Devil In Her Bed

  Jessica Watkins Presents

  DEVIL IN HER BED…

  Amarie Avant

  Copyright © 2017 by Amarie Avant

  Published by Jessica Watkins Presents

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Without limiting the right under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements:

  To my Lord and Savior, You have given me a gift. With God first, and at the forefront of all my endeavors, I have the victory!

  Thank you, Jessica Watkins, for giving me a chance. I am truly grateful for your guidance and the JWP family. The moment I signed to your publishing company, I could see that you’re a cut above.

  Janice Ross and Dormaine G, I am blessed to have you two awesome authors as true friends and sisters.

  To my fans and those who have just decided to open up Devil in her Bed, you readers are awesome. The encouragement is out of this world. My Facebook group is the best!

  Dedication:

  As always, Brandon, you are my everything. My husband is my first reader and my therapist when I have doubts. And trust me, in the mental health field, there is an abundance of confusion, doubt, and need for ‘inner peace’ LOL.

  Last, but certainly not least, a big shout out to my momma! Our crazy chat about Lifetime Movie stalkers during a hike this past holiday season has truly upped the ante for this story.

  Prologue

  The Stalker

  “Hosea, is that you?” The sweet taste of fear laces to Siobhan’s tone, coating her precious tongue as she speaks into her cell phone. Skin the darkest shade of chocolate is supple, yet clammy since she had half dried while dressing in a silk camisole and matching shorts.

  Her knuckles are taut as she holds the iPhone tightly. “Are you at the door?…Okay, Hosea, I’m getting up now…”

  Thirty-year-old Siobhan bounds to her knees, shoving a shaky hand through her hair which is a mass of wet, chestnut coils. She scampers off the bed, jumping to the glossy wood floors about a foot away, almost as if she believes the boogeyman resides beneath.

  But, the boogeyman currently lurks in her closet. A ski mask covers the stark contours of my angular face. Jaw clenched, I stand in steel-toe boots, my leather-gloved hand pressed firmly against the door.

  Siobhan isn't my first obsession nor did she look like any of the others. Every last one of the others had all been blondes with bright emerald green eyes. In some form or fashion, they all reminded me of my childhood love. Her look. Her laughter. The way she glanced at me as if nobody in the world existed.

  Almost twenty years ago, I had lost the love of my life and I’d been all but nineteen when I’d met the first young woman who’d reminded me of her. But she wasn’t her, and so she’d had to die.

  Over the years, each one would set off certain memories that no amount of therapy or medication could remedy.

  But fifteen other blondes paled in comparison to the black beauty before me.

  Two months ago, my path collided with Siobhan's. The instant I’d laid eyes on Siobhan, no other would do.

  After leaving the army, I had worked as a paramedic in Los Angeles. I’d been off duty, and in the car across from Siobhan’s the night another man's car had wrapped around a light pole. At first, I’d been in shock. Not due to the raw severity of watching a man being propelled through the front windshield. I’d been much too desensitized. I had watched Siobhan take flight from the passenger seat of a car a few paces back. She’d dashed right past me, and then she’d stopped in the middle of the street.

  I had gotten out of my car and watched her stand beneath a streetlight in total shock. Who was she to the other driver? Her pain had been too raw to be just a bystander. The horror alight in her eyes had churned my emotions. Her shaking hands, tears streaming down a flawless face–everything about her had made me alive. Then she’d ran to the broken man, and I ran after her. The sight of the man whose brains were splayed across the ground took the light out of Siobhan’s eyes. Later, I learned that they’d been siblings just a year apart. I had fed off her horror.

  Her pleas for help had compelled me. Siobhan had needed me. Nothing could touch the thought of being needed; it was a new feeling to me, being needed. And she still did. She had become my oxygen.

  Footsteps echoed against the hallway. I determine that she has just about made it to the front door of her Los Angeles apartment.

  “Shavon, Shavon,” I whisper to myself, recalling the first time I noticed a piece of mail on her counter with the odd spelling.

  There is a clank as Siobhan unhooks a chain from the safety lock. The perception of safety had locked her in her home with me, a man she so feared. The deadbolt slides and the door seems to crash open.

  “D-don’t kiss me, Hosea.” Siobhan’s tone is faint from her distance.

  Hosea Murrell patronizes, “C’mon, Siobhan, why’d you honestly call me over? With your Type A personality, I assumed you needed a cover-up to call me over. A stalker? Seriously?”

  Her voice grows loud, closer. “Yes, really! There’s no game playing going on here. Someone is watching me. Someone is outside watching. In the middle of the night, I’ve seen a figure sitting on the bench across the street. The other day, there was a black rose laying on that very bench.”

  “Siobhan, this makes no sense. You made a rash decision to move here a few weeks ago. Maybe you’re just not fully acclimated to the building. Remember when we were shopping around for places? We drove by our condo at least a hundred times, at all hours of the day and night, to satisfy your need to be in control. And then we ended up in a bidding war.”

  “Hosea, it isn’t the damn place. And a few weeks ago, I wasn’t some dumb kid moving from my childhood home in San Antonio to live in L.A. with my boyfriend. I’m a grown-ass woman, and I am fully aware someone is watching!”

  “You’re shaking.” Hosea’s voice decreases since hers intensifies.

  “No, I’m not shaking, I’m fucking pissed. Look, I'm glad you came by. The cops say they've got a few more patrol cars in the area. Whatever.”

  “The cops?”

  “Yeah,” she yawns.

  “Fuck. We're going to handle this first thing in the morning. For now, Siobhan, when’s the last time you’ve slept?” he asks as they enter the bedroom.

  Hosea’s back blocks my view of my possession. The light-skinned guy keeps his hair tapered around the edges and kinks at the crown. Siobhan’s ex-boyfriend is dressed in flannel pajama pants, a hoodie, and it appears he’d shoved his tennis shoes on without socks just to get to her in time.

  Too bad for him there will be no savior for Siobhan, only Hosea’s demise.

  Hosea rubs a hand over her shoulder. “Babe, I just asked when is the last time you slept. And for how long?”

  “This morning. The answer to your second question, I’m assuming you mean a full night’s rest? Well, not since…not since you and I…” She stops speaking. Hosea will always be the love of her life, but she had pushed him away after Sammy’s death.

  Hosea failed Siobhan and I’ve been there for her ever since.

  “All right, I know you don’t want me to touch you. But if you can bear my company for the night.” Hosea measures each word, all attempts to get
back into her good graces.

  Siobhan nods slowly, her shoulders weighed down by hesitancy. Hosea seems expectant. I glare even harder, contemplating the other man's death.

  My breathing eases when Siobhan utters a simple thank you while she climbs back into bed with Hosea in tow; this time not afraid of what may or may not have lurked beneath it as she slowly maneuvers onto the pillowtop mattress. “Don’t get any bright ideas.” She almost smiles, attempting a joke.

  “The instant I laid eyes on you, the bright idea I had faded, Siobhan. We’ve been friends since you were just Sammy’s snot-nosed little sister. Guess I’d have to be a moron to believe you were actually letting me back into your heart, and this stalker dynamic was a ruse to get me over here.”

  “I love you, Hosea, and damn, I wish that my mind was playing tricks on me. Hell, I wish we could go back two months ago.”

  “Babe, the only place to venture is forward and I got that line from you.”

  “Thanks, but I don't want to hear how strong I am or was. Not tonight.” She cuddles in the crook of Hosea's arm.

  “All right, Ms. Lowe, you know damn well you are a strong black woman. I've been lucky enough to stand back and admire you.”

  As Hosea bares his heart to her, my entire being lights with fire, a rage which will soon be kindled. He’ll do more than harp. He will scream until his throat is filled with blood.

