the maze, but his stool was empty. She decided she did not want to discuss the true subject of the book in front of the other gentleman anyway, so she turned and tugged at the door.
The snow outside was melting into pools of slush but the air was still cold enough to make her gasp. Despite her heavy coat, something was causing tingles of excitement to flow over her skin. She pulled her coat tighter around her but her skin still prickled as if charged with static. She stood on the pavement, unsure as to what to do next. A hansom cab appeared around the corner and she waved at the driver. It continued straight past her, the wheels splashing slush onto her dress.
Von Schellenberg appeared next to her. The next cab, an older four-wheeled carriage, halted as soon as he raised his arm. He held the door open for her as she lifted her skirt and climbed aboard. She sat and turned to look at him. “It seems I am in your debt again.”
He bowed that strange, clipped bow. “Where to?”
“Forty-three Richmond Terrace.” That was James and Frances’s address, or had been until Frances disappeared, so she saw no reason to hide it from von Schellenberg. In fact, if he came calling, he and James would be welcome to each other.
As soon as they were round the first corner she leant out of the window.
“Driver,” she called. “Please go to Manchester Mansions, Hogarth Road in Islington instead.”
The driver, a huge bear of a man perched on the seat of the carriage, did not look down.
“Yes, madam,” he grunted.
Chapter Two
White stars of snow began to appear on von Schellenberg’s top hat as he watched the carriage manoeuvre down the narrow street. Peter was sitting upright in the driver’s seat as if it were a summer’s day, whilst other drivers pulled their coats around themselves and hunched their shoulders against the cold. Peter noticed everything but seemed affected by nothing. They had served together, Peter as an experienced sergeant and he as a new lieutenant who thought he knew everything. Peter had taken a liking to him, which was lucky as it seemed he usually he regarded officers as expendable junk. For some reason he had seen potential in him and had stepped in to prevent him getting himself killed on several occasions. Despite Peter’s bulk, bullets had just seemed to whizz past him, and spears thrown at him dropped short. Von Schellenberg had even seen one bounce off as the great bear of a man moved lithely into the midst of the enemy to wreak havoc.
He began to walk the nine kilometres back to the house. His intuition told him that this woman was not the enemy, but who was she? It was unlikely that she had sought out this obscure little shop merely to buy a book. A member of The Order? Unlikely, if she did not know her way around the bookshop. She was certainly pretty, sensual lips set in a half smile below a pert nose and inquisitive green eyes. He pushed the thoughts from his mind; pretty could still be dangerous. Despite her slight nervousness, her confidence did not seem to suggest that she was running from something.
But then some of the women The Order had lured into their web were intelligent and strong-willed; that was precisely why they joined. She was young, maybe in her mid-twenties, and despite her winter clothes he surmised that she was long-legged and slender, although there were feminine curves under the material as well. The modern style of her narrow and almost indecently short dress, her small turban hat, and the dark hair that waved from beneath it so that it covered her ears, suggested that she looked too modern, practical fashions. Maybe that was it; she was newly married, frustrated by her new husband’s lack of attention and looking for some excitement.
No, there was something else there, but he could not quite bring it to the forefront of his mind. And who was Frances Mathews? He had never heard the name, certainly not in connection with The Order. They were so secretive that any name was valuable. He walked on; Peter would find out more when he delivered her to her destination.
He knew The Order operated in Berlin and most of the capital cities of Europe. Their activities were mostly harmless. but this group was different. The bookshop was the only clue as to their presence in London that he had managed to find, thanks largely to a drunken gentleman in a less than salubrious establishment that offered ladies for a particular type of entertainment.
He knew The Order used it as a rendezvous. Like a jar laced with honey to trap the unsuspecting insects, they lured women there. What the women who entered the trap did not realise was that with this jar the wasps were on the outside. Where the women went after that was a mystery. He had visited the shop on several occasions but had never been able to solicit an invitation to any meetings or get any information from the old man. This woman was only the third person he had encountered in the shop and unfortunately she did not seem to be much of a clue.
He thought about the others as he trudged on. The first had been the odd little man. Young, probably in his early thirties, thin, almost skinny, with round glasses. He wore a tweed suit which made him look like an academic, but there was something in the way he moved. His fingers roved skittishly over the books, touching each one but never pulling one from the shelves, almost as if he was sizing them up, evaluating them for a later theft. The man had glanced nervously in his direction several times when he thought he was not being observed.
He was sure he was a member of The Order and had probably been sent to find out who this strange man who kept appearing at the bookshop was. When he attempted to engage him in conversation he had heard a slight accent that he could not place. He had tried to lead the conversation delicately to other matters, but the man had been wary. He noticed the merest shake of his head as he passed the old man at his ledger on the way out. Peter had followed him down the road, but he had disappeared into an importers and exporters office and never reappeared. Peter had checked at the rear and there was no back entrance, so they could not work out how he had eluded them.
The second was the nervous woman. Her hair was pompadoured with a loose bun and she had dark eyes that darted about in the gloom like a hunted mouse. She was fashionably but conservatively dressed so obviously came from a respectable family. He was sure that she was a potential victim of The Order who had been lured to the shop. When he’d said good afternoon to her all she had said was “Are you Dr. Eustace?” When he responded negatively she had turned away. He had considered trying to recruit her to help but had decided her disposition was not suitable. Dr. Eustace, he thought. Who was he? That was the first name he had been able to acquire, and he was sure this man was connected to The Order.
This latest woman was more confident. If she had been lured there as a potential victim, she might prove suitable. He might be able to convince her to help him and Peter. He would need to be careful; it was also possible that she was the bait sent to trap him, in which case she could be dangerous.
By the time he reached home, Peter had returned and stabled the horse. Von Schellenberg shook the melting snow from his coat and hat and handed them to Peter. “Was that the correct address?”
“No, she changed it to an Islington address as soon as we were out of your sight.” His face remained expressionless. “I dropped her at a mansion block in Hogarth Road. I went and spoke to the doorman and said I thought she might have left a glove in my cab. It seems she lives in apartment number sixteen. She is unmarried, a widow he thinks. Pleasant, does not treat him like a servant. He did not know much else.”
“What would you have done if he’d asked for the glove?”
Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a grey lady’s glove.
“Where on earth did you get that?”
Peter shrugged and looked for a moment as if he might smile.
Von Schellenberg walked into the drawing room. “Can you put one of your boys to watch her?”
Peter seemed to command a small army of streetwise boys who, although sometimes unreliable, carried messages and ran errands for him in exchange for a few pennies.
Peter hung up the coat and followed. “It is cold so it will be difficult.”
“We need to find out more about her?” Von Schellenberg stared into the fire
“I will make enquiries.”
“If she visits the bookshop again we need to know.” Von Schellenberg turned to Peter. “We will have to pick her up outside and see what we can find out direct from her. If, as I think, she is a potential victim, we must see if we can recruit her.”
“You have a plan, sir?”
“I do.” He lit a cheroot with a taper and sat back in an armchair, his eyes focused on some distant thought.
February 4, 2021
When the White Knight Falls
When the White Knight Falls
Virginia Wallace
ISBN 978-1-914301-01-8
https://amzn.to/3qFcjT6
Prologue
Vinyl car seats…
Vinyl car seats aren’t comfy, not at all. They’re not like old couch cushions, resting upon worn-out, well broken-in sofas, into which one can comfortably settle. No, vinyl seats are cold and unforgiving. They don’t conform to the human posterior; they swelter in the summer and radiate winter’s chill like a cowhide icicle. Kate hated vinyl cushions of any kind. They reminded her of the leather seats in her father’s chauffeured Bentley, and she hadn’t liked those either.
Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Kate tried desperately to find a position that wouldn’t make her behind ache. She was rather tall for a woman, and this backseat was, as Dr. Seuss would have put it, “three sizes too small” for her frame. And this whole situation would have been much, much easier without the handcuffs!
Giving up on the prospect of finding an accommodating position, Kate leaned back and stared at herself in the rearview mirror. The police officer assigned as her “babysitter” was sitting coolly in the front, listening to the radio. The Los Angeles Police had ordered a female officer to arrest her. Smart move, thought Kate sourly. The last thing the LAPD needs is the famous Kathryn McCoy suing them for sexual harassment.
Kate met her own brilliant sapphire gaze, hoping against hope that this was all just a bad dream. Just a little while ago she’d been going about her business; she still had her makeup on, for crying out loud! Not that most people thought she needed it. Her long, straight, jet black hair and porcelain complexion were usually adornment enough.
This can’t be happening, thought Kate. But the flashing police lights belied her wishful thought. The street upon which the police car was parked was inarguably picturesque; palm trees lined the thoroughfare, and the surrounding cityscape was defined by beautiful stonework. This part of L.A. was no place for horror … but here she was, living out a nightmare.
Hanging her head in despair, Kate entertained a brief fantasy of suicide. She’d just suffered a death in her family, and her exhausting career had pushed her to the breaking point. Relationship issues had caused her personal life to become an emotional roller coaster. She’d been on the edge for quite some time … and now this.
The police car was rather stuffy. Kate wondered absently if her makeup had melted enough to expose those stubborn freckles across the bridge of her nose. She had been pampered and spoiled her entire life, from her upbringing in Long Island to her current situation in California. Being cuffed and rudely shoved into a cruiser was not something to which she was accustomed.
Kate lifted her head as a detective approached the car. He motioned to the officer in the front seat and waited outside the rear door. “I can exit myself, thank you,” said Kate as the officer opened the door. She was in no mood to be rough-housed out of the backseat. Stepping primly from the vehicle, she balanced carefully on her high heels, adjusting the back of her evening gown as best she could manage with cuffs on.
“May I help you?” she asked the detective coldly.
“Is this yours, Miss McCoy?” asked the detective calmly, reaching into an opaque evidence bag.
Please don’t, pleaded Kate inside. I don’t want to see it. She turned her gaze away as the officer held up something upon which she couldn’t bear to look: a violin bow, broken in half and covered in blood.
“Is this yours?” repeated the detective.
Kate bit her lip, remembering vividly the words of her Virginian friend, old Jerry. If you’re forced to defend yourself, NEVER talk to the police! One misspoken word, and they can hang you. Shut the hell up and wait for a lawyer!
“Miss McCoy,” said the detective, assuming a patronizing tone. “I need to know what happened in there. If you don’t tell me what he did to you, I can’t help you. I’ll have to book you on the charge we arrested you for.”
A police officer can’t help you, Jerry had said. They work for the district attorney, and the district attorney’s job is to convict you. Resolved to keep her cool, Kate just stared defiantly at the detective.
“Miss McCoy—” began the detective.
“If you’re going to grill me for the third time in four hours,” said Kate between clenched teeth, “then by all means call me ‘Kate’!”
“Kate,” re-started the detective, “I need your story.”
“Ask my lawyer,” retorted Kate.
“Then, Kate, you leave me no choice,” sighed the detective. “Your ‘rock ‘n’ roll’ friend is dead, apparently by your hand. This is your violin bow, and there was no one else on the scene. You have blood on your hands and your dress, and your prints are all over the place.”
“Lawyer!” said Kate firmly.
“I heard you the first time,” said the detective.
Kate waited for his next words, knowing that they would spell out her doom.
“Kathryn Leigh McCoy,” said the detective, “I’m going to charge you with murder in the second degree. Are you sure you don’t have something to say?”
Kate looked away, half-amused by the detective’s last-minute attempt to coerce a damning statement out of her. “Yes, sir,” she said contritely. “Yes, I do.”
“What is it, Kate?” said the detective, assuming a falsely intimate tone. Kate looked daggers at him. “Kate?”
“May I get back into the car, please?”
“That’s it, Miss McCoy?”
“No!” spat Kate.
“What else?”
“AND,” screamed Kate at the top of her lungs, “I WANT MY LAWYER ALREADY!!!”
Chapter One
“Alec, he’s missing notes.” Kate pulled off her headset in exasperation, moaning as she laid her head in her hands. “Actually, he’s missing a lot of notes!”
“Well, the guy before him was pretty good,” said Alec, idly watching the bassist plunking away on the other side of the sound-studio glass. “But you didn’t like him.”
“Alec, he showed up higher than a kite!” snapped Kate. “He smelled like a Christmas tree, and I didn’t wanna work with him!”
“Fair enough,” said Alec patiently. “Shall we dismiss this guy and call in the next applicant?”
“Please do,” sighed Kate. She’d been here all morning with her boyfriend Alec, their new producer, and the studio staff. The lights were giving her a headache, and the endless parade of bass solos was beginning to sound more like meaningless noise than actual music.
It was beginning to annoy Kate that Alec was so calm about this whole affair; he leaned against the studio wall, as sedate as he ever was. Tall, well-muscled and brutally handsome, he looked like a romance-novel hero, stepping right off of a cheesy Harlequin cover. He shook out his long, sandy-brown hair as lazily as though he were in his own living room. His flaming emerald eyes were as relaxed as a man’s eyes possibly could be, and his square-jawed, chiseled face, decorated with its usual five o’clock shadow, was completely serene. How could a man be so casual about everything?!
“Perhaps,” said Alec and Kate’s record producer with unaccustomed diplomacy, “we should stop for today? We have one more audition session scheduled for tomorrow, and Miss McCoy has a promo photoshoot this afternoon. Enough for one day, yes?”
“Thank you,” sighed Kate.
She was more than a little wary of their producer, one Bernie Shapiro. He had started his company, Merrimac Records, with the money he’d made from his former business as an independent talent rep. He was a short man, rotund and aging, with a nasal New Jersey accent. There was just something about him that Kate didn’t trust, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Alec, however, seemed to like him well enough, and Kate trusted Alec; that would have to do for now. She excused herself from the studio, leaving Alec to discuss the audition tapes with Bernie.
Desperate for sunshine and fresh air, Kate decided to walk to her new apartment. She stepped out into the busy street, hoisting her purse. It was a nice day outside. Los Angeles was beautiful, or at least this part was. The streets were lined with palm trees, and the buildings were styled with a distinctly Spanish flair. The sidewalks were busy at all hours here, reminding Kate of her native New York.
She had to walk quickly and carefully to avoid bumping into the motley crew of passers-by, but at least she was outside and free of that terribly confining studio. Her apartment was three blocks away, in a gated and pleasantly landscaped building. Alec’s new home was down the hallway from hers (something that Kate found comforting), and his lifelong friend Ted was rooming with him. L.A. was a strange place to Kate, but at least she wasn’t alone.
Kate rounded the nearest corner, grateful that the crowd had thinned out a little here. She had an hour to herself before the studio would send a cab to fetch her. They’d scheduled her for a photo shoot this afternoon, something that struck her as more than a little daunting; she’d never thought of herself as a model.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Alec had finished his promotional photoshoot yesterday, and he hadn’t seemed terribly bothered by the experience. Kate hadn’t seen the photos yet; hopefully he’d give her some copies. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Ted had not been asked to pose for any promotional material. Ted was a bit heavy-set, and more than a little hairy. Music, apparently, was much like movies in that it revolved around the “pretty people”.
Kate swiped her key fob to open the front gate and followed the stone walk to her building. Feeling more upbeat, she mounted the steps and headed upstairs. She and Alec were on the third floor, but Kate didn’t mind the climb; the living room window gave her a bird’s-eye view of the street below, which she liked. She hated to think what a place like this cost in downtown L.A. She was uneasily aware that every expense that she and Alec racked up was being carefully tabulated, and would be deducted from their profits when they actually began touring and selling albums. They weren’t making money—not yet. They were just making … debt. This was the “nature of the beast”, as Alec had explained to her.
Kate unlocked the door, entered her apartment and flopped gratefully onto the couch. She’d rolled up and packed all of her old movie posters and had promptly hung them up upon moving in here. They made her feel more at home, her posters. Kate gave Humphrey Bogart a flirty wink as she stretched out on the couch.
Closing her eyes, she kicked off her shoes and tried to relax. She could still hear bass music in her head, some of it decent and some of it … well, not so much. Her fatigue was quickly getting the better of her, though, and the plunking bass notes faded into pleasant oblivion as sleep claimed her.
Kate slept like the dead, until the thunderous notes of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony rudely awakened her. She reached groggily for her cellular phone. She hated cellphones; she’d never had one until now, but the studio had insisted. She flipped it open. “Hello?” she groaned.
“Your cab, Miss McCoy,” chirped a cheerful voice with a noticeable California accent. Kate thought he sounded like Keanu Reeves with a lateral lisp. “I’m out front.”
“Coming,” groaned Kate, rising stiffly from the couch.
She went downstairs and climbed into the cab, feeling her anxiety mounting. The cabbie turned out to be an older man, quite friendly, and he chatted all the way to their destination.
Allied Photography, read Kate silently from the sign in front of the luxuriously modern building. So this was it, then. Her big modeling debut. The studio would cover all the cab bills, but Kate gave the cabbie a tip anyway. He thanked her as she exited the car and closed the door.
You can do this, Kate told herself as she took a deep breath and began walking. Alec did it, and he’s a construction worker. Her self-directed reassurances didn’t help much; her training as a classical musician had done little to prepare her for situations such as these.
She flashed her studio identification card at the doorman and entered hesitantly. Her shoot would be on the second floor, she’d been told, in Studio D. Fighting a growing sense of dread, Kate mounted the nearby stairwell.
She opened the door, squinting from the bright lights. There were several young women flitting about, hovering around an aging cameraman who was fiddling with a large camera.
“Oh, my stars!” gushed the photographer, adjusting his black beret. “You must be Miss McCoy. It’s soooo nice to meet you!”
Accepting his enthusiastic handshake, Kate murmured a bashful “Hello”.
“Your dressing area has been all arranged,” lisped the photographer, motioning toward a folding partition in the corner. “And your clothes are all laid out. This is gonna be soooo much fun! Take your time getting dressed, honey. Sasha here will do your makeup when you’re finished.”
The photographer was friendly enough, and Kate decided that she liked him, for the moment, at least. She ducked behind the partition and dropped her purse, reaching for the clothing laid out on a folding table. She picked up the handiest garment and wrinkled her nose. It was a skirt—sort of.
Trying it on, Kate thought briefly that someone must have made a mistake. The skirt barely covered her panties, and it was so tight that she had to tug it over her curvy hips. She’d faxed over all of her measurements to the studio; how could this have happened?! Surveying herself in the mirror as she leaned against the wall, Kate realized, aghast, that the photography staff had not made a mistake. In addition to the scandalous excuse for a skirt, they’d also laid out a thong panty. She hated thongs!
Making an experimental, and rather stiff, pirouette in the mirror, Kate was appalled to see her own pair of bikinis printing clearly upon her undersized skirt, hence the thong. She brushed aside the offending undergarment and picked up the lacy black top they’d chosen. Good lord, she wasn’t even trying this on. It was cut clear down to her belly button; most of her bra would be showing. Apparently, they’d thought of that, too; underneath the top was a skimpy black thing, a bra that she doubted would even hold her bust.
Kate closed her eyes, fighting the rising tide of rage boiling within her. I am a musician, she thought furiously. I am not a piece of meat. I am willing to be pretty if I must, but I am NOT a sex object!!!
“Excuse me?” said Kate loudly, stripping off the offending skirt.
“Yes, dear?” asked the photographer from behind the screen.
“This,” said Kate firmly, tossing the skirt over the partition, “is too short and too tight. I am also not wearing this,” she added, tossing the thong over, “and this is too low cut.” She balled up the top, and tossed it as well. “And I’m gonna fall right out of this!” she finished, throwing the bra. “If you don’t have anything decent, we’re not doing this at all!”
She ignored the whispered “Ooh, what a diva” from one of the production girls.
“Well, honey, this isn’t the Bible Belt,” sighed the photographer. “The fans like ‘sexy’, you know?”
“I don’t care what they like!” snapped Kate. “This isn’t happening! Find me something respectable, or you can go back to shooting birthday photos.”
“Can you live with your shoes?” asked the photographer sarcastically.
Eyeing the black stiletto heels underneath the folding table, Kate sighed. “I can live with the shoes,” she conceded dismissively. “The shoes are fine.”
There were a great many rude comments exchanged after that, but at last Kate got her way; the photographer agreed to let her wear her own jeans instead of the skirt. She did end up wearing the top, but only after one of the girls dug her up a black camisole to put underneath it, which negated the need for the “barely there” bra.
Kate finally emerged from behind the partition, glaring defiantly at the studio staff. She sat silently as one of the young women plastered her face with heavy makeup and outfitted her with a pair of earrings.
Kate tried to follow the photographer’s instructions when the shoot was underway, but she was aware that her motions were mechanical and her expressions somewhat forced. She was angry, more so than she’d been in a long time. She’d agreed to being photographed, but she had not agreed to be a pornographic paper doll. She’d let the record company fire her before she agreed to any such thing.
After changing back into her comfortable t-shirt, Kate tried to be polite as she exited the studio. But her goodbyes were strained, and she could tell that the photographer was annoyed with her.
Climbing back into her summoned cab, Kate felt a sense of impending doom. What was this, exactly, that she’d signed up for?!
***
“I promise you,” said Alec grimly “that you will never be made to expose yourself like that. Keep telling ’em to kiss your rear end, and I’ll back you up every time. I’ll talk to Bernie about this; he needs to reign in his photographers.”
“Thank you,” whispered Kate, taking a sip of her wine as she leaned against Alec’s shoulder. “I was so angry that I wanted to walk right out of there!”
“Don’t blame you,” said Alec, taking a gulp of beer. “Ted’s at the studio, going over the bass recordings. Looks like you were a bit burned out.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kate contritely.
“S’okay,” said Alec gently. “Just relax for a bit, okay?”
Setting her wine down on the coffee table, Kate pulled Alec’s arm around her shoulder and leaned in and snuggled close to him. “Are you sure we made the right decision? You know, by agreeing to sign on with the record company?”
“No,” said Alec bluntly, kissing Kate on the cheek. “But would you have been happier wondering what might have happened if we didn’t?”
“No…” murmured Kate sleepily. “I suppose not.”
Virginia Wallace
ISBN 978-1-914301-01-8
https://amzn.to/3qFcjT6
Prologue
Vinyl car seats…
Vinyl car seats aren’t comfy, not at all. They’re not like old couch cushions, resting upon worn-out, well broken-in sofas, into which one can comfortably settle. No, vinyl seats are cold and unforgiving. They don’t conform to the human posterior; they swelter in the summer and radiate winter’s chill like a cowhide icicle. Kate hated vinyl cushions of any kind. They reminded her of the leather seats in her father’s chauffeured Bentley, and she hadn’t liked those either.
Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Kate tried desperately to find a position that wouldn’t make her behind ache. She was rather tall for a woman, and this backseat was, as Dr. Seuss would have put it, “three sizes too small” for her frame. And this whole situation would have been much, much easier without the handcuffs!
Giving up on the prospect of finding an accommodating position, Kate leaned back and stared at herself in the rearview mirror. The police officer assigned as her “babysitter” was sitting coolly in the front, listening to the radio. The Los Angeles Police had ordered a female officer to arrest her. Smart move, thought Kate sourly. The last thing the LAPD needs is the famous Kathryn McCoy suing them for sexual harassment.
Kate met her own brilliant sapphire gaze, hoping against hope that this was all just a bad dream. Just a little while ago she’d been going about her business; she still had her makeup on, for crying out loud! Not that most people thought she needed it. Her long, straight, jet black hair and porcelain complexion were usually adornment enough.
This can’t be happening, thought Kate. But the flashing police lights belied her wishful thought. The street upon which the police car was parked was inarguably picturesque; palm trees lined the thoroughfare, and the surrounding cityscape was defined by beautiful stonework. This part of L.A. was no place for horror … but here she was, living out a nightmare.
Hanging her head in despair, Kate entertained a brief fantasy of suicide. She’d just suffered a death in her family, and her exhausting career had pushed her to the breaking point. Relationship issues had caused her personal life to become an emotional roller coaster. She’d been on the edge for quite some time … and now this.
The police car was rather stuffy. Kate wondered absently if her makeup had melted enough to expose those stubborn freckles across the bridge of her nose. She had been pampered and spoiled her entire life, from her upbringing in Long Island to her current situation in California. Being cuffed and rudely shoved into a cruiser was not something to which she was accustomed.
Kate lifted her head as a detective approached the car. He motioned to the officer in the front seat and waited outside the rear door. “I can exit myself, thank you,” said Kate as the officer opened the door. She was in no mood to be rough-housed out of the backseat. Stepping primly from the vehicle, she balanced carefully on her high heels, adjusting the back of her evening gown as best she could manage with cuffs on.
“May I help you?” she asked the detective coldly.
“Is this yours, Miss McCoy?” asked the detective calmly, reaching into an opaque evidence bag.
Please don’t, pleaded Kate inside. I don’t want to see it. She turned her gaze away as the officer held up something upon which she couldn’t bear to look: a violin bow, broken in half and covered in blood.
“Is this yours?” repeated the detective.
Kate bit her lip, remembering vividly the words of her Virginian friend, old Jerry. If you’re forced to defend yourself, NEVER talk to the police! One misspoken word, and they can hang you. Shut the hell up and wait for a lawyer!
“Miss McCoy,” said the detective, assuming a patronizing tone. “I need to know what happened in there. If you don’t tell me what he did to you, I can’t help you. I’ll have to book you on the charge we arrested you for.”
A police officer can’t help you, Jerry had said. They work for the district attorney, and the district attorney’s job is to convict you. Resolved to keep her cool, Kate just stared defiantly at the detective.
“Miss McCoy—” began the detective.
“If you’re going to grill me for the third time in four hours,” said Kate between clenched teeth, “then by all means call me ‘Kate’!”
“Kate,” re-started the detective, “I need your story.”
“Ask my lawyer,” retorted Kate.
“Then, Kate, you leave me no choice,” sighed the detective. “Your ‘rock ‘n’ roll’ friend is dead, apparently by your hand. This is your violin bow, and there was no one else on the scene. You have blood on your hands and your dress, and your prints are all over the place.”
“Lawyer!” said Kate firmly.
“I heard you the first time,” said the detective.
Kate waited for his next words, knowing that they would spell out her doom.
“Kathryn Leigh McCoy,” said the detective, “I’m going to charge you with murder in the second degree. Are you sure you don’t have something to say?”
Kate looked away, half-amused by the detective’s last-minute attempt to coerce a damning statement out of her. “Yes, sir,” she said contritely. “Yes, I do.”
“What is it, Kate?” said the detective, assuming a falsely intimate tone. Kate looked daggers at him. “Kate?”
“May I get back into the car, please?”
“That’s it, Miss McCoy?”
“No!” spat Kate.
“What else?”
“AND,” screamed Kate at the top of her lungs, “I WANT MY LAWYER ALREADY!!!”
Chapter One
“Alec, he’s missing notes.” Kate pulled off her headset in exasperation, moaning as she laid her head in her hands. “Actually, he’s missing a lot of notes!”
“Well, the guy before him was pretty good,” said Alec, idly watching the bassist plunking away on the other side of the sound-studio glass. “But you didn’t like him.”
“Alec, he showed up higher than a kite!” snapped Kate. “He smelled like a Christmas tree, and I didn’t wanna work with him!”
“Fair enough,” said Alec patiently. “Shall we dismiss this guy and call in the next applicant?”
“Please do,” sighed Kate. She’d been here all morning with her boyfriend Alec, their new producer, and the studio staff. The lights were giving her a headache, and the endless parade of bass solos was beginning to sound more like meaningless noise than actual music.
It was beginning to annoy Kate that Alec was so calm about this whole affair; he leaned against the studio wall, as sedate as he ever was. Tall, well-muscled and brutally handsome, he looked like a romance-novel hero, stepping right off of a cheesy Harlequin cover. He shook out his long, sandy-brown hair as lazily as though he were in his own living room. His flaming emerald eyes were as relaxed as a man’s eyes possibly could be, and his square-jawed, chiseled face, decorated with its usual five o’clock shadow, was completely serene. How could a man be so casual about everything?!
“Perhaps,” said Alec and Kate’s record producer with unaccustomed diplomacy, “we should stop for today? We have one more audition session scheduled for tomorrow, and Miss McCoy has a promo photoshoot this afternoon. Enough for one day, yes?”
“Thank you,” sighed Kate.
She was more than a little wary of their producer, one Bernie Shapiro. He had started his company, Merrimac Records, with the money he’d made from his former business as an independent talent rep. He was a short man, rotund and aging, with a nasal New Jersey accent. There was just something about him that Kate didn’t trust, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Alec, however, seemed to like him well enough, and Kate trusted Alec; that would have to do for now. She excused herself from the studio, leaving Alec to discuss the audition tapes with Bernie.
Desperate for sunshine and fresh air, Kate decided to walk to her new apartment. She stepped out into the busy street, hoisting her purse. It was a nice day outside. Los Angeles was beautiful, or at least this part was. The streets were lined with palm trees, and the buildings were styled with a distinctly Spanish flair. The sidewalks were busy at all hours here, reminding Kate of her native New York.
She had to walk quickly and carefully to avoid bumping into the motley crew of passers-by, but at least she was outside and free of that terribly confining studio. Her apartment was three blocks away, in a gated and pleasantly landscaped building. Alec’s new home was down the hallway from hers (something that Kate found comforting), and his lifelong friend Ted was rooming with him. L.A. was a strange place to Kate, but at least she wasn’t alone.
Kate rounded the nearest corner, grateful that the crowd had thinned out a little here. She had an hour to herself before the studio would send a cab to fetch her. They’d scheduled her for a photo shoot this afternoon, something that struck her as more than a little daunting; she’d never thought of herself as a model.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Alec had finished his promotional photoshoot yesterday, and he hadn’t seemed terribly bothered by the experience. Kate hadn’t seen the photos yet; hopefully he’d give her some copies. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Ted had not been asked to pose for any promotional material. Ted was a bit heavy-set, and more than a little hairy. Music, apparently, was much like movies in that it revolved around the “pretty people”.
