by Billie Dale
Downplaying himself means he’s a legitimate good guy, or the introvert from high school hides behind his pearly straight grin. I let his dishonesty slide because who am I to judge why someone keeps secrets when I’m seeking refuge from my own closet full of skeletons.
“From the way everyone is evil eyeing me, I’m guessing my breakage of the great chief’s heart makes me a festered hair on the town’s ass. In my defense, nine years ago, Joey Holmes was still a pimpled-faced punk, who couldn’t grow facial hair, with no life goals.”
“Take some advice from the person who could write his bio on what not to do after your girl leaves and pull out a page from the Spice Girls. ‘Say You’ll Be There’ and in the immortal words of Journey, ‘Don’t Stop Believing.’”
“Nice music alliteration,” I counter, smiling. “Joey’s not exactly receptive.” Over the stares, I decide the attention won’t fade until I leave. “I’ve got a bedroom to redecorate, a plantation to reform before my aunt returns and her head explodes, all while planning a simple yet swoon worthy wedding for my best friend.” I hand him my bank card; he waves it off deeming it on the house. “Thanks. I’ll see ya around, Creeden.” I drag my legs from the booth and squeeze my arms across my stomach, protecting myself from their loathing crawling on my skin. My teeth chew on my tongue to keep the boiling riotous outrage inside. On tiptoes, I inch toward the door, careful to not touch anyone.
“Preslee!” Creeden shouts, jogging to close the space between us. He pulