by J. J. Sorel
He stood at the door and said, “I’ll call you after the meeting.”
“I’d like that.” I smiled. “Go kill them. You’re going to do good. I’m sure.”
A tender, off-center smile grew on his face. He lingered a moment longer before closing the door behind him.
Taking it slow and easy, I made myself a coffee. That was another advantage of working for Aggie: there was no need to rush about in the mornings. I appreciated having the time to gather my thoughts and make plans.
That morning was like no other I’d ever experienced, however.
A long, sated sigh left me as I plonked down on the sofa, indulging myself in reruns of our lovemaking. My pussy ached in a pleasant way, a bit like that first workout after a long period of idleness. Only this was a million times more satisfying.
I kept staring at the key on the table.
Were we about to jump straight into a relationship?
I recalled him carving our initials on the tree. Even that almost sealed the deal for something lasting.
Nothing like that had ever happened to me before.
Although an adolescent act, that heart with our initials carved inside was so profoundly romantic that it spoke to my soul. And then there was his intense belief in us. Startling as that was, it sparked possibilities and adventure rather than niggling doubt. And so there I was, sighing with satisfaction while sinking into the spongey cushion and succumbing to the delicious promise of Bronson.
As I bounded along Fifth Avenue with a big sunny smile, I noticed people staring at me suspiciously. At first, I assumed my loud purple dress was the reason. But then something told me it was more to do with that punch-the-air vibe pushing me along, given that women wore all kinds of weird and wonderful designer outfits along there. A vintage seventies frock was hardly going to raise an eyebrow.
Walking under the red canopied entrance, I pushed the glass doors and stepped onto the mosaic floor. Lights encased in frosted glass created a shadowy foyer, almost making me forget that it was daylight.
I headed straight for the elevator, which as usual seemed to be there waiting for me.
I climbed in and greeted Charlie.
“How’s our lovely Aggie?” he asked, cheerful as always.
“She’s good. I’ve offered to take her over to the park, but she refuses to leave her apartment.”
“I haven’t seen Agatha for at least ten years,” he said.
“Really? You’ve obviously known her for a while, then.”
“Oh, sure. I’ve been here for over fifty years. I knew Ashley well.” He placed a hand to the side of his mouth as though about to reveal something confidential. “He liked his boys.”
“Huh?” Despite recalling Aggie’s admission about her husband and men, I was still shocked.
“Mm… Well, they all had to hide back in those days, I’m afraid.” His sad tone inferred that he too had a thing for men.
A flood of questions banked up suddenly. But then we arrived at the tenth floor, and a silent, frustrated sigh deflated my lungs as I stepped out, and waved goodbye to Charlie.
Rummaging in my bag for my keys, I grabbed hold of the keychain that had just become a little heavier. That key had so much significance attached to it that my heart hadn’t quite settled since Bronson had handed it to me.
I opened the door and stepped in and, as always, went straight to the balcony, only to find that Aggie wasn’t there.
She wasn’t in the kitchen or in the bathroom, so I fell onto the floral armchair in the bright living room, grateful for the rest. There I fell asleep and lost all sense of time.
When I slumped forward, I woke and jumped up. Shaking away my tiredness, I lifted my weary frame from the comfortable chair. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out. Curiously, there were no clocks around. Aggie had everything else in that room, which made sense in many strange ways because time seemed frozen there. Time didn’t even count. Not only in that penthouse but the whole building in general. Even Aggie had alluded to that in one of her many mysterious little rants.
I grabbed my cell and realized I’d been out for a whole hour. There was still no Aggie.
I looked up at the forbidden stairs, and taking a deep breath, I crept along to the base of the attractive, dark-wooded staircase. My first thought was to call out, but I desisted since I didn’t wish to wake Aggie. That was, if she slept because my heart thumped away at the thought that she might not even be alive.
With all that playing out in my head, I broke the rules, and up I went.
When I hit the landing, I paused before two large portraits. One depicted a young woman with long dark hair and big blue eyes. I presumed the portrait to be Aggie when she was a young woman. It was weird, because she looked like me, only prettier. My attention then moved to the frame next to it, a portrait of a male with a long face and a high forehead. The wave of hair sitting on top elongated his features further, and like the picture of Aggie, he too wore a serious, almost dramatic expression.
By that stage, I naturally accepted that I was looking at a young Agatha and her husband Ashley.
As I continued to study the images, I heard chatter in the distance. I decided to move toward it down the hallway. The closer I got, the more it sounded like someone in despair.
Pausing at a door, I didn’t quite know what to do. But then, recognizing that it was Aggie’s voice, I relaxed a little knowing that she still breathed, so I decided to leave and go back downstairs. Just as I turned to leave, I heard what started as a moan turn into a cry.