Kate swiped her key fob to open the front gate and followed the stone walk to her building. Feeling more upbeat, she mounted the steps and headed upstairs. She and Alec were on the third floor, but Kate didn’t mind the climb; the living room window gave her a bird’s-eye view of the street below, which she liked. She hated to think what a place like this cost in downtown L.A. She was uneasily aware that every expense that she and Alec racked up was being carefully tabulated, and would be deducted from their profits when they actually began touring and selling albums. They weren’t making money—not yet. They were just making … debt. This was the “nature of the beast”, as Alec had explained to her.
Kate unlocked the door, entered her apartment and flopped gratefully onto the couch. She’d rolled up and packed all of her old movie posters and had promptly hung them up upon moving in here. They made her feel more at home, her posters. Kate gave Humphrey Bogart a flirty wink as she stretched out on the couch.
Closing her eyes, she kicked off her shoes and tried to relax. She could still hear bass music in her head, some of it decent and some of it … well, not so much. Her fatigue was quickly getting the better of her, though, and the plunking bass notes faded into pleasant oblivion as sleep claimed her.
Kate slept like the dead, until the thunderous notes of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony rudely awakened her. She reached groggily for her cellular phone. She hated cellphones; she’d never had one until now, but the studio had insisted. She flipped it open. “Hello?” she groaned.
“Your cab, Miss McCoy,” chirped a cheerful voice with a noticeable California accent. Kate thought he sounded like Keanu Reeves with a lateral lisp. “I’m out front.”
“Coming,” groaned Kate, rising stiffly from the couch.
She went downstairs and climbed into the cab, feeling her anxiety mounting. The cabbie turned out to be an older man, quite friendly, and he chatted all the way to their destination.
Allied Photography, read Kate silently from the sign in front of the luxuriously modern building. So this was it, then. Her big modeling debut. The studio would cover all the cab bills, but Kate gave the cabbie a tip anyway. He thanked her as she exited the car and closed the door.
You can do this, Kate told herself as she took a deep breath and began walking. Alec did it, and he’s a construction worker. Her self-directed reassurances didn’t help much; her training as a classical musician had done little to prepare her for situations such as these.
She flashed her studio identification card at the doorman and entered hesitantly. Her shoot would be on the second floor, she’d been told, in Studio D. Fighting a growing sense of dread, Kate mounted the nearby stairwell.
She opened the door, squinting from the bright lights. There were several young women flitting about, hovering around an aging cameraman who was fiddling with a large camera.
“Oh, my stars!” gushed the photographer, adjusting his black beret. “You must be Miss McCoy. It’s soooo nice to meet you!”
Accepting his enthusiastic handshake, Kate murmured a bashful “Hello”.
“Your dressing area has been all arranged,” lisped the photographer, motioning toward a folding partition in the corner. “And your clothes are all laid out. This is gonna be soooo much fun! Take your time getting dressed, honey. Sasha here will do your makeup when you’re finished.”
The photographer was friendly enough, and Kate decided that she liked him, for the moment, at least. She ducked behind the partition and dropped her purse, reaching for the clothing laid out on a folding table. She picked up the handiest garment and wrinkled her nose. It was a skirt—sort of.
Trying it on, Kate thought briefly that someone must have made a mistake. The skirt barely covered her panties, and it was so tight that she had to tug it over her curvy hips. She’d faxed over all of her measurements to the studio; how could this have happened?! Surveying herself in the mirror as she leaned against the wall, Kate realized, aghast, that the photography staff had not made a mistake. In addition to the scandalous excuse for a skirt, they’d also laid out a thong panty. She hated thongs!
Making an experimental, and rather stiff, pirouette in the mirror, Kate was appalled to see her own pair of bikinis printing clearly upon her undersized skirt, hence the thong. She brushed aside the offending undergarment and picked up the lacy black top they’d chosen. Good lord, she wasn’t even trying this on. It was cut clear down to her belly button; most of her bra would be showing. Apparently, they’d thought of that, too; underneath the top was a skimpy black thing, a bra that she doubted would even hold her bust.
Kate closed her eyes, fighting the rising tide of rage boiling within her. I am a musician, she thought furiously. I am not a piece of meat. I am willing to be pretty if I must, but I am NOT a sex object!!!
“Excuse me?” said Kate loudly, stripping off the offending skirt.
“Yes, dear?” asked the photographer from behind the screen.
“This,” said Kate firmly, tossing the skirt over the partition, “is too short and too tight. I am also not wearing this,” she added, tossing the thong over, “and this is too low cut.” She balled up the top, and tossed it as well. “And I’m gonna fall right out of this!” she finished, throwing the bra. “If you don’t have anything decent, we’re not doing this at all!”
She ignored the whispered “Ooh, what a diva” from one of the production girls.
“Well, honey, this isn’t the Bible Belt,” sighed the photographer. “The fans like ‘sexy’, you know?”
“I don’t care what they like!” snapped Kate. “This isn’t happening! Find me something respectable, or you can go back to shooting birthday photos.”
“Can you live with your shoes?” asked the photographer sarcastically.
Eyeing the black stiletto heels underneath the folding table, Kate sighed. “I can live with the shoes,” she conceded dismissively. “The shoes are fine.”
There were a great many rude comments exchanged after that, but at last Kate got her way; the photographer agreed to let her wear her own jeans instead of the skirt. She did end up wearing the top, but only after one of the girls dug her up a black camisole to put underneath it, which negated the need for the “barely there” bra.
Kate finally emerged from behind the partition, glaring defiantly at the studio staff. She sat silently as one of the young women plastered her face with heavy makeup and outfitted her with a pair of earrings.
Kate tried to follow the photographer’s instructions when the shoot was underway, but she was aware that her motions were mechanical and her expressions somewhat forced. She was angry, more so than she’d been in a long time. She’d agreed to being photographed, but she had not agreed to be a pornographic paper doll. She’d let the record company fire her before she agreed to any such thing.
After changing back into her comfortable t-shirt, Kate tried to be polite as she exited the studio. But her goodbyes were strained, and she could tell that the photographer was annoyed with her.
Climbing back into her summoned cab, Kate felt a sense of impending doom. What was this, exactly, that she’d signed up for?!
***
“I promise you,” said Alec grimly “that you will never be made to expose yourself like that. Keep telling ’em to kiss your rear end, and I’ll back you up every time. I’ll talk to Bernie about this; he needs to reign in his photographers.”
“Thank you,” whispered Kate, taking a sip of her wine as she leaned against Alec’s shoulder. “I was so angry that I wanted to walk right out of there!”
“Don’t blame you,” said Alec, taking a gulp of beer. “Ted’s at the studio, going over the bass recordings. Looks like you were a bit burned out.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kate contritely.
“S’okay,” said Alec gently. “Just relax for a bit, okay?”
Setting her wine down on the coffee table, Kate pulled Alec’s arm around her shoulder and leaned in and snuggled close to him. “Are you sure we made the right decision? You know, by agreeing to sign on with the record company?”
“No,” said Alec bluntly, kissing Kate on the cheek. “But would you have been happier wondering what might have happened if we didn’t?”
“No…” murmured Kate sleepily. “I suppose not.”
Forgiveness
Forgiveness by Starla Kaye
ISBN 978-1-912768-99-8
https://amzn.to/3qJO9Ym
Chapter One
“Come on! We’ll be late to the Christmas party!”
Brooke McGuire hesitated in the doorway of their cabin, flinching at the frustrated growl in Kyle Carrington’s voice. Her hand trembled on the door handle. Late to a party she didn’t want to attend. Not after the way he’d acted today. OK, the way he’d been acting the last month.
“Do I need to come get you?” he snarled. The moonlight shone bright and she could see his glare through the lowered passenger window of his prized 1972 Ford F-100 pickup truck pulled up in front of the porch.
She glanced back into the home they’d shared for nearly two years. They—well, more she than Kyle—had had such hopes for a new beginning when they’d come here to the Bar Double D Ranch. Hopes that had disappeared with his gradual change in behavior. Dreams that had faded. It was time to let them go.
“I’m coming,” she called back, her voice rough as she forced a smile and pulled the door closed. She reached to make sure the fancy scarf her friend Darcy had given her was still wrapped around her neck. She’d never worn it before, not being a scarf-type person. Tonight, it was more than a fashion necessity. It hid fingerprint bruises from earlier when Kyle had violently reacted to what he considered her nagging. Shut the hell up! His words continued to scream in her head.
“About damn time,” he grumbled as she eased up into the cab. He didn’t seem to care about or even notice her wincing. Nor did he wait for her to buckle in. He just jammed the gas pedal down and spun the truck out of the yard.
She scrambled to fasten the seatbelt. Even though she knew he wouldn’t like it, she said, “I could drive. I know you’re tired tonight.”
His answer was to head down the snow-covered ranch road toward the highway leading to Conifer, Colorado. The headlights danced over patches of glazed ice beneath the snow on the blacktop highway. That worried her almost as much as the man she’d once loved in his current mood. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”
He reached across the bench seat and grabbed her left forearm, squeezing hard enough that she felt pain through her thick down coat. “We’re not discussing this again! Understand? We’re going.”
She nodded and whimpered in pain as he gave a final squeeze then released her arm. The slight sound caught his attention. He glanced at her. There was enough reflected light for her to see his confusion. He’d had a similar expression after the attack earlier.
When he looked away, she sucked in a breath and stared out the side window. Tears blurred her vision. He wasn’t the only one confused. She didn’t know how to deal with him anymore. She hated giving up on anything, including their failing relationship.
Without a word, Kyle turned on the radio and adjusted the outlaw country music to head-throbbing loudness. He didn’t want to talk. Neither did she. She was all talked out. He no longer listened to anything she said, especially her urging him to get counselling for the PTSD that seemed to be getting worse. Her final mention of it this morning had unleashed more fury in him than he’d ever shown before. She’d reached the limits of what she could take or give.
Tomorrow, when he went to Denver for ranch business with Tucker Dalton, she would pack her clothes and leave. She’d take the fifteen-year-old jeep she’d bought a few months ago against Kyle’s wishes. And she’d hope it would get her somewhere away from here. Leaving the ranch and the friends she’d made would be rough, but she had no choice. It was a matter of survival.
She watched the snowfall grow heavier. Frost crystals coated leafless branches of Aspens and pine trees, and icicles hung in spots on fences. Her stomach knotted. She shivered with unease and felt the strain of their situation. Never would she have expected him to put his hands to her throat. They’d argued before, although more and more lately. He’d started saying hurtful things, only to turn around in the next second and apologize. Time and again she forgave him. Until today. Verbal abuse was bad enough, but physical abuse changed everything.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she dashed it away. When they’d met eleven years ago, Kyle had been a warm, laughing man. He’d treated her with such gentleness during their dating years while he’d been in the army. But after his medical discharge three years ago he’d changed. Like two different men. And the transformation had gotten worse these last six months. He was careful to hide the changes in front of others and, foolishly, she had enabled that out of loyalty and a dying hope that he would change back. But he’d begun drinking more and more. He laughed away anyone’s concerns and still put in a decent day’s work. She should have tried to find out if there was an AA group in the area. Not that he would go.
“Almost there, sweetheart,” he announced, dragging her back to the present.
Ahead of them, the lights lining downtown Conifer glinted in the falling snow. Cars and trucks already coated with a thin layer of snow filled the partially cleared-off parking lot next to the Civic Center. Even with the worsening weather it looked as if almost everyone from town and the nearby ranches were in attendance. Normally, she would have looked forward to this event.
Brooke sucked in a steadying breath and adjusted the scarf again. She had to get through the party without making him suspicious or letting any of the four ranch partners who were going to be there know about her problems. She refused to be more of a burden to them than she’d already been.
They’d created a job for her when she’d moved here with Kyle. Tucker was his friend from childhood and he’d gone against his cousins to give Kyle a second chance. Although they had arguments, Tucker seemed to calm him. Brooke hoped that, after she left, he’d be able to help Kyle when she hadn’t been able to do so.
“We were getting worried about you,” Darcy Devlin said, walking to meet Brooke and Kyle at the coatroom. She cocked her head and studied the deep blue silk scarf. “I knew it would look great on you, but I thought you’d never wear it.”
Brooke handed her coat to Kyle, then reached up to finger the soft scarf. “I decided this was the perfect night for having something warm around my neck.” She was grateful her voice sounded almost normal again.
Kyle thrust her coat and his leather jacket at the teenage girl manning the coat check-in. He didn’t bother with a thank you before glancing across the crowded event room. Loud country music came from a local band, yet people in small groups around the room talked over it. When he spotted the buffet table and the bowl of what would be spiked punch, he grinned. “I’ll go fetch us a drink.”
“I don’t—” She stopped at his frown. “Sure. That would be great.”
As he wove his way through the people visiting and the dozen couples dancing in the middle of the large room, she relaxed.
“Something up with you two?” Darcy asked, studying her, her brow furrowed.
“Of course not.” Brooke answered far too quickly. “The roads are getting icy. I was just nervous driving here.”
She followed his progress. Despite everything, she still had feelings for the lanky, red-headed, green-eyed cowboy. At least for the man he’d once been. Not love, but strong feelings. They’d been together whenever he had leave from the army. She’d given up her dream of going to culinary school for him, because he’d claimed to need her so badly. Nobody else had needed her so, she’d been unable to resist.
“Did I smell alcohol on him?” Darcy pressed, tugging Brooke back to the moment. Her friend also watched Kyle walk away.
Since he didn’t have to work today, he’d begun drinking mid-afternoon. Something that happened far too much, and another reason their disagreement had gotten so out of control.
“Just a little,” Brooke fibbed, not wanting to get into the problem. “I love your dress.”
As she’d hoped, that distracted Darcy. She stretched to her full five-foot-nothing height and did a little spin. The skirt of the calf-length red dress fluttered around her. “I love it too! Tucker bought it for me special for tonight. Isn’t he the greatest cousin ever?”
Brooke smiled. “He spoils you rotten.” Darcy’s two male cousins and her brother all spoiled her, but Tucker did more than the others. The big, quiet cowboy with rough edges had a heart of gold. He was loyal to his family and friends—another reason she hoped he would be there for Kyle after she left him.
“What are the two prettiest ladies at the party doing standing here chit-chatting?” Tucker asked, walking up behind them. He eased between them and put an arm around their shoulders. “Why aren’t you dancing?”
Brooke gave a quiet hiss of pain from his hand on her shoulder. She’d ducked away from Kyle when he’d gotten angry again, fearing another attack, and she’d stumbled and crashed shoulder-first into the fireplace mantle. “Sorry,” she said in a rush, feeling heat creep up her neck. “You know me, accident-prone. I stumbled at home today.”