  “I'm getting sleepy,” Siobhan mumbles, breaking into her ex’s attempts. She changes the subject. “My mom would kill me for the lack of Southern hospitality. Want anything to drink?”

  My hands press against the doorframe, pupils dilated. My throat constricting for a moment. “No. Say no.” Hosea doesn’t need to drink any water.

  Siobhan always keeps a case of Smart Water on the bottom rack of her nightstand table. The entire pack had been opened, laced with a twilight anesthetic, and resealed. Siobhan had drank about half of a bottle, which has always been my measure of how much was enough. She needs at least that for the full effect of sedation. Often, I lay in bed with her once she is fully sedated. Her soft body molding against mine makes the small deception worth it.

  Hosea claims my spot tonight, holding Siobhan closely, but Hosea Murrell doesn't need sedation. I prefer my victims to be fully aware. What is the pleasure in punishing those who are not cognizant? And Hosea Murrell needs to suffer.

  Hosea replies, “Nah, I’m good.” His voice is heavy, almost lingering. He has more to say, but caves. Clearly, she has the balls in their relationship. “Let’s get some rest.”

  Hosea turns the light off. The room is cloaked in darkness. As quiet as possible, I slip the night goggles from the back pocket of my Levi’s and apply them over my eyes.

  Jealousy permeates and burns down my veins as Siobhan sighs in her sleep. Her dreams are always restless when I lurk around. It’s as if she perceives my presence even during those rare occasions when I prefer her ignorant company.

  Siobhan sleeps with Hosea’s arms wrapped around her, and I imagine being the recipient of her affections.

  “I love you, Siobhan. I am so sorry,” Hosea breathes into her skin, rubbing strands of hair behind her ear. Simultaneously, a soft moan levels out her breathing.

  “Fuck your love.” My lips hardly move.

  Slowly, a tingling floods my senses. A rush of adrenaline heats my skin. Not now, give her a chance to mellow out. The sedative needs to worm through her veins and level out her core.

  I hold up my wrist, press the side of my Apple Watch, and realize that my intuition is right. It’s just about that time.

  Time for Hosea Murrell to die.

  Precisely fifteen minutes later, I toy with my prey by grazing a hand against the wooden door, just enough to deploy a faint sound. Hosea’s body shoots into an erect position. He peers through the darkness. A smile hitches my mouth. Again, I scratch softly.

  Siobhan’s ex rubs the back of his neck, no doubt contemplating if he’s hallucinating or not. At an undeniable sound of movement, Hosea seems to recoil for a second and then he decides not to be a fucking pussy. His legs swing over the side of the bed.

  “Siobhan, did you hear that?” he whispers. “Siobhan…”

  “Siobhan’s asleep,” my voice broke through the night.

  Hosea sucks in a shocked bit of air as the closet door bursts open.

  Grabbing the jagged-edged knife from my utility belt, I pounce.

  The blade stakes through the side of Hosea’s rib cage. A ribbon of delight slithers through my soul. This is the part I love almost as much as I love Siobhan Lowe.

  Chapter One

  Siobhan Lowe

  (Northern California, One year later…)

  “I used to be a wolf. Damn, I could do anything better than a businessman, so much better. I was cocky, not that I didn't count my blessings, but in my line of work, you had to be. I left one of the biggest marketing firms in Los Angeles on a wing and a prayer and started my own business. I brand items. I have made myself knowledgeable of all aspects of a consumer cohort enough to dethrone at times larger, more seasoned marketing companies. I read people. But some faceless person has read me so well. Some motherfucker knows more about me than I'm beginning to know about myself. I am losing myself.”

  I take in a gulp of air and rub my hands over my face while sitting in the hot seat, a mint green suede chaise that’s dead center in the middle of the therapist’s office. Though the room is the epitome of Feng Shui, the floor to ceiling window adjacent from the therapist frames choppy gray water off the Pacific coast.

  “Continue,” Dr. Beck urges.

  Does he know what impossibility he has just asked me?

  “Continue? Shit, I…” I sigh. “My knees hurt. I’ve fallen to them on many occasions to pray to God that my stalker finds someone else—prettier, smarter.” I almost chuckle. “I used to thank God for blessings. I used to acknowledge Him for being of sound mind, health, family…”

  Hosea.

  I pause once more, throat constricted. There's a mirror across the way from me. I glance at myself. A velour set drowns athletic curves that once were kissed by tailored pantsuits and designer dresses. In my field, I spoke quickly and precisely. I was the ultimate predator, an eagle swooping down to catch multi-million dollar accounts.

  Pale gray eyes, shrunken by the depth of his glasses peer up at me as Dr. Beck sits on the opposite side. He's compelling me to use my voice.

  “In Los Angeles, I was at the top of the totem pole as far as suspects goes, due to Hosea's disappearance. I argued with the lead detective on the case until I literally felt like suffocating in my own skin. I told the bastard about a runner-rug on the side of the bed. The one on my side was there, the matching rug on Hosea’s side, conveniently gone. No trace evidence of blood as the damn cops would say. I’d wager that all the evidence landed on the runner-rug. The cops never found Hosea.”

  Dr. Beck taps the tips of his fingers as he listens intently.

  “They saw me as lucky, as the ‘scot free’ ex-girlfriend who lost her mind and did away with Hosea myself. I’m not free, Dr. Beck. I’m in the hell of another man’s making. A man that I don’t know shit about. Do you know how that sounds?”

  My voice drowns out. Outside of the picturesque window, seagulls are just about tearing each other apart over a minuscule amount of food as they soar through the air. “Some no-name motherfucker knows me in intimate ways. And Hosea, he is dead. Some days I know he's dead, some days I have hope and…and I will forever regret not forgiving him over what now seems so trivial.”

  He sits forward instantly. “Yes! Let’s talk about this, Siobhan, this inability to forgive yourself for not forgiving him. Come back to me, Siobhan. You’ve never divulged so much in one session. The purge process is just the beginning. What were you thinking just now?”

  “That I look like a great candidate for the show, Snapped. I'm not sure if I've pushed myself away from family or friends, or if they have steered clear of me. So here I am, four
teen months after Samuel has…” Damn, I still can't say the word. My mind is spinning a mile a minute. I switch topics back to the love of my life. “I was going to apologize to Hosea the next morning. Tell him I had never lost someone so close to me. You gotta understand, Hosea wasn't just my man. He was the goofy boy in elementary school who thought pulling my ponytail was a sure sign that I liked him too. He had become my everything for so long. He was part of my oldest set of memories, just like Sammy. So, after Sammy, I pushed him away. I've excelled in the art of pushing people away now.”

  “I see. You've been in Willow Bluff just shy of a month. How are you adjusting?”

  I shrug. “Um…I don’t know. It’s different than Los Angeles. I suppose if I’m truly the target of someone’s obsessed fixation and…and the person determines that they’d like to show themselves, I have no neighbor for help. But then again, on the other hand, I’ve got twenty-foot walls and a fortress that cost a fortune. The security system is a bitch to crack, or so I’ve been told. I know how to sell shit—or at least I did—so I'm skeptical.”

  I pause, fingernails wedging into the soft flesh of my palms.

  “I’ve never been so weak in my life. I’ve never been so alone, either. The next morning, after Hosea’s disappearance, all that was left of him was a single black rose.” Just like I have done with family and friends, I shove that image away. But I need to switch gears, aside from flip-flopping subject to subject. I don't want to inadvertently explain to Dr. Beck why I really moved here. How I have adjusted to Willow Bluff.

  Maybe I have snapped.

  California doesn’t have a law against protecting yourself in your own home. I've spent money on security cameras all around my home. The charming town of Willow Bluff is about a hundred miles north of San Francisco. The entire town sits on a bluff, overlooking the sea with a population of less than three thousand, yet the median household annual income is pushing $320,000. Everyone has assets to keep safe. I am my biggest asset.