The door was unlatched, so I pushed it open.
I found Aggie in bed crying out, “Don’t! Monty!” as she thrashed about.
Riddled by indecision, I didn’t know what to do. Then just as I was about to leave her alone, she murmured, “Who’s there?”
“It’s Ava. I…”
She motioned to me with her hand, so I went to her bedside.
“Are you okay, Aggie? I heard cries.”
When she tried to sit up, I placed a pillow against her back. Her arms were cold, trembling, and fragile as I helped prop her up. I hadn’t noticed how skinny they were until then. In fact, Aggie was skin and bone, which only added to my concern for her well-being.
“Can I get you something?”
Her heavy lids opened slightly.
“You seem unwell, Aggie.”
“I’m not unwell, child. He’s marrying that witch.”
“Monty?” I asked.
“Yes. That gigolo. He couldn’t wait.”
“Wait for what?” I asked tentatively.
“For me. I had a plan.”
Aggie looked beyond me as if hallucinating.
“What plan?” I asked.
“Poisoning Ashley. It’s all the rage.” She turned to face me. Her pupils were dilated. I couldn’t tell if Aggie was drugged. She was certainly delirious. “That’s how to get rid of a tiresome husband.” She laughed in a raspy, frightening manner, sending shivers through me.
“Did you poison Ashley?” I asked quietly.
She shook her head. “No. He died of a heart attack. Just after Monty married.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Why did he have to marry that witch? I broke his heart. He was my first. We made love all the way to the end.”
“Up to when you married Ashley?”
“Oh, God, no. We made love all the time. He was married to that frigid, flat-chested Penny, and I was married to a fop. I needed a real man. And Monty was that, and more. His big dark eyes would eat me alive. And he was so well endowed he made me see stars. I devoured him, as he did me. We were insatiable. He was my first and my last. As I was his first and his last.”
I winced. My heart started to pound. For some reason, Bronson flashed before me just as Aggie described her dark affair.
“Why didn’t he leave her?”
“Ha… The bitch was pregnant. Unwavering loyalty made and broke the man. Monty had trapped my heart and wound it tightly around his own. But with that ch
ild on the way, something changed in him. Duty got in the way of us. We were meant to be together forever. And now we will be. Soon.”
“Soon?”
She sank back under the covers. “Leave me. I need to sleep. Tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Are you going to be okay. Should I call a doctor?”
“No doctor. Please go.”
I left with a heavy tread. My head was pounding with so many questions: Had Aggie poisoned her husband? And if so, was that what had caused the heart attack? And her affair with Monty seemed damaging but yet profoundly romantic and extreme at the same time.
After I left Aggie’s, unable to think straight, I crossed the road and headed for the gardens. With each step I took, the haywire of thoughts concerning all kinds of conspiracies slowly started to ease. Taking a deep breath, I found a measure of sanity again and lowered myself onto a bench.
I liked Aggie. She was generous and deeply fascinating, but that glint in her eyes as if she were possessed by some other force, not to mention her psychic abilities, made my veins chill.
Then I recalled the paintings upstairs. The eyes in that portrait were like mine. How could that be? What had brought me to this woman who had looked like me when she was young? Coincidence or some supernatural force?
Manhattan was hardly the setting for that. Maybe a gothic estate in countryside England, a far cry from Fifth Avenue. But then, the building did seem rather empty. It was as if time had been trapped in there, given how out of place the sophisticated eleven-story structure seemed alongside its monolithic neighbors.
Taking another deep breath, I felt like screaming from the sheer weight of endless questions.
While musing over the fine line that existed between coincidence and the supernatural, I jumped when my cell pinged. It was from Bronson, and almost miraculously, that dark veil of mystery lifted.
The message read: “The meeting went well. I’m with Harry on the site. Will catch you soon, wearing little, I hope.”
I giggled loudly and wrote back. “Only your shirt.”
Within a moment, my cell pinged again. “Lucky I’m wearing loose pants. I’ll see you in an hour?”
I tapped back, “Yes.”
When it came to sexy banter, I was out of my depth. Even so, the thought of his bulge made my panties that little bit stickier.
As I made my way back to Bronson’s apartment, I thought about Aggie and her belief that Monty would soon be in her arms forever.
Considering her daily intake of martinis, enough to challenge even the most seasoned drinker, I thought that maybe all that booze had finally made her crazy.
I exhaled a long, slow breath.
For now, passion, and maybe—even if somewhat impulsive to think of it that way—love called.
Aggie’s eccentric little world would just have to wait.
CONTINUE READING TAKE MY HEART