Devil In Her Bed Page 2

  ***

  After the therapy session, I walk across the promenade toward my car to drive home. Funny thing is, the damn car feels more like “home” to me than the house I reside in.

  The lights of the Tesla flair for an instant as I press the unlock button and slide into the driver’s seat.

  The only clutter in my life resides in the passenger seat of my Tesla. Nobody else gets in my car or anywhere near me, the plague. I pick up my yellow notepad, and review a few chicken-scratch notes I made regarding a potential client at my marketing business titled, “On Demand.” I press the phone button on the radio, deciding to call my executive assistant, Tamara, while driving home. Tamara begins with a debriefing on how close it appears we are at securing the contract. I rub my temple, driving along Main Street. There are old-fashioned gas lamps along the quaint cobblestone passageway. It doesn’t appear that On Demand is anywhere near obtaining the contract.

  I cut in, “I told you, that account has my name on it. Tamara, get me the darn account.”

  “… Siobhan, the team is doing their best with a proposal.”

  I take a deep breath. “The team.” I once nurtured my creative design team, offering support or tossing a diamond into a rather good plan in order to make it shine like no other. This is my fault and I'm arguing with a young, black woman who I saw myself as about eight years back.

  “I know, thanks.” I hang up before I can hate myself even more.

  Tamara has been on my team since I left Boulder Marketing Company in Los Angeles. The Fortune 500 treated all the junior agents like crap.

  Tamara is a godsend, toting a duffle bag filled with life jackets. I’m drowning, and instead of using her assistance, I’m bringing her down too.

  It’s only been thirty days since I transitioned from Los Angeles to Willow Bluff, but Tamara has swiftly become my robot. All of her thoughts, her words, her mannerisms with regard to clients, are of my choosing. She’s become me in every sense of the word when pitching a new potential client. And hell, she probably took on the physical role while I went through that ordeal with the LAPD harassing me as opposed to searching for Hosea.

  Pines zoom up into the gray skies as my car climbs up the hills of Willow Bluff. To the east of the one-lane street is lush forest and to the west is a drop off to the murky gray ocean. Not a cookie-cutter house is in sight. Some of the homes are situated further away from the road as is mine.

  My hopes increase as I gradually move my foot from the gas pedal. The speed limit is thirty-five miles per hour in the entire town. My car creeps down Alister Way.

  I stop at the wrought iron gates of my estate. My heart constricts and almost implodes in my chest.

  There’s a single eight by eleven, glossy photograph duct taped to the gate door. Dread slows the blood in my heart as I put the car into park. Not able to tear my gaze from the photo, I slide out of the driver’s seat and stalk toward it. I have no problem with the stalker following me here. It’s either my death or his. Though his is preferred, these are the only two choices. But I have confidence in the security system I’m currently paying hand over fist for.

  Jaw clenched, I recall the very place I was when this photo was taken. A deep breath surges through my body, tempting me to catch up on air. I hadn’t taken a single instance of oxygen since stopping before the gate. Yet now, I breathe as deliberately as I am capable of.

  The photo was not taken in my house. It captures me at the emporium. Granted, I had signed up for groceries to be delivered the second I moved, and I had also taken a trip to the store to pick out a bottle of wine to satiate my agitation.

  “At least there are no photos of me in bed…” My lips twitch. This is the closest thing to a smile I’ve been able to muster for an entire year. While descending onto the driver’s seat, I flip the bird to the photo. Might as well leave it up there. Yeah, that’s something new. And I suppose the only way I’m capable of snubbing the ghostlike bastard. The stalker seeks me every once in a while, and maybe if this photo stays up there, he’ll pass on by realizing I am unamused by his antics. He’ll fall madly in lust with some other unfortunate soul.

  That’d be a turn of luck.

  The entrance gate isn’t in the line of view of my neighbors anyway.

  Vlap. I slap the visor down and press the button. The heavy gates creak open.

  Turning the wheel with caution, I meander along the windy driveway. I glance at the security cameras that turn and track my Tesla as I go. This slice of comfort makes me sit taller. I used to be a cool girl. The chick that demolishes a Dodger hotdog while cussing out any baseball players—that aren’t the Dodgers— who also just so happened to be standing up to bat.

  A Victorian style house comes into view. There are grand towers and turrets embellished with gingerbread shingles. I almost imagine Hosea and me having a basketball team of children running around. Yet, what once was light gray and cheery in the realtor photos is now dreary and dark as seen through my hopeless eyes.

  I pull to a stop on the gravel right before my home and linger in the car. My car is the only bit of the modern world I have, even with its clutter of paperwork. I have a home office. There’re too many damn rooms in this house not to. When you move away from everything you know, and all your tangible memories are how sexy your outfit was when gliding into the leather seats before an outing, then you cling to what you know.

  After about twenty minutes of silence, I step outside. A gulp full of fresh air infuses into my lungs.

  “Tomorrow morning, I’m going to run,” I tell myself. The words barely reach up and outwards to the branches above.

  “Tomorrow morning, I’m going for a fucking run. Take a photo of that, bitch!” I shout. And then my hands clamp over my mouth as I chuckle. Dr. Beck was right; I haven’t been so communicative in ages, and though my demeanor is almost creeping me out, I feel good.

  Tamara had a four-thousand-dollar elliptical machine shipped to me a while back. The darn super machine is programmed to offer every single lump and bump in the Copacabana, Ipanema, all the way down to the token ant hill at the Fujisan Marathon in Japan, if there is an ant hill. For the first time in my life, I give up. The virtual trail isn’t the same, so I’ve only used it once.

  I used to run until my brain transformed into oatmeal and I was too weak to analyze the next account goal. Before that? Well, being from a middle-class family in San Antonio, Texas, it was either run my ass off or pay for out-of-state college. I ran like Forrest Gump toward a full-ride at UC Irvine. Running made me my first million bucks—most of which was awarded to my previous employer. The physical act is a mental exercise when it comes to my marketing business, On Demand. And if I keep losing clients, my ass is getting kicked all the way back to L.A.

  I was born a go-getter. And I have been knocked down, but once the opportunity presents itself, I will ride. Hence the reason I moved to Willow Bluff. All I need is one shot for the stalker to slip up and I'm shooting him down to hell.

  ***

  It is Tuesday morning and the fog hasn’t even begun to pull away from the effervescent green grass when I step outside of the house. It’s too early in the morning to second guess this momentary psychosis of desiring to run. I’ve already dressed in skin-tight runner pants, with the triangle-shaped, lime-green patches on the sides, a sports bra and these new five-finger shoes that have been waiting to pound some real pavement and not the electronic pathways that my treadmill has taken me on over the past thirty days.

  After pausing at the gate, I look around for any suspicious activity before getting the remote out of the fanny pack. I wait to be sure the gate is secure before starting to jog down the street. It takes an hour for me to get into the groove of running. There are other people on the road. I try to match their pace, but some are traveling too slowly and a select few are sprinting at a rate that puts me to shame.

  My eyes narrow just slightly as I notice a man in basketball trunks ahead. Dark hair is wet and slathered to his head
. The muscles in his back and legs are carved to perfection. I press on my calf muscles, attempting to close in the space between us. He’s about seventy yards out.

  It’s Lincoln Zager, the local celebrity who doesn’t appear to notice that he’s beloved by all the women. A flock of women often trail behind him. Most of the time, they’re unable to keep up as he sprints up the hill. Or when I’m driving by, from a female’s direction, I notice their smiles brighten while they’re running in teams and track their gaze to him.

  Determining that I’ll be safe following him, I stretch the length of my limbs as far as they will take me.

  The distance becomes approximately sixty yards out, and I find myself determining my breathing pattern. “Come the fuck on, Siobhan,” I silently coax myself. “If I were twenty, I’d run circles around him…or I’d be by his side at the very least.”

  The man runs like clockwork.

  Forty yards…

  Lincoln passes a stretch of willow trees that I’ve longed to run alongside since moving here. Yet, there’ll be no relishing in the iconic scenery, unless following the most eligible bachelor in town counts.

  Thirty…

  The guy turns around.

  “Are you following me?” Lincoln’s tone blows me away. His voice is unyielding, and comparable to Batman’s hard voice, not a hint of emotion.

  A towering eight-pack aligns his stomach but not a single tattoo to match his scary voice. His eyes are this intricate weaving of dark chocolate, and bits of obsidian prolong the dark angel effect. Faint lines are etched against the sides of his eyes and mouth as if he’s spent more time lost in deep contemplation rather than engaged by the flock of females who usually run along after him. Damn, I can imagine him with ruthless ambitions in a business suit. He keeps his pace while running backwards, sweat dripping over jagged muscles no less, the utter definition of king of the jungle.

  I glance away from his glacial hard features and peer over my shoulder, though fully aware he’d addressed me. Hopefully, he’ll turn around because I was almost delighted in the furtive competition of keeping up with him—at a safe distance.

  Though there’s no way in hell the man can be my stalker since he is a prominent member of Willow Bluff, I trust no man. My pace continues to slow. His does too.

  The hardness of Lincoln’s face fades. His smile is almost teasing, as if to state he is fully aware I was following him too. I die inside a little and finally nod. Wow, how easily the truth is extracted from me.

  The guy cocks his head, turns around, and his pace slows a fraction of a second.

  I reach him.

  I pass him.

  A hearty chuckle bulldozes from his sculpted physique, making the chilled blood in my veins surge to life.

  We run.

  About an hour and a half later, sweat is dribbling down over every orifice of my body. Blood slams through my veins, and my legs feel as if they’re still in movement.

  The stranger and I have made it to the top of Willow Bluff. There’s a building before us, of glass and dark wood. The wood juts out at various angles. For a sprinter like me, it is a sight to behold after such a lung-surging run.

  Cool water splashes inside my stomach, decreasing my core temperature. As I chug my water, and he drinks his down too, I take in an eyeful of his runner’s physique.

  The basketball shorts he wears is slung against narrow hips and abs that just won’t stop. Those hard abdominals compel my gaze lower, yet I force my eyes back up to the handsome features of his face.

  “Wot is your name?” he commands with a faint British accent. “I have stalkers coming out of the woodwork. Not many—actually, none of them—have ever kept up for longer than a minute or so, however, I prefer to know their names.”

  “You’re being stalked?” My eyebrow rises in disbelief.

  He laughs again. It’s tough, yet raucous. The hardness of it slams and echoes against my chest cavity, reminding me of what it's like to be alive.

  “Well bugger me,” he says, definitely British. “I meant it as a joke. Forgive me, Miss. The name’s Lincoln Zager.” He holds out a hand. “Universal communication laws imply that it’s your opportunity to share.”

  Though I already knew his name, I make no attempt to shake his outstretched hand or tell him my name. Somewhere along the road, I assumed this stranger might even play the hero, if I shouted help, though I’ve never seen my stalker up-close and personal, and I’m unaware of what the bastard looks like.

  Paranoia trickles into my psyche. Running outside the confines of my house, my gates, the purview of my surveillance cameras, was a mistake.

  Instinctively, I step backwards. I’d imagined my stalker as some fat slob. Who else has enough time to lurk in shadows? But the man before me has me by at least five inches. He has to be a cool six feet even. Every single muscle in his body has been focused on and well defined.

  Doctor Beck, what the heck did you teach me…count backwards? There’s no happy place, I have no happy place. It’s in this instant that I realize Dr. Beck has taught me zilch. For the past month, the therapist was hell bent on extracting my story. And the bastard charged me for entertainment.

  Mind inundated with the reason why I chose Willow Bluff, I am unaware as Lincoln grabs my forearm. His huge hand engulfs the entire length of it. I slap his arm. The strength of him stings the palm of my hand.

  “There is a fallen branch behind you, Miss…!” Lincoln’s voice crashes into me, and his gaze darkens in frustration. Damn, those eyes are so hard. It’s a feat just to keep my eyes from slipping away from his dominating one.

  Then he smiles but it’s not like before. It’s contrite, it's damn right eerie. “My only endeavor was to be of some assistance and not to resort to my own barmy conclusions…”

  I glance behind me. True to form, there’s a large fallen branch from an ancient oak tree, moss has begun to grow out of it, and almost blends in with the ground. Yet a few jagged pieces of wood extending from the branch could’ve done serious harm. I lick my lips apprehensively. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit uh… socially challenged. My-my name is Siobhan Lowe.”

  “Well, Siobhan, the next time you feel the urge to run with me, ’ello will suffice. Now, I could use a cup of tea.”

  Thumb cast over my shoulder, I begin, “I should…”

  “And I also could use some company,” he adds as if it’s the end all to my flightiness. Lincoln steps before me again. His presence is entrancing, and since it’s either stare at the ground or have my gaze locked onto his, I stop. There’ll be no repeat of me attempting to back away.

  “Tell me why you followed me. Tell me what made those gorgeous dark brown eyes of yours strike with fear?”

  Damn, I thought my therapist had this ability to extract information. It’s almost as if I’m compelled to tell him. Raking my teeth over my bottom lip, I mull over a possible excuse. “It’s a long story.”

  “I offered tea.” Lincoln nudges his chin toward the building.

  I glance at the massive, aesthetic structure again. “You work here? Is this a museum or something?”

  “Work? Yes. Live here? Of course, it's a nice enough place to reside, from time to time. Museum? Not necessarily, but I’ve been known to collect artifacts and antiques for investment purposes. So I suppose, all of the above, yes, Siobhan.”

  Oh, he lives here. I’d always watched him dominating the hillside, sprinting up the incline like a beast, but hadn’t noticed exactly which home belonged to him. But, my entire world pauses. The way Lincoln utters my name, it’s as if his strong body has pulled me in, his arms have wrapped around me and told me everything is going to work out. And then Hosea Murrell flashes before my eyes.

  His eyes twinkle. I don’t smile, the act something I no longer am capable of. This man is a prominent member of society, but I continue to weigh my options. It would be idiotic of me to say he doesn’t fit the bill of a stalker due to status, but crazy comes in all shapes, sizes, and socioeconomic backgro
und. However, Lincoln’s name was mentioned in the local paper for Willow Bluff’s annual wine tours and it so happened to be during the time I was in my own personal hell. He cannot be my stalker… “All right, Lincoln, if you're sure. I’m the bag lady social evolution cautions about. You’ve been warned.”

  “Very well then, Miss Bag Lady. Follow me.”

  Chapter Two

  Siobhan

  “Goodness gracious, Lincoln.” I take in a harsh breath as I enter a mansion of a home. “Everywhere my eyes land I take in Jackson Pollock, Warhol, Diego…that’s a rather impressive list.”

  He glances back at me while leading me over a bridge. “See, a museum of sorts. You know your art.”

  “Building connections with the affluent is the only road to success in my field.” I’m about to ask Lincoln about his occupation when I pause to stare at an assortment of framed comic books.

  “Most of the other fluff is for conversational or increased value purposes only. This is my most priced collection.” He stops next to me again. Close proximities work well in an art gallery, but I am a bit uncomfortable. He is damn near naked and my runner pants cling to my body.

  He doesn’t look down, the gentleman’s eyes stay connected with mine, and I almost second guess how long I’ve been out of sync with the world. Heck, what does it matter? The probability of me being Lincoln’s type is slim. Now his breath sweeps against the sweat chilling against the nape of my neck.

  “I don’t expect you’ll enjoy English tea, Siobhan?” There it is again, his ability to say my name in a manner that strikes confidence in my heart. So what, I’m probably not his type, and maybe I piqued his curiosity by running after him, but when he speaks, my attention is stuck on him.

  “I’m fine with it.”

  “Oh, no, you’re my guest.”

  “An uninvited guest,” I assure him as he again leads me along a sitting room that spans an entire football field. “Are you English?”

  “You were just cordially invited. And yes, by way of Arlington. My accent isn’t as noteworthy as it once was when transitioning to the States. Albeit, I am still able to attract beautiful women with my association to the royal duke.”