Tucker dropped his arm and studied her with a pinched brow. The man wasn’t a fool and hadn’t bought her excuse. Nobody had ever seen her be prone to accidents. “You seem … I don’t know … tense. What’s going on?”
She forced a laugh and avoided his narrowed, smoky-blue gaze. “Like I told Darcy, the drive here made me nervous. Slick roads. I’m still a wimp with Colorado winters after living so long in Texas.”
One of his thick eyebrows lifted in question, but Kyle returned with a cup of punch for her, and Tucker turned his attention to his friend. “Brooke said the roads are getting slick. Think we should call this party off? Tell everyone to get home before driving gets worse? We want everyone to be safe.”
Kyle scowled at her and snorted. “Don’t listen to her. She’s just not in a partying mood.” He chugged down his cup of spiked punch. “I am.”
He took her cup and chugged its contents too, then shoved the cups at Darcy. He grabbed Brooke’s arm and tugged her toward the dance floor. “Time for us to do some boot-scooting.”
She winced at the tightness of his grip, knowing she would have more bruises later, but she couldn’t make a scene in front of their friends. She glanced back at them, with yet another forced smile. “See you all later.”
Kyle had been one of the best dancers she’d gone honky-tonking with. Had being the keyword these days. Now he tended to misstep a lot, and crunched her toes. Then he’d laugh it off or blame her for not paying attention.
He stopped a few feet away and grinned approval. As if needing to show his claim on her, he leaned down and pushed aside her waist-length dark brown hair to nuzzle the side of her neck. She stood frozen, letting him, but not experiencing any of the fluttery sensations as she had in the past. Any feelings of attraction were long gone.
As he straightened, annoyance flashed in his already red-rimmed eyes. “What’s up with you? You usually like that.”
She grimaced at his loud complaint, embarrassed that her friends might have heard him. The country band had launched into a wild version of Luke Bryan’s “Country Girl (Shake It for Me)”. Tucker frowned but didn’t appear to have heard what Kyle had said. He turned to Darcy and said something to make her laugh. Then he set the cups Kyle had handed her on a nearby table and pulled her to another part of the dance floor.
It didn’t take long for Brooke’s feet to hurt from dancing, and from Kyle’s stomping on her toes. When he decided he needed another drink, she nearly sighed in relief. He led her to a back wall and planted her there. “Stay here! Don’t move an inch!”
She stood stiff, trying to act as calm as possible, hating to be ordered by anyone. Around them the filled-to-capacity event room pulsed with noise: people talking and laughing, some singing along with the band, a lot of boots stomping on the cement floors. This would be her opportunity to leave unnoticed.
“I’ll fetch us more of that mighty fine-tasting punch.” A smile more sneer than anything else settled into place. “Then we’ll dance until the band quits.” He leaned down to nuzzle her neck, pushing the scarf out of his way. “Ain’t that right, pretty lady?”
She nodded when he stepped back and quickly readjusted the scarf. “Sure, Kyle.” Those had become her most used words of late.
Pleased with her agreement, he walked away, wobbling a bit and laughing it off.
OK, this was her chance to leave. Except her coat was in the coatroom, and the keys to their truck were in his pocket. She could at least step out into the cold winter night for a few minutes of peace. Maybe she would think of another way to get home.
***
“Is something bothering you tonight?” Darcy asked, easing back to look up at Tucker.
He felt bad about being a poor dance partner and gave her a feeble smile. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have come tonight.” He didn’t want to admit his problem was seeing Brooke with Kyle. More and more he tried to avoid being around his oldest friend’s woman. Everything about her drew him, and that was so damn wrong.
“Can’t get the storm and the cattle off my mind. I should—”
She gave an unladylike snuffle. “Seriously? The cattle have been in other winter storms. They’ll be just fine this time, too.”
It had been a pathetic excuse for his behavior. Still, he wanted to leave. His interest in partying had faded when his former girlfriend walked past him on the arm of her new husband. She beamed with happiness, her pregnant belly a clear sign that she’d gotten what she’d been wanting for the three years she and Tucker had been together. A man’s commitment and a baby. He hadn’t been able to make that big move toward marriage. His parents had tainted the idea of a good union being possible, at least for him. Still, he wished her the best.
As if Darcy suspected where his thoughts had wandered, she said, “You OK, seeing Danielle and Billy?”
He smiled, glancing across the dance floor at the couple. “We weren’t meant to be together.” He gave Darcy a little twirl. “She deserves a good man like him. I’m happy for them. Really.”
When she spun back into his arms, she pressed, “You still think marriage and children aren’t for you, don’t you?”
“We’re not going there.” Sore subject and not one he wanted to discuss. His gaze shifted across the room where he spotted Brooke appearing to sneak out the front doors. What’s she up to? Where’s Kyle?
“I need to go speak with someone.” He nodded toward the other side of the room, hoping Darcy wouldn’t ask him who.
With his first luck of the night, the widower she had been seeing stepped beside them. “Mind if I steal your partner away?” Todd asked, his eyes only for Tucker’s petite cousin.
Darcy’s face lit up, and she abandoned him. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight.” They spun away together and left him forgotten.
Stupid move or not, he eased his way through the crowd to trail after yet another woman he could never have a future with. She was the kind of woman who would make a man a good wife. Not high maintenance like some women he’d known, not flighty and flirty like some rodeo bunnies he’d been with in his younger years, but down-to-earth and hard-working. She’d sure shown that since hiring on as their cook for the guest ranch operation. And she was loyal and more tolerant than anyone else he knew outside of his cousins. At least she was with Kyle. He might be a good friend, but Tucker wasn’t sure he deserved her.
He found Brooke on the snow-covered wide cement landing outside the civic center. In the lights above the door, he saw a blustery wind whip around her. Her long denim skirt wrapped around her legs and she rubbed her thin blouse covered arms for warmth. Foolish woman should have grabbed her coat.
She looked out at the falling snow which had gotten thicker since he’d arrived a couple of hours earlier. By morning, it would snow in everyone at the ranch. He and Kyle wouldn’t be driving into Denver. The idea didn’t bother him, but Kyle had been looking forward to getting away. He’d talked about them staying a night or two in the big city, hitting a honky-tonk, sharing some beers. He’d even brought up that wild night the two of them had in Dallas four years ago, a night that shamed Tucker and one he tried never to think about. That was the last time he’d gotten drunk enough to do something damn stupid. He should have known better after surviving his abusive, alcoholic parents and his own year of too much drinking on the rodeo circuit.
He didn’t want to think about any of that.
“Are you all right?” Tucker asked Brooke from beside the door, his breath fogging the air.
Brooke gasped and whirled to face him. Her chocolate brown eyes were wide in surprise. She’d been so lost in her thoughts she had missed the door opening and his approach.
She shrugged and attempted to slow her rapid breathing. “I needed fresh air.”
When her gaze met his, he thought he noted a flash of awareness, of something like attraction. Then she glanced away. He figured he’d assumed wrong. The attraction was one-sided and damn wrong. He was an idiot.
Idiot or not, he needed to be closer. He moved until he towered over her by a good six inches, until he drew in her soft feminine scent. But she sucked in a breath and her expressive eyes widened even more. Fear? What the hell?
He inched backward, reluctant to leave her. Something was wrong. He knew it in his gut. Then he noticed a tear on her cheek and narrowed his eyes.
She saw his reaction; she must have realized what he’d seen. A small hand reached up to dash the tear away as she attempted to laugh. “Must have gotten a snowflake in my eye.”
Looking closer, he spotted a thin trail of mascara below one eye. She’d been crying. “Don’t think so.” He could take a lot, but not a woman’s tears. “What’s going on, Brooke? Why are you out here freezing to death? Crying?”
“I-I—” Her teeth chattered, and she looked anywhere but at him.
Unable to stop himself, he moved closer again and tipped up her chin until their gazes locked. He saw a wealth of pain in her eyes. It cut at him. “Talk to me,” he prodded gently.
She shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. He could see her wanting to pull away from him. Yet she didn’t.
Common sense failed him. It was that moth-to-a-flame thing. His fingers still held her chin. The softness of her skin, the slight flaring of her nostrils, the heat in her gaze brought every cell in his body to life.
He lowered his head. Don’t do this! Damn, man! Stop. Now. But he couldn’t.
His lips were so close to hers that he felt the warmth of her breath. She hadn’t moved an inch, neither toward him nor backward. It made her impossible to resist, but he tried. Tensing.
Somehow he heard the whoosh of the door opening behind them. Footsteps crunched on the ice building on the landing. Tucker stepped backward, his heart pounding at what had almost happened, at being caught in an awkward situation.
When he glanced at Brooke, she’d paled, looking horrified.
“You sonofabitch!” Kyle roared, stomping toward them. He grabbed her arm to jerk her away from Tucker. His fingers dug deep enough to make her cry out in pain. Then he shoved her to the side and sent a dark, smoldering scowl at him. “I ought to kill you.” He lunged forward.
Brooke’s boot heel twisted, causing her to lose her balance. She would have fallen if Tucker hadn’t reached for her shoulder and shoved Kyle back at the same time. As his hands touched her, she gasped.
Pain again. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, frowning and releasing her.
She ignored him to focus on Kyle. “It wasn’t what you thought,” she declared and backed away from them. “It wasn’t.”
“Don’t lie! The bastard’s lips were on yours!” Kyle swayed and took a threatening step forward. His gaze captured hers. “You were kissing him back. You damn slut!”
“No. No, it didn’t happen,” Tucker protested. But it almost had. A second later, it would have. “It’s not Brooke’s fault.”
“The hell it wasn’t!” Kyle barked, reaching for her.
***
Brooke flinched, not surprised by Kyle’s assertion. Everything that went wrong in his life these days was her fault, so he claimed. Every time he lost his temper and verbally struck her was her fault. All the fighting, the name-calling, the accusations were exhausting. The almost brutal making-up afterward had become more than she could stand, but lately there hadn’t even been that between them.
“Kyle, please—”
He cut her off with a hard, flinty-eyed look. “We’ll talk about this later,” he snarled.
“No—”
His expression told her she would pay for talking back once they got home. But she wasn’t going home with him. She shook her head, but he shifted his glare to Tucker.
“We quit. Both of us. I’m not working for a worthless piece of shit who tries to get into my woman’s pants.”
“Kyle!” She knew this was more than his excessive drinking today. There was more to his irrational behavior, but he wouldn’t talk to her about what was going on with him. She’d tried over and over.
His eyes flashed. “You flirt with every man in sight.” He glowered at Tucker. “At him, my damn so-called best friend.” He swayed on his feet again, blinked, and steadied himself.
Her stomach twisted; heat rose up her face. It wasn’t true. She never flirted, although he’d accused her of doing so many times. She’d let things go too far, too long.
“You need to shut the hell up,” Tucker cut in, temper simmering in his deep tone. “Stop accusing her of things that aren’t true.”
Kyle stepped right into Tucker’s face. “Back off! You’ve been panting after my girl ever since we came to the ranch. It ain’t right!”
Brooke gaped at him, shocked he’d say such a thing. “You’re wrong,” she protested. “He’s a good man. A loyal friend.”
“Don’t be so damn naïve.” Kyle pinned Tucker with a piercing look. “Tell her the truth. Tell her!”
Brooke caught the flinch on Tucker’s face. He wouldn’t look at her. Still, her opinion didn’t change. Tucker Dalton was one of the finest men she knew. He had never once crossed any kind of line, until tonight, when he’d danced right on the edge. To her disgust, she’d wanted him to step over that edge.
Eager to save their dying friendship, she moved to the men and put a hand on Kyle’s muscled forearm. “Don’t keep saying things you can’t take back. He’s your friend. He—”
He shoved her away again; she stumbled backward but stayed upright. To her dismay, her scarf unravelled.
Tucker growled low in his throat, balled up a fist, and shot it at Kyle’s face. “You’re drunk, asshole.”
Kyle moved to miss the blow and launched himself at Tucker. The two men, both with work-hardened muscles and several inches over six feet tall, fell to the concrete landing with a heavy thump. They rolled to the edge of the six snow- and ice-covered steps.
Fists flew, flesh landed hard against flesh. Curses grew louder, angrier. To make a bad situation worse, the snow changed to sleet and pelted down hard.
“Stop!” Brooke pleaded, trying to figure out how she could separate the men. “Please! Stop!”
Drawn by her distress, Tucker glanced at her. Mistake. Kyle drove his fist into Tucker’s mouth. Blood trickled from the corner and Brooke winced, blaming herself.
All of this was her fault. She shouldn’t have let Tucker even touch her, but she hadn’t been able to resist that small amount of comfort he offered. It had been missing in her life. Kyle hadn’t touched her in nearly a year with any gentleness. He had become controlling, possessive, aggressive, and now violent. This was turning into one of his worst moments.
Tucker shook his head. Shaggy, black hair brushed his collar and blood dripped onto his white shirt, which was growing wet from melting sleet pellets. He cupped his injured jaw, then he looked from Brooke’s dangling scarf to the bruises on her neck.
“What the hell?” He turned toward Kyle again, now standing, angry beyond words.
Brooke tried to wrap the scarf again, mortified at what he’d seen. “It-it’s nothing,” she mumbled.
“You did that?” Tucker hissed, pinning Kyle with a furious glare.
For a second, Kyle appeared confused as he looked at Brooke. “We argued.”
“Argued!” Tucker shouted and shoved to his feet. “You put your hands around her throat.”
Kyle rammed a fist into Tucker’s stomach.
Determined, Brooke moved closer. “Stop!”
The men glowered at her for interfering. “Stay back,” they both growled.
Uncertain what to do, she retreated. Her heart hammered, and she wrapped her arms around her ribs.
Tucker was distracted watching her and Kyle hit him again, causing him to stumble backward. He reached up to cup his jaw and swore as more blood trickled from his mouth. “Damn, Kyle!”
Brooke felt sick about the fight. This had to stop.
Kyle’s expression hardened. “This has been a long time … coming.” The words came out slurred.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Tucker shook his head, his forehead creasing. “What’s gotten into you? You’re acting crazy.”
Kyle’s fury exploded. He attacked Tucker with a forcefulness Brooke had never witnessed before. She needed to do something. She shouted, “Stop it! Oh, God, stop!” She grabbed Kyle’s shoulder and tried to pull him away. An impossible task.
“Stay out of it, bitch.” His eyes glistened with loathing when he glanced at her and he thrust her aside.
She fell on her butt and pain shot up her tailbone. Despite it, she tried to scramble to her feet. Her long skirt hindered her effort, and her heels couldn’t get a grip on the ice accumulating on the concrete. She screamed, praying someone inside the building would hear her, but the music was too loud and the partygoers too boisterous.
With mounting fury, Kyle shoved Tucker to the ground. The back of his head crashed against the unforgiving cement and he looked dazed for a second, blinking.
Brooke gasped. “Tucker!” Her reaction earned her a look of loathing from Kyle.
When Tucker didn’t retaliate, Kyle’s face lit with triumph. He took advantage of the moment and snagged her arm, his fingers digging deep into her forearm. He jerked her up so fast that she slammed into his chest and cried out in pain.
Tucker snarled in outrage and tried to regain his feet.
Kyle bent to thrust his shoulder into Brooke’s stomach. She cried out even louder. Unconcerned and out of control, he tossed her over his shoulder, against his wet shirt. He’d left his coat inside. Her scarf slid off.
“Put me down!” Pummelling his back, she tried to kick. “Let me go!”
He ignored her and trudged on, holding her legs tight against him. She couldn’t kick anymore. All she could do was hope he didn’t slip on the ice coating the parking lot. She prayed someone would leave the party and see what was happening.
Behind them, she saw Tucker on his feet, trying to run in their direction. His boots slipped and yet he fought to stay upright. A large patch of ice became his downfall. His arms windmilled, and he crashed hard on his butt.
She locked gazes with him for a second, feeling helpless, hopeless, and guilty. None of this should have happened. She should have left Kyle last month when she’d thought about it.
A roar of frustration carried toward her in the breeze. “Dammit, Kyle, put her down.” Again, Tucker tried to climb up from the slick pavement.
Brooke pounded Kyle’s lower back, but didn’t seem to notice. When he reached his beloved vintage pickup truck, he yanked open the driver’s door. She fought to resist him dragging her from his shoulder and stuffing her inside the cold cab. She struggled to get to her knees on the torn vinyl bench seat, tried to scramble to the other door.
He latched onto her leg, stopping her. “You’re not going anywhere without me.” His hold on her leg turned tighter, painful.
“You can’t do this!” Brooke shrieked. “Let me go!”
Chapter Two
“Shut the hell up!” Kyle pressed down on Brooke’s back until she lost her balance and went nose first against the seat.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Brooke said, panicked. She tried to push herself up again to gain the ability to move. Her long skirt wrapped around her dress boots hampered her efforts.
Kyle shoved her butt until he had enough room to climb inside, then he jerked the driver’s door shut. “You’re mine! Only mine. Don’t forget it!”
Tears slid down Brooke’s face and her body trembled, but she reached in determination for the door handle. She almost had it. Just another few inches. She strained and stretched some more. Pain shot through her body everywhere, it seemed.
Kyle snarled. “No! You’re going with me,” he said, then he pushed her off the seat into the cramped space on the floor on the passenger’s side.
Brooke’s forehead crashed into the unforgiving dashboard, and she yelped. Her lower back scrapped against the steering wheel. Unable to stop herself, she landed face first, shoulders jammed in the cramped space, legs awkwardly on the seat. Dazed, she fought to right herself. She twisted sideways and gaped up at him. She couldn’t believe he was doing this to her. Who was this stranger?
“No other man will ever touch you. Understand me?” He cranked the engine on and backed out of the parking space so fast she lost her precarious balance. Her forehead bashed against the dashboard again.
She couldn’t think straight. Her head throbbed; her eyes stung. She was in serious trouble. “Kyle. Kyle, honey—”
He growled at her for trying to placate him. Then he pounded on the radio knob to stop the ear-killing blast of music. In the next second, he rammed the gas pedal to the floor and they shot out of the icy parking lot. “We’re leaving. Tonight.”
“No.” She tried to blink away the muddle in her brain. She couldn’t go anywhere with him. She didn’t want to be here with him now. “Let me out!”
“You don’t tell me what to do, woman. Ever.” He glared down at her, eyes crazed, his jaw taut in anger.
Again, she didn’t recognize this man she’d lived with for so long. It wasn’t the same man. This man terrified her.
She tried again to shift around so she could reach the door handle. Maybe she could—
A powerful-sounding truck roared up behind them, honking. It had to be Tucker. Thank God.
Kyle bit out foul curses. “He’s not getting you. Never.” He was drunk, dangerous, possibly insane, and shouldn’t have been driving.
Brooke’s heart pounded so hard she could hear it. Fear had a tight grip on her, but she was frantic to make him see reason. “Tucker doesn’t want me. I don’t want him.” Except she did—to rescue her, to save her from this nightmare.
“The hell you don’t!” Kyle glanced into the cracked rearview mirror, scowling. “You’re mine. Forever.”
Tucker’s massive black Ford F-250 truck pulled up beside Kyle’s door. He honked and she saw him motion for Kyle to pull over. With another growled curse, Kyle gave him an obscene gesture and kept on driving, picking up speed. The sleet pelted down harder, pinging on the cab’s roof.
Her heart raced so fast she felt lightheaded. Every inch of her hurt and she’d never been so scared in her life. The road conditions made driving even more dangerous than the reckless man behind the wheel did.
Tucker didn’t give up. Determined to try another tactic, he pulled in front of Kyle’s truck. Brooke knew he wanted Kyle to slow down, and she prayed he would. She feared for Tucker’s safety, too. She didn’t think he’d been drinking, but she couldn’t be sure. But Kyle …
Roaring in outrage, Kyle rammed Tucker’s rear bumper. “Out of my way, sonofabitch.”
She heard the horrible sounds of the other truck trying to stay on the road. Its tires fought for traction on the snow- and ice-covered gravel and she prayed Tucker would be all right. Prayed they would all somehow survive this.
Kyle laughed, a deranged sound that would haunt her forever. Their truck’s tires hit a patch of ice and he fought the wheel.
Brooke screamed.
“Shit!” He fought harder to regain control. “Shit, shit, shit!”
Brooke bounced down, her head banging even harder on the dashboard above her. Her stomach knotted with knowing at any second they would die. The truck was too old for airbags, and they would have suffocated her anyway. Besides, she was on the floor.
Then the truck hit something.
Brooke’s head jerked, crashing against the underside of the dashboard once more. She looked up and saw Kyle’s hands lose his grip on the steering wheel. Panic filled her. This was it!
He battled to grab the wheel again, but he couldn’t regain command.
For an instant, their gazes locked. “God, Brooke …” Sanity returned in that split second. “I’m sorry. So damn sorry.” His low voice echoed with regret. “I loved you.”
Another slip on a patch of ice. “Tell Tuck—”
Another violent jerk of the steering wheel and Kyle lost complete control of the vehicle. The truck flipped and rolled over, again and again.
Brooke did all she could to protect herself in the cramped space trapping her. She heard the snap of her right wrist bone, felt the violent twist of her right ankle. Pain ripped through her and she couldn’t stop screaming. Then her head crashed against the merciless dashboard, and everything faded away.
***
Tucker paced back and forth in the waiting area of the Rio Grande Hospital emergency room. He drove his hand through his hair for at least the hundredth time. He’d left his hat and his coat back at the community center. Not that he cared. Not with the madness going on around him. He was barely keeping it together.
“You might as well sit down,” Deputy Bob Carlsberg said from where he leaned against the admitting desk. “Wearing out the floor won’t help anything. The doctor will come out when—”
“What the hell is taking so damn long?” Tucker cut him off, shooting another glance at the closed door leading to the exam rooms. The doctor on duty, the nurses, and other medical staff called out to each other, intent on doing their jobs. Monitors bleeped from everywhere, it seemed. Other mechanical things he had no clue about made noises that played havoc with his frayed nerves. Every sound had him on high alert.
My fault. All of it. What the hell have I done?
The outer doors near him slid open with a whoosh, letting in frigid air and snow that continued to fall at this late hour. His harried-looking cousins hurried inside, welcome sights in this endless nightmare. Their presence offered him a sense of relief. They’d had each other’s backs since growing up together on the ranch.
Darcy ran straight to him. Her red skirt dotted with melting snow swirled above her best cowgirl boots and she threw her arms around him, her head against his chest. “Oh, Tucker, this is so awful,” she said on a sob that shook her much smaller body. “How-how are they?”
She leaned backward without releasing him to peer up through tear-filled blue eyes. “How are you?”
Tucker swallowed hard, finding it impossible to speak, feeling like a cold fist was closing over his heart. He’d been almost holding himself together, but it was getting harder.
Her older brother, Frisco, and their cousin, Shane Dalton, walked toward him. The oldest and always solemn cousin looked even grimmer than usual. Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, pulled low over nearly black eyes, his brow was furrowed. Even Frisco, always the most easy-going of them all, appeared anxious, his jaw tight and his pale blue eyes worried. Both men waited for answers to her question.
Tucker hazarded another glance toward the exam rooms. “I don’t know a damn thing,” he rasped. The not knowing was killing him.
Darcy touched the corner of his mouth with a shaky finger, and he flinched. Her watery gaze focused on his white shirt, spotted with blood. “Oh, Tuck,” she gasped, imploring. “You told us you weren’t hurt beyond some minor cuts and bruises. Why aren’t you with a doctor?”
“Not my blood.” It wasn’t even from the accident, but from the fight they didn’t know about.
Frisco stepped closer, gently pulled her away, and turned her into his embrace. He patted her back. His questioning gaze locked with Tucker’s. “Don’t think about his shirt or the blood. Focus on how the medical staff is taking care of the others now.”
“Yeah, focus on Brooke and Kyle,” Shane agreed in his gruff voice. He walked over to hand Tucker the black Stetson and a heavy sheepskin jacket he’d left at the community center.
Out of habit, Tucker took his hat and shoved it on his head. Somehow that comforted him. But he tossed his jacket to a nearby chair. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
His cousins glanced at the fifty-something deputy from the Conifer Sheriff’s Department. They’d known him for years. He tipped his head in acknowledgment, his expression tense.
“Is he”—Shane nodded at Tucker—“under arrest?”
“What?” Darcy spluttered, then shifted around to scowl at Deputy Carlsberg. “You can’t be serious.”
“Afraid so,” the deputy answered, sounding resigned and not happy about it. “Reckless driving. Questionable attempt at doing harm.” His expression grew darker. “There was a witness.”
“A witness? Who?” Shane demanded, his big hands fisting at his sides.
“Old man Hank Hamilton,” Tucker said, worried about what his volatile cousin, always ready to defend his family, might do. He didn’t need more problems to deal with. “Said he saw us from a side road.”
He hadn’t seen the older rancher, and he doubted Kyle had either. Their concentration had been on each other. But the issue didn’t matter to him right now. Going to jail didn’t either. Whatever was necessary, he would do it. After his early years of rebellion and running wild, he’d tried to become the honorable, responsible man that his grandfather had raised him to be. He was just sick of everything, and he wanted some answers.
“You all should sit down,” Deputy Carlsberg suggested.
As Darcy and Frisco started toward the molded plastic chairs lining the wall, footsteps headed their way from inside the closed-off emergency area.
The breath froze in Tucker’s chest, yet his heart raced. One look at the young doctor who appeared, and his knees buckled. Shane caught him around the shoulders just in time and dragged him to the nearest chair, forcing him to sit.
The doctor’s concerned gaze locked on Tucker, because he’d arrived at the hospital with the ambulance. “I’m sorry.”
The simple words made him recoil in horror. “She-she died?” How could he live with himself? He’d meant to save her, but he’d killed her instead. He slumped against the chair back, his body wracked with grief.
Darcy wailed in agony. “No! Not Brooke. Oh, God, not Brooke.”
In a daze, Tucker watched Frisco pull his sister close. His eyes were glistening with tears, too. Brooke had become special to them all during her short time on their ranch with Kyle.
Shane dropped heavily into the chair next to Tucker, cursing his anguish. His hands fisted until his knuckles were white.
The doctor cleared his throat to grab their attention. “No, you misunderstood. Miss McGuire is still alive,” he corrected. “She has a couple of broken bones and lots of bruises.” He hesitated, appearing to determine how to go on. “She’s unconscious. We believe she’s slipping into a coma. But she’s alive.”
Tucker closed his eyes and tried to absorb what he’d heard. She was alive. He barely heard the word “coma.” He was too busy thanking the good Lord, fate, and anything else he could think of for saving her.
Next to him, Darcy sobbed against Frisco’s chest, mumbling something he couldn’t make out. He figured it was her relief. He wanted to roar his own, but held it in. His gut warned him there was bad news coming. They hadn’t heard about Kyle.
Shane, taking charge, faced the much shorter doctor. “What about Kyle?”
Strain tightened the physician’s face. He looked at each of them, flinching a bit at Shane’s fierce expression. Then he focused on the deputy. “Mr. Carrington didn’t make it. Too many internal injuries.”
At first, Tucker shook his head in denial. As the truth settled inside him, he felt sick to his core. “Kyle’s dead,” he repeated on a pain-filled hiss.
From what he’d observed at the scene, he’d known that would happen. The truck had rested on its crushed roof, both sides badly mangled, imprisoning them both. Kyle had been half-in and half-out of the destroyed windshield, bleeding everywhere, his pulse barely there when he’d felt for it. There had been nothing he could do for his friend. Still, his death was hard to accept.
“Yes.” The doctor frowned as he studied his broken lip, the obvious swelling of his jaw. “We should look at that.”
Tucker shook his head, ignoring the pain throbbing in his jaw and in his ribs from Kyle’s angry blows. “It’s nothing.”
The doctor looked as if he would press the matter. Tucker wasn’t interested. “How serious is Brooke’s coma? Will she wake up soon?” He had experienced comas himself during his time on the rodeo circuit in his much younger days. His had only lasted a day or so. His gut wrenched, knowing sometimes they could be far worse.
The gravity of the situation heavy, they all waited for an answer.
“There is no way of telling how long it will last. She suffered severe head trauma, but no internal injuries. A broken wrist and a broken ankle, and plenty of bruises.” His brow creased, as if in anger, and he shared a look with Tucker. “Some in unexpected places.”
He understood to what the doctor referred. When he’d gotten to her in the crumpled truck, he’d seen the clear finger marks on her neck, the same ones he’d spotted when her scarf fell off during the fight. Kyle had put them there. He shoved his fury with his friend aside, would deal with it later.
“She was very lucky,” the doctor added.
“Lucky?” Tucker blustered. “I sure as hell don’t see that.” She should still have been at the community’s Christmas party, enjoying the night with their friends and neighbors. When it ended, she would have gone home with … Hell! She would have gone home with his drunk friend. The ass who had abused her.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Too damn much to face right now. His cuts and scratches from reaching in through the shattered passenger window to get to Brooke didn’t even rate on his scale of pain tonight. A woman he had cared for as more than a friend and a ranch employee was struggling for life just down the hall. He’d damn sure never admit those feelings to anyone, ever. Besides that, a man—her man—who’d been like a brother to him had died. Because of him.
“Can we see her?” Darcy pleaded, pulling him from his troubled thoughts. She’d moved away from Frisco and dashed at the tears on her pale cheeks.
The doctor shook his head. “Not now. We need to get her settled into a room. Then you can see her, but only briefly, and only one person at a time.”
Deputy Carlsberg walked in their direction, looking unhappy but resigned. Tucker’s stomach knotted with dread. His waking nightmare was about to get worse. Other than wanting to see Brooke, he didn’t care what would happen to him next. He’d been part of that accident, not the only one at fault, but … he deserved whatever would happen to him.
Shane stood and stepped to his side, stiff and formidable, the protective warrior he’d been as a Navy SEAL for too many years. Tucker had been an Army special operations engineer, but only for one enlistment period. He didn’t suffer from his time in the service as much as his cousin. Or as much as Kyle had after they had forced him to take a medical discharge three years ago from the Army Rangers.
Frisco, too, moved to stand by him. At least he didn’t have to worry about him getting too hostile and making the situation worse. “We’ve got your back,” he said with a “calm it down” glance at Shane.
Darcy appeared uncertain about what was happening.
Deputy Carlsberg looked at each of them, resignation in his expression. “You know I have to do this.”
“Right damn now?” fumed Shane. “Before he even gets to see Brooke?”
“What?” Darcy asked, inching nearer. “What’s happening?”
Tucker drew in a steadying breath, forced a calmness he didn’t feel, and met her troubled gaze. “The deputy has to take me into custody.”
His petite cousin marched right to the deputy and glowered up at him. “You’re taking Tucker to jail? Are you serious? He just lost his best friend. He just learned that Brooke is in a coma.” She went up on her toes and poked him in the chest with a finger. “That is so wrong.”
Deputy Carlsberg shot a “help me” glance at Frisco. He stepped toward her and clamped onto her shoulders to pull her back. “As wrong as it seems, he’s only doing his job.”
“Your brother is right.” The deputy met Tucker’s eyes and said, “The situation just got more serious. Now it’s involuntary vehicular manslaughter.”
Oh, shit. Tucker absorbed the words, thunderstruck.
***
Brooke tried to open her eyes but couldn’t. She tried to fight her way through the pain that throbbed from every inch of her body. The body she couldn’t seem to move. Not an eyelid, not a finger, not even a toe.
What’s the matter with me? Where am I?
For a second, she heard sounds she didn’t understand around her—bleeping, mumbled voices of people nearby. Then crying further away. And a man’s angry cursing.
The man’s clear anger sparked something in her muddled brain. Kyle drinking all afternoon. His insisting they go to a party she no longer wanted to attend. Arguing. Him grabbing her, shaking her. When she’d spoken, he’d put a strong hand to her throat and squeezed. Finally, he’d released her and looked stunned by what he’d done. He’d never acted like that in all the many years she’d known him. She’d been in shock when he’d pleaded with her to forgive him. He’d sworn he needed her. Because of all their time together, she’d accepted his apology. She’d gone with him.
She tried again to open her eyes, to speak and get someone’s attention. Nothing.
Again, she heard men’s voices from far away. Talking about an accident, talking about her, about Kyle.
Kyle! He’d found her outside the community center talking with Tucker and he’d gone crazy. He’d accused his friend of wanting her for himself. There’d been no reasoning with him. Tucker had tried, but Kyle had knocked him down. Then he’d lifted her into a fireman’s hold over his shoulder and carried her away from the party and across the slippery parking lot. She hadn’t been able to free herself.
He’d shoved her into his truck, pushed her down until she’d been jammed between the dashboard and the seat. No matter how she’d tried, she hadn’t been able to get up as they’d raced away on the icy roads.
Somehow Tucker had caught up with them in his pickup. He’d attempted to stop Kyle’s truck but couldn’t. He’d risked his own life to help her.
Her heart pounded, and she heard the surrounding monitors bleeping louder. But she was lost in her memories. Kyle had lost control of his truck. They’d flipped, then rolled over again and again. She screamed and screamed, reliving it all.
Her screams were in her head; nobody heard them. People bustled around her, adjusted the machines, tried to talk to her. But she couldn’t seem to answer anyone.
A tear slid from the corner of one eye and she drifted away into nothingness.
ISBN 978-1-912768-99-8
https://amzn.to/3qJO9Ym
Chapter One
“Come on! We’ll be late to the Christmas party!”
Brooke McGuire hesitated in the doorway of their cabin, flinching at the frustrated growl in Kyle Carrington’s voice. Her hand trembled on the door handle. Late to a party she didn’t want to attend. Not after the way he’d acted today. OK, the way he’d been acting the last month.
“Do I need to come get you?” he snarled. The moonlight shone bright and she could see his glare through the lowered passenger window of his prized 1972 Ford F-100 pickup truck pulled up in front of the porch.
She glanced back into the home they’d shared for nearly two years. They—well, more she than Kyle—had had such hopes for a new beginning when they’d come here to the Bar Double D Ranch. Hopes that had disappeared with his gradual change in behavior. Dreams that had faded. It was time to let them go.
“I’m coming,” she called back, her voice rough as she forced a smile and pulled the door closed. She reached to make sure the fancy scarf her friend Darcy had given her was still wrapped around her neck. She’d never worn it before, not being a scarf-type person. Tonight, it was more than a fashion necessity. It hid fingerprint bruises from earlier when Kyle had violently reacted to what he considered her nagging. Shut the hell up! His words continued to scream in her head.
“About damn time,” he grumbled as she eased up into the cab. He didn’t seem to care about or even notice her wincing. Nor did he wait for her to buckle in. He just jammed the gas pedal down and spun the truck out of the yard.
She scrambled to fasten the seatbelt. Even though she knew he wouldn’t like it, she said, “I could drive. I know you’re tired tonight.”
His answer was to head down the snow-covered ranch road toward the highway leading to Conifer, Colorado. The headlights danced over patches of glazed ice beneath the snow on the blacktop highway. That worried her almost as much as the man she’d once loved in his current mood. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”
He reached across the bench seat and grabbed her left forearm, squeezing hard enough that she felt pain through her thick down coat. “We’re not discussing this again! Understand? We’re going.”
She nodded and whimpered in pain as he gave a final squeeze then released her arm. The slight sound caught his attention. He glanced at her. There was enough reflected light for her to see his confusion. He’d had a similar expression after the attack earlier.
When he looked away, she sucked in a breath and stared out the side window. Tears blurred her vision. He wasn’t the only one confused. She didn’t know how to deal with him anymore. She hated giving up on anything, including their failing relationship.
Without a word, Kyle turned on the radio and adjusted the outlaw country music to head-throbbing loudness. He didn’t want to talk. Neither did she. She was all talked out. He no longer listened to anything she said, especially her urging him to get counselling for the PTSD that seemed to be getting worse. Her final mention of it this morning had unleashed more fury in him than he’d ever shown before. She’d reached the limits of what she could take or give.
Tomorrow, when he went to Denver for ranch business with Tucker Dalton, she would pack her clothes and leave. She’d take the fifteen-year-old jeep she’d bought a few months ago against Kyle’s wishes. And she’d hope it would get her somewhere away from here. Leaving the ranch and the friends she’d made would be rough, but she had no choice. It was a matter of survival.
She watched the snowfall grow heavier. Frost crystals coated leafless branches of Aspens and pine trees, and icicles hung in spots on fences. Her stomach knotted. She shivered with unease and felt the strain of their situation. Never would she have expected him to put his hands to her throat. They’d argued before, although more and more lately. He’d started saying hurtful things, only to turn around in the next second and apologize. Time and again she forgave him. Until today. Verbal abuse was bad enough, but physical abuse changed everything.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she dashed it away. When they’d met eleven years ago, Kyle had been a warm, laughing man. He’d treated her with such gentleness during their dating years while he’d been in the army. But after his medical discharge three years ago he’d changed. Like two different men. And the transformation had gotten worse these last six months. He was careful to hide the changes in front of others and, foolishly, she had enabled that out of loyalty and a dying hope that he would change back. But he’d begun drinking more and more. He laughed away anyone’s concerns and still put in a decent day’s work. She should have tried to find out if there was an AA group in the area. Not that he would go.
“Almost there, sweetheart,” he announced, dragging her back to the present.
Ahead of them, the lights lining downtown Conifer glinted in the falling snow. Cars and trucks already coated with a thin layer of snow filled the partially cleared-off parking lot next to the Civic Center. Even with the worsening weather it looked as if almost everyone from town and the nearby ranches were in attendance. Normally, she would have looked forward to this event.
Brooke sucked in a steadying breath and adjusted the scarf again. She had to get through the party without making him suspicious or letting any of the four ranch partners who were going to be there know about her problems. She refused to be more of a burden to them than she’d already been.
They’d created a job for her when she’d moved here with Kyle. Tucker was his friend from childhood and he’d gone against his cousins to give Kyle a second chance. Although they had arguments, Tucker seemed to calm him. Brooke hoped that, after she left, he’d be able to help Kyle when she hadn’t been able to do so.
“We were getting worried about you,” Darcy Devlin said, walking to meet Brooke and Kyle at the coatroom. She cocked her head and studied the deep blue silk scarf. “I knew it would look great on you, but I thought you’d never wear it.”
Brooke handed her coat to Kyle, then reached up to finger the soft scarf. “I decided this was the perfect night for having something warm around my neck.” She was grateful her voice sounded almost normal again.
Kyle thrust her coat and his leather jacket at the teenage girl manning the coat check-in. He didn’t bother with a thank you before glancing across the crowded event room. Loud country music came from a local band, yet people in small groups around the room talked over it. When he spotted the buffet table and the bowl of what would be spiked punch, he grinned. “I’ll go fetch us a drink.”
“I don’t—” She stopped at his frown. “Sure. That would be great.”
As he wove his way through the people visiting and the dozen couples dancing in the middle of the large room, she relaxed.
“Something up with you two?” Darcy asked, studying her, her brow furrowed.
“Of course not.” Brooke answered far too quickly. “The roads are getting icy. I was just nervous driving here.”
She followed his progress. Despite everything, she still had feelings for the lanky, red-headed, green-eyed cowboy. At least for the man he’d once been. Not love, but strong feelings. They’d been together whenever he had leave from the army. She’d given up her dream of going to culinary school for him, because he’d claimed to need her so badly. Nobody else had needed her so, she’d been unable to resist.
“Did I smell alcohol on him?” Darcy pressed, tugging Brooke back to the moment. Her friend also watched Kyle walk away.
Since he didn’t have to work today, he’d begun drinking mid-afternoon. Something that happened far too much, and another reason their disagreement had gotten so out of control.
“Just a little,” Brooke fibbed, not wanting to get into the problem. “I love your dress.”
As she’d hoped, that distracted Darcy. She stretched to her full five-foot-nothing height and did a little spin. The skirt of the calf-length red dress fluttered around her. “I love it too! Tucker bought it for me special for tonight. Isn’t he the greatest cousin ever?”
Brooke smiled. “He spoils you rotten.” Darcy’s two male cousins and her brother all spoiled her, but Tucker did more than the others. The big, quiet cowboy with rough edges had a heart of gold. He was loyal to his family and friends—another reason she hoped he would be there for Kyle after she left him.
“What are the two prettiest ladies at the party doing standing here chit-chatting?” Tucker asked, walking up behind them. He eased between them and put an arm around their shoulders. “Why aren’t you dancing?”
Brooke gave a quiet hiss of pain from his hand on her shoulder. She’d ducked away from Kyle when he’d gotten angry again, fearing another attack, and she’d stumbled and crashed shoulder-first into the fireplace mantle. “Sorry,” she said in a rush, feeling heat creep up her neck. “You know me, accident-prone. I stumbled at home today.”
Tucker dropped his arm and studied her with a pinched brow. The man wasn’t a fool and hadn’t bought her excuse. Nobody had ever seen her be prone to accidents. “You seem … I don’t know … tense. What’s going on?”
She forced a laugh and avoided his narrowed, smoky-blue gaze. “Like I told Darcy, the drive here made me nervous. Slick roads. I’m still a wimp with Colorado winters after living so long in Texas.”
One of his thick eyebrows lifted in question, but Kyle returned with a cup of punch for her, and Tucker turned his attention to his friend. “Brooke said the roads are getting slick. Think we should call this party off? Tell everyone to get home before driving gets worse? We want everyone to be safe.”
Kyle scowled at her and snorted. “Don’t listen to her. She’s just not in a partying mood.” He chugged down his cup of spiked punch. “I am.”
He took her cup and chugged its contents too, then shoved the cups at Darcy. He grabbed Brooke’s arm and tugged her toward the dance floor. “Time for us to do some boot-scooting.”
She winced at the tightness of his grip, knowing she would have more bruises later, but she couldn’t make a scene in front of their friends. She glanced back at them, with yet another forced smile. “See you all later.”
Kyle had been one of the best dancers she’d gone honky-tonking with. Had being the keyword these days. Now he tended to misstep a lot, and crunched her toes. Then he’d laugh it off or blame her for not paying attention.
He stopped a few feet away and grinned approval. As if needing to show his claim on her, he leaned down and pushed aside her waist-length dark brown hair to nuzzle the side of her neck. She stood frozen, letting him, but not experiencing any of the fluttery sensations as she had in the past. Any feelings of attraction were long gone.
As he straightened, annoyance flashed in his already red-rimmed eyes. “What’s up with you? You usually like that.”
She grimaced at his loud complaint, embarrassed that her friends might have heard him. The country band had launched into a wild version of Luke Bryan’s “Country Girl (Shake It for Me)”. Tucker frowned but didn’t appear to have heard what Kyle had said. He turned to Darcy and said something to make her laugh. Then he set the cups Kyle had handed her on a nearby table and pulled her to another part of the dance floor.
It didn’t take long for Brooke’s feet to hurt from dancing, and from Kyle’s stomping on her toes. When he decided he needed another drink, she nearly sighed in relief. He led her to a back wall and planted her there. “Stay here! Don’t move an inch!”
She stood stiff, trying to act as calm as possible, hating to be ordered by anyone. Around them the filled-to-capacity event room pulsed with noise: people talking and laughing, some singing along with the band, a lot of boots stomping on the cement floors. This would be her opportunity to leave unnoticed.
“I’ll fetch us more of that mighty fine-tasting punch.” A smile more sneer than anything else settled into place. “Then we’ll dance until the band quits.” He leaned down to nuzzle her neck, pushing the scarf out of his way. “Ain’t that right, pretty lady?”
She nodded when he stepped back and quickly readjusted the scarf. “Sure, Kyle.” Those had become her most used words of late.
Pleased with her agreement, he walked away, wobbling a bit and laughing it off.
OK, this was her chance to leave. Except her coat was in the coatroom, and the keys to their truck were in his pocket. She could at least step out into the cold winter night for a few minutes of peace. Maybe she would think of another way to get home.
***
“Is something bothering you tonight?” Darcy asked, easing back to look up at Tucker.
He felt bad about being a poor dance partner and gave her a feeble smile. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have come tonight.” He didn’t want to admit his problem was seeing Brooke with Kyle. More and more he tried to avoid being around his oldest friend’s woman. Everything about her drew him, and that was so damn wrong.
“Can’t get the storm and the cattle off my mind. I should—”
She gave an unladylike snuffle. “Seriously? The cattle have been in other winter storms. They’ll be just fine this time, too.”
It had been a pathetic excuse for his behavior. Still, he wanted to leave. His interest in partying had faded when his former girlfriend walked past him on the arm of her new husband. She beamed with happiness, her pregnant belly a clear sign that she’d gotten what she’d been wanting for the three years she and Tucker had been together. A man’s commitment and a baby. He hadn’t been able to make that big move toward marriage. His parents had tainted the idea of a good union being possible, at least for him. Still, he wished her the best.
As if Darcy suspected where his thoughts had wandered, she said, “You OK, seeing Danielle and Billy?”
He smiled, glancing across the dance floor at the couple. “We weren’t meant to be together.” He gave Darcy a little twirl. “She deserves a good man like him. I’m happy for them. Really.”
When she spun back into his arms, she pressed, “You still think marriage and children aren’t for you, don’t you?”
“We’re not going there.” Sore subject and not one he wanted to discuss. His gaze shifted across the room where he spotted Brooke appearing to sneak out the front doors. What’s she up to? Where’s Kyle?
“I need to go speak with someone.” He nodded toward the other side of the room, hoping Darcy wouldn’t ask him who.
With his first luck of the night, the widower she had been seeing stepped beside them. “Mind if I steal your partner away?” Todd asked, his eyes only for Tucker’s petite cousin.
Darcy’s face lit up, and she abandoned him. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight.” They spun away together and left him forgotten.
Stupid move or not, he eased his way through the crowd to trail after yet another woman he could never have a future with. She was the kind of woman who would make a man a good wife. Not high maintenance like some women he’d known, not flighty and flirty like some rodeo bunnies he’d been with in his younger years, but down-to-earth and hard-working. She’d sure shown that since hiring on as their cook for the guest ranch operation. And she was loyal and more tolerant than anyone else he knew outside of his cousins. At least she was with Kyle. He might be a good friend, but Tucker wasn’t sure he deserved her.
He found Brooke on the snow-covered wide cement landing outside the civic center. In the lights above the door, he saw a blustery wind whip around her. Her long denim skirt wrapped around her legs and she rubbed her thin blouse covered arms for warmth. Foolish woman should have grabbed her coat.
She looked out at the falling snow which had gotten thicker since he’d arrived a couple of hours earlier. By morning, it would snow in everyone at the ranch. He and Kyle wouldn’t be driving into Denver. The idea didn’t bother him, but Kyle had been looking forward to getting away. He’d talked about them staying a night or two in the big city, hitting a honky-tonk, sharing some beers. He’d even brought up that wild night the two of them had in Dallas four years ago, a night that shamed Tucker and one he tried never to think about. That was the last time he’d gotten drunk enough to do something damn stupid. He should have known better after surviving his abusive, alcoholic parents and his own year of too much drinking on the rodeo circuit.
He didn’t want to think about any of that.
“Are you all right?” Tucker asked Brooke from beside the door, his breath fogging the air.
Brooke gasped and whirled to face him. Her chocolate brown eyes were wide in surprise. She’d been so lost in her thoughts she had missed the door opening and his approach.
She shrugged and attempted to slow her rapid breathing. “I needed fresh air.”
When her gaze met his, he thought he noted a flash of awareness, of something like attraction. Then she glanced away. He figured he’d assumed wrong. The attraction was one-sided and damn wrong. He was an idiot.
Idiot or not, he needed to be closer. He moved until he towered over her by a good six inches, until he drew in her soft feminine scent. But she sucked in a breath and her expressive eyes widened even more. Fear? What the hell?
He inched backward, reluctant to leave her. Something was wrong. He knew it in his gut. Then he noticed a tear on her cheek and narrowed his eyes.
She saw his reaction; she must have realized what he’d seen. A small hand reached up to dash the tear away as she attempted to laugh. “Must have gotten a snowflake in my eye.”
Looking closer, he spotted a thin trail of mascara below one eye. She’d been crying. “Don’t think so.” He could take a lot, but not a woman’s tears. “What’s going on, Brooke? Why are you out here freezing to death? Crying?”
“I-I—” Her teeth chattered, and she looked anywhere but at him.
Unable to stop himself, he moved closer again and tipped up her chin until their gazes locked. He saw a wealth of pain in her eyes. It cut at him. “Talk to me,” he prodded gently.
She shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. He could see her wanting to pull away from him. Yet she didn’t.
Common sense failed him. It was that moth-to-a-flame thing. His fingers still held her chin. The softness of her skin, the slight flaring of her nostrils, the heat in her gaze brought every cell in his body to life.
He lowered his head. Don’t do this! Damn, man! Stop. Now. But he couldn’t.
His lips were so close to hers that he felt the warmth of her breath. She hadn’t moved an inch, neither toward him nor backward. It made her impossible to resist, but he tried. Tensing.
Somehow he heard the whoosh of the door opening behind them. Footsteps crunched on the ice building on the landing. Tucker stepped backward, his heart pounding at what had almost happened, at being caught in an awkward situation.
When he glanced at Brooke, she’d paled, looking horrified.
“You sonofabitch!” Kyle roared, stomping toward them. He grabbed her arm to jerk her away from Tucker. His fingers dug deep enough to make her cry out in pain. Then he shoved her to the side and sent a dark, smoldering scowl at him. “I ought to kill you.” He lunged forward.
Brooke’s boot heel twisted, causing her to lose her balance. She would have fallen if Tucker hadn’t reached for her shoulder and shoved Kyle back at the same time. As his hands touched her, she gasped.
Pain again. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, frowning and releasing her.
She ignored him to focus on Kyle. “It wasn’t what you thought,” she declared and backed away from them. “It wasn’t.”
“Don’t lie! The bastard’s lips were on yours!” Kyle swayed and took a threatening step forward. His gaze captured hers. “You were kissing him back. You damn slut!”
“No. No, it didn’t happen,” Tucker protested. But it almost had. A second later, it would have. “It’s not Brooke’s fault.”
“The hell it wasn’t!” Kyle barked, reaching for her.
***
Brooke flinched, not surprised by Kyle’s assertion. Everything that went wrong in his life these days was her fault, so he claimed. Every time he lost his temper and verbally struck her was her fault. All the fighting, the name-calling, the accusations were exhausting. The almost brutal making-up afterward had become more than she could stand, but lately there hadn’t even been that between them.
“Kyle, please—”
He cut her off with a hard, flinty-eyed look. “We’ll talk about this later,” he snarled.
“No—”
His expression told her she would pay for talking back once they got home. But she wasn’t going home with him. She shook her head, but he shifted his glare to Tucker.
“We quit. Both of us. I’m not working for a worthless piece of shit who tries to get into my woman’s pants.”
“Kyle!” She knew this was more than his excessive drinking today. There was more to his irrational behavior, but he wouldn’t talk to her about what was going on with him. She’d tried over and over.
His eyes flashed. “You flirt with every man in sight.” He glowered at Tucker. “At him, my damn so-called best friend.” He swayed on his feet again, blinked, and steadied himself.
Her stomach twisted; heat rose up her face. It wasn’t true. She never flirted, although he’d accused her of doing so many times. She’d let things go too far, too long.
“You need to shut the hell up,” Tucker cut in, temper simmering in his deep tone. “Stop accusing her of things that aren’t true.”
Kyle stepped right into Tucker’s face. “Back off! You’ve been panting after my girl ever since we came to the ranch. It ain’t right!”
Brooke gaped at him, shocked he’d say such a thing. “You’re wrong,” she protested. “He’s a good man. A loyal friend.”
“Don’t be so damn naïve.” Kyle pinned Tucker with a piercing look. “Tell her the truth. Tell her!”
Brooke caught the flinch on Tucker’s face. He wouldn’t look at her. Still, her opinion didn’t change. Tucker Dalton was one of the finest men she knew. He had never once crossed any kind of line, until tonight, when he’d danced right on the edge. To her disgust, she’d wanted him to step over that edge.
Eager to save their dying friendship, she moved to the men and put a hand on Kyle’s muscled forearm. “Don’t keep saying things you can’t take back. He’s your friend. He—”
He shoved her away again; she stumbled backward but stayed upright. To her dismay, her scarf unravelled.
Tucker growled low in his throat, balled up a fist, and shot it at Kyle’s face. “You’re drunk, asshole.”
Kyle moved to miss the blow and launched himself at Tucker. The two men, both with work-hardened muscles and several inches over six feet tall, fell to the concrete landing with a heavy thump. They rolled to the edge of the six snow- and ice-covered steps.
Fists flew, flesh landed hard against flesh. Curses grew louder, angrier. To make a bad situation worse, the snow changed to sleet and pelted down hard.
“Stop!” Brooke pleaded, trying to figure out how she could separate the men. “Please! Stop!”
Drawn by her distress, Tucker glanced at her. Mistake. Kyle drove his fist into Tucker’s mouth. Blood trickled from the corner and Brooke winced, blaming herself.
All of this was her fault. She shouldn’t have let Tucker even touch her, but she hadn’t been able to resist that small amount of comfort he offered. It had been missing in her life. Kyle hadn’t touched her in nearly a year with any gentleness. He had become controlling, possessive, aggressive, and now violent. This was turning into one of his worst moments.
Tucker shook his head. Shaggy, black hair brushed his collar and blood dripped onto his white shirt, which was growing wet from melting sleet pellets. He cupped his injured jaw, then he looked from Brooke’s dangling scarf to the bruises on her neck.
“What the hell?” He turned toward Kyle again, now standing, angry beyond words.
Brooke tried to wrap the scarf again, mortified at what he’d seen. “It-it’s nothing,” she mumbled.
“You did that?” Tucker hissed, pinning Kyle with a furious glare.
For a second, Kyle appeared confused as he looked at Brooke. “We argued.”
“Argued!” Tucker shouted and shoved to his feet. “You put your hands around her throat.”
Kyle rammed a fist into Tucker’s stomach.
Determined, Brooke moved closer. “Stop!”
The men glowered at her for interfering. “Stay back,” they both growled.
Uncertain what to do, she retreated. Her heart hammered, and she wrapped her arms around her ribs.
Tucker was distracted watching her and Kyle hit him again, causing him to stumble backward. He reached up to cup his jaw and swore as more blood trickled from his mouth. “Damn, Kyle!”
Brooke felt sick about the fight. This had to stop.
Kyle’s expression hardened. “This has been a long time … coming.” The words came out slurred.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Tucker shook his head, his forehead creasing. “What’s gotten into you? You’re acting crazy.”
Kyle’s fury exploded. He attacked Tucker with a forcefulness Brooke had never witnessed before. She needed to do something. She shouted, “Stop it! Oh, God, stop!” She grabbed Kyle’s shoulder and tried to pull him away. An impossible task.
“Stay out of it, bitch.” His eyes glistened with loathing when he glanced at her and he thrust her aside.
She fell on her butt and pain shot up her tailbone. Despite it, she tried to scramble to her feet. Her long skirt hindered her effort, and her heels couldn’t get a grip on the ice accumulating on the concrete. She screamed, praying someone inside the building would hear her, but the music was too loud and the partygoers too boisterous.
With mounting fury, Kyle shoved Tucker to the ground. The back of his head crashed against the unforgiving cement and he looked dazed for a second, blinking.
Brooke gasped. “Tucker!” Her reaction earned her a look of loathing from Kyle.
When Tucker didn’t retaliate, Kyle’s face lit with triumph. He took advantage of the moment and snagged her arm, his fingers digging deep into her forearm. He jerked her up so fast that she slammed into his chest and cried out in pain.
Tucker snarled in outrage and tried to regain his feet.
Kyle bent to thrust his shoulder into Brooke’s stomach. She cried out even louder. Unconcerned and out of control, he tossed her over his shoulder, against his wet shirt. He’d left his coat inside. Her scarf slid off.
“Put me down!” Pummelling his back, she tried to kick. “Let me go!”
He ignored her and trudged on, holding her legs tight against him. She couldn’t kick anymore. All she could do was hope he didn’t slip on the ice coating the parking lot. She prayed someone would leave the party and see what was happening.
Behind them, she saw Tucker on his feet, trying to run in their direction. His boots slipped and yet he fought to stay upright. A large patch of ice became his downfall. His arms windmilled, and he crashed hard on his butt.
She locked gazes with him for a second, feeling helpless, hopeless, and guilty. None of this should have happened. She should have left Kyle last month when she’d thought about it.
A roar of frustration carried toward her in the breeze. “Dammit, Kyle, put her down.” Again, Tucker tried to climb up from the slick pavement.
Brooke pounded Kyle’s lower back, but didn’t seem to notice. When he reached his beloved vintage pickup truck, he yanked open the driver’s door. She fought to resist him dragging her from his shoulder and stuffing her inside the cold cab. She struggled to get to her knees on the torn vinyl bench seat, tried to scramble to the other door.
He latched onto her leg, stopping her. “You’re not going anywhere without me.” His hold on her leg turned tighter, painful.
“You can’t do this!” Brooke shrieked. “Let me go!”
Chapter Two
“Shut the hell up!” Kyle pressed down on Brooke’s back until she lost her balance and went nose first against the seat.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Brooke said, panicked. She tried to push herself up again to gain the ability to move. Her long skirt wrapped around her dress boots hampered her efforts.
Kyle shoved her butt until he had enough room to climb inside, then he jerked the driver’s door shut. “You’re mine! Only mine. Don’t forget it!”
Tears slid down Brooke’s face and her body trembled, but she reached in determination for the door handle. She almost had it. Just another few inches. She strained and stretched some more. Pain shot through her body everywhere, it seemed.
Kyle snarled. “No! You’re going with me,” he said, then he pushed her off the seat into the cramped space on the floor on the passenger’s side.
Brooke’s forehead crashed into the unforgiving dashboard, and she yelped. Her lower back scrapped against the steering wheel. Unable to stop herself, she landed face first, shoulders jammed in the cramped space, legs awkwardly on the seat. Dazed, she fought to right herself. She twisted sideways and gaped up at him. She couldn’t believe he was doing this to her. Who was this stranger?
“No other man will ever touch you. Understand me?” He cranked the engine on and backed out of the parking space so fast she lost her precarious balance. Her forehead bashed against the dashboard again.
She couldn’t think straight. Her head throbbed; her eyes stung. She was in serious trouble. “Kyle. Kyle, honey—”
He growled at her for trying to placate him. Then he pounded on the radio knob to stop the ear-killing blast of music. In the next second, he rammed the gas pedal to the floor and they shot out of the icy parking lot. “We’re leaving. Tonight.”
“No.” She tried to blink away the muddle in her brain. She couldn’t go anywhere with him. She didn’t want to be here with him now. “Let me out!”
“You don’t tell me what to do, woman. Ever.” He glared down at her, eyes crazed, his jaw taut in anger.
Again, she didn’t recognize this man she’d lived with for so long. It wasn’t the same man. This man terrified her.
She tried again to shift around so she could reach the door handle. Maybe she could—
A powerful-sounding truck roared up behind them, honking. It had to be Tucker. Thank God.
Kyle bit out foul curses. “He’s not getting you. Never.” He was drunk, dangerous, possibly insane, and shouldn’t have been driving.
Brooke’s heart pounded so hard she could hear it. Fear had a tight grip on her, but she was frantic to make him see reason. “Tucker doesn’t want me. I don’t want him.” Except she did—to rescue her, to save her from this nightmare.
“The hell you don’t!” Kyle glanced into the cracked rearview mirror, scowling. “You’re mine. Forever.”
Tucker’s massive black Ford F-250 truck pulled up beside Kyle’s door. He honked and she saw him motion for Kyle to pull over. With another growled curse, Kyle gave him an obscene gesture and kept on driving, picking up speed. The sleet pelted down harder, pinging on the cab’s roof.
Her heart raced so fast she felt lightheaded. Every inch of her hurt and she’d never been so scared in her life. The road conditions made driving even more dangerous than the reckless man behind the wheel did.
Tucker didn’t give up. Determined to try another tactic, he pulled in front of Kyle’s truck. Brooke knew he wanted Kyle to slow down, and she prayed he would. She feared for Tucker’s safety, too. She didn’t think he’d been drinking, but she couldn’t be sure. But Kyle …
Roaring in outrage, Kyle rammed Tucker’s rear bumper. “Out of my way, sonofabitch.”
She heard the horrible sounds of the other truck trying to stay on the road. Its tires fought for traction on the snow- and ice-covered gravel and she prayed Tucker would be all right. Prayed they would all somehow survive this.
Kyle laughed, a deranged sound that would haunt her forever. Their truck’s tires hit a patch of ice and he fought the wheel.
Brooke screamed.
“Shit!” He fought harder to regain control. “Shit, shit, shit!”
Brooke bounced down, her head banging even harder on the dashboard above her. Her stomach knotted with knowing at any second they would die. The truck was too old for airbags, and they would have suffocated her anyway. Besides, she was on the floor.
Then the truck hit something.
Brooke’s head jerked, crashing against the underside of the dashboard once more. She looked up and saw Kyle’s hands lose his grip on the steering wheel. Panic filled her. This was it!
He battled to grab the wheel again, but he couldn’t regain command.
For an instant, their gazes locked. “God, Brooke …” Sanity returned in that split second. “I’m sorry. So damn sorry.” His low voice echoed with regret. “I loved you.”
Another slip on a patch of ice. “Tell Tuck—”
Another violent jerk of the steering wheel and Kyle lost complete control of the vehicle. The truck flipped and rolled over, again and again.
Brooke did all she could to protect herself in the cramped space trapping her. She heard the snap of her right wrist bone, felt the violent twist of her right ankle. Pain ripped through her and she couldn’t stop screaming. Then her head crashed against the merciless dashboard, and everything faded away.
***
Tucker paced back and forth in the waiting area of the Rio Grande Hospital emergency room. He drove his hand through his hair for at least the hundredth time. He’d left his hat and his coat back at the community center. Not that he cared. Not with the madness going on around him. He was barely keeping it together.
“You might as well sit down,” Deputy Bob Carlsberg said from where he leaned against the admitting desk. “Wearing out the floor won’t help anything. The doctor will come out when—”
“What the hell is taking so damn long?” Tucker cut him off, shooting another glance at the closed door leading to the exam rooms. The doctor on duty, the nurses, and other medical staff called out to each other, intent on doing their jobs. Monitors bleeped from everywhere, it seemed. Other mechanical things he had no clue about made noises that played havoc with his frayed nerves. Every sound had him on high alert.
My fault. All of it. What the hell have I done?
The outer doors near him slid open with a whoosh, letting in frigid air and snow that continued to fall at this late hour. His harried-looking cousins hurried inside, welcome sights in this endless nightmare. Their presence offered him a sense of relief. They’d had each other’s backs since growing up together on the ranch.
Darcy ran straight to him. Her red skirt dotted with melting snow swirled above her best cowgirl boots and she threw her arms around him, her head against his chest. “Oh, Tucker, this is so awful,” she said on a sob that shook her much smaller body. “How-how are they?”
She leaned backward without releasing him to peer up through tear-filled blue eyes. “How are you?”
Tucker swallowed hard, finding it impossible to speak, feeling like a cold fist was closing over his heart. He’d been almost holding himself together, but it was getting harder.
Her older brother, Frisco, and their cousin, Shane Dalton, walked toward him. The oldest and always solemn cousin looked even grimmer than usual. Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, pulled low over nearly black eyes, his brow was furrowed. Even Frisco, always the most easy-going of them all, appeared anxious, his jaw tight and his pale blue eyes worried. Both men waited for answers to her question.
Tucker hazarded another glance toward the exam rooms. “I don’t know a damn thing,” he rasped. The not knowing was killing him.
Darcy touched the corner of his mouth with a shaky finger, and he flinched. Her watery gaze focused on his white shirt, spotted with blood. “Oh, Tuck,” she gasped, imploring. “You told us you weren’t hurt beyond some minor cuts and bruises. Why aren’t you with a doctor?”
“Not my blood.” It wasn’t even from the accident, but from the fight they didn’t know about.
Frisco stepped closer, gently pulled her away, and turned her into his embrace. He patted her back. His questioning gaze locked with Tucker’s. “Don’t think about his shirt or the blood. Focus on how the medical staff is taking care of the others now.”
“Yeah, focus on Brooke and Kyle,” Shane agreed in his gruff voice. He walked over to hand Tucker the black Stetson and a heavy sheepskin jacket he’d left at the community center.
Out of habit, Tucker took his hat and shoved it on his head. Somehow that comforted him. But he tossed his jacket to a nearby chair. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
His cousins glanced at the fifty-something deputy from the Conifer Sheriff’s Department. They’d known him for years. He tipped his head in acknowledgment, his expression tense.
“Is he”—Shane nodded at Tucker—“under arrest?”
“What?” Darcy spluttered, then shifted around to scowl at Deputy Carlsberg. “You can’t be serious.”
“Afraid so,” the deputy answered, sounding resigned and not happy about it. “Reckless driving. Questionable attempt at doing harm.” His expression grew darker. “There was a witness.”
“A witness? Who?” Shane demanded, his big hands fisting at his sides.
“Old man Hank Hamilton,” Tucker said, worried about what his volatile cousin, always ready to defend his family, might do. He didn’t need more problems to deal with. “Said he saw us from a side road.”
He hadn’t seen the older rancher, and he doubted Kyle had either. Their concentration had been on each other. But the issue didn’t matter to him right now. Going to jail didn’t either. Whatever was necessary, he would do it. After his early years of rebellion and running wild, he’d tried to become the honorable, responsible man that his grandfather had raised him to be. He was just sick of everything, and he wanted some answers.
“You all should sit down,” Deputy Carlsberg suggested.
As Darcy and Frisco started toward the molded plastic chairs lining the wall, footsteps headed their way from inside the closed-off emergency area.
The breath froze in Tucker’s chest, yet his heart raced. One look at the young doctor who appeared, and his knees buckled. Shane caught him around the shoulders just in time and dragged him to the nearest chair, forcing him to sit.
The doctor’s concerned gaze locked on Tucker, because he’d arrived at the hospital with the ambulance. “I’m sorry.”
The simple words made him recoil in horror. “She-she died?” How could he live with himself? He’d meant to save her, but he’d killed her instead. He slumped against the chair back, his body wracked with grief.
Darcy wailed in agony. “No! Not Brooke. Oh, God, not Brooke.”
In a daze, Tucker watched Frisco pull his sister close. His eyes were glistening with tears, too. Brooke had become special to them all during her short time on their ranch with Kyle.
Shane dropped heavily into the chair next to Tucker, cursing his anguish. His hands fisted until his knuckles were white.
The doctor cleared his throat to grab their attention. “No, you misunderstood. Miss McGuire is still alive,” he corrected. “She has a couple of broken bones and lots of bruises.” He hesitated, appearing to determine how to go on. “She’s unconscious. We believe she’s slipping into a coma. But she’s alive.”
Tucker closed his eyes and tried to absorb what he’d heard. She was alive. He barely heard the word “coma.” He was too busy thanking the good Lord, fate, and anything else he could think of for saving her.
Next to him, Darcy sobbed against Frisco’s chest, mumbling something he couldn’t make out. He figured it was her relief. He wanted to roar his own, but held it in. His gut warned him there was bad news coming. They hadn’t heard about Kyle.
Shane, taking charge, faced the much shorter doctor. “What about Kyle?”
Strain tightened the physician’s face. He looked at each of them, flinching a bit at Shane’s fierce expression. Then he focused on the deputy. “Mr. Carrington didn’t make it. Too many internal injuries.”
At first, Tucker shook his head in denial. As the truth settled inside him, he felt sick to his core. “Kyle’s dead,” he repeated on a pain-filled hiss.
From what he’d observed at the scene, he’d known that would happen. The truck had rested on its crushed roof, both sides badly mangled, imprisoning them both. Kyle had been half-in and half-out of the destroyed windshield, bleeding everywhere, his pulse barely there when he’d felt for it. There had been nothing he could do for his friend. Still, his death was hard to accept.
“Yes.” The doctor frowned as he studied his broken lip, the obvious swelling of his jaw. “We should look at that.”
Tucker shook his head, ignoring the pain throbbing in his jaw and in his ribs from Kyle’s angry blows. “It’s nothing.”
The doctor looked as if he would press the matter. Tucker wasn’t interested. “How serious is Brooke’s coma? Will she wake up soon?” He had experienced comas himself during his time on the rodeo circuit in his much younger days. His had only lasted a day or so. His gut wrenched, knowing sometimes they could be far worse.
The gravity of the situation heavy, they all waited for an answer.
“There is no way of telling how long it will last. She suffered severe head trauma, but no internal injuries. A broken wrist and a broken ankle, and plenty of bruises.” His brow creased, as if in anger, and he shared a look with Tucker. “Some in unexpected places.”
He understood to what the doctor referred. When he’d gotten to her in the crumpled truck, he’d seen the clear finger marks on her neck, the same ones he’d spotted when her scarf fell off during the fight. Kyle had put them there. He shoved his fury with his friend aside, would deal with it later.
“She was very lucky,” the doctor added.
“Lucky?” Tucker blustered. “I sure as hell don’t see that.” She should still have been at the community’s Christmas party, enjoying the night with their friends and neighbors. When it ended, she would have gone home with … Hell! She would have gone home with his drunk friend. The ass who had abused her.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Too damn much to face right now. His cuts and scratches from reaching in through the shattered passenger window to get to Brooke didn’t even rate on his scale of pain tonight. A woman he had cared for as more than a friend and a ranch employee was struggling for life just down the hall. He’d damn sure never admit those feelings to anyone, ever. Besides that, a man—her man—who’d been like a brother to him had died. Because of him.
“Can we see her?” Darcy pleaded, pulling him from his troubled thoughts. She’d moved away from Frisco and dashed at the tears on her pale cheeks.
The doctor shook his head. “Not now. We need to get her settled into a room. Then you can see her, but only briefly, and only one person at a time.”
Deputy Carlsberg walked in their direction, looking unhappy but resigned. Tucker’s stomach knotted with dread. His waking nightmare was about to get worse. Other than wanting to see Brooke, he didn’t care what would happen to him next. He’d been part of that accident, not the only one at fault, but … he deserved whatever would happen to him.
Shane stood and stepped to his side, stiff and formidable, the protective warrior he’d been as a Navy SEAL for too many years. Tucker had been an Army special operations engineer, but only for one enlistment period. He didn’t suffer from his time in the service as much as his cousin. Or as much as Kyle had after they had forced him to take a medical discharge three years ago from the Army Rangers.
Frisco, too, moved to stand by him. At least he didn’t have to worry about him getting too hostile and making the situation worse. “We’ve got your back,” he said with a “calm it down” glance at Shane.
Darcy appeared uncertain about what was happening.
Deputy Carlsberg looked at each of them, resignation in his expression. “You know I have to do this.”
“Right damn now?” fumed Shane. “Before he even gets to see Brooke?”
“What?” Darcy asked, inching nearer. “What’s happening?”
Tucker drew in a steadying breath, forced a calmness he didn’t feel, and met her troubled gaze. “The deputy has to take me into custody.”
His petite cousin marched right to the deputy and glowered up at him. “You’re taking Tucker to jail? Are you serious? He just lost his best friend. He just learned that Brooke is in a coma.” She went up on her toes and poked him in the chest with a finger. “That is so wrong.”
Deputy Carlsberg shot a “help me” glance at Frisco. He stepped toward her and clamped onto her shoulders to pull her back. “As wrong as it seems, he’s only doing his job.”
“Your brother is right.” The deputy met Tucker’s eyes and said, “The situation just got more serious. Now it’s involuntary vehicular manslaughter.”
Oh, shit. Tucker absorbed the words, thunderstruck.
***
Brooke tried to open her eyes but couldn’t. She tried to fight her way through the pain that throbbed from every inch of her body. The body she couldn’t seem to move. Not an eyelid, not a finger, not even a toe.
What’s the matter with me? Where am I?
For a second, she heard sounds she didn’t understand around her—bleeping, mumbled voices of people nearby. Then crying further away. And a man’s angry cursing.
The man’s clear anger sparked something in her muddled brain. Kyle drinking all afternoon. His insisting they go to a party she no longer wanted to attend. Arguing. Him grabbing her, shaking her. When she’d spoken, he’d put a strong hand to her throat and squeezed. Finally, he’d released her and looked stunned by what he’d done. He’d never acted like that in all the many years she’d known him. She’d been in shock when he’d pleaded with her to forgive him. He’d sworn he needed her. Because of all their time together, she’d accepted his apology. She’d gone with him.
She tried again to open her eyes, to speak and get someone’s attention. Nothing.
Again, she heard men’s voices from far away. Talking about an accident, talking about her, about Kyle.
Kyle! He’d found her outside the community center talking with Tucker and he’d gone crazy. He’d accused his friend of wanting her for himself. There’d been no reasoning with him. Tucker had tried, but Kyle had knocked him down. Then he’d lifted her into a fireman’s hold over his shoulder and carried her away from the party and across the slippery parking lot. She hadn’t been able to free herself.
He’d shoved her into his truck, pushed her down until she’d been jammed between the dashboard and the seat. No matter how she’d tried, she hadn’t been able to get up as they’d raced away on the icy roads.
Somehow Tucker had caught up with them in his pickup. He’d attempted to stop Kyle’s truck but couldn’t. He’d risked his own life to help her.
Her heart pounded, and she heard the surrounding monitors bleeping louder. But she was lost in her memories. Kyle had lost control of his truck. They’d flipped, then rolled over again and again. She screamed and screamed, reliving it all.
Her screams were in her head; nobody heard them. People bustled around her, adjusted the machines, tried to talk to her. But she couldn’t seem to answer anyone.
A tear slid from the corner of one eye and she drifted away into nothingness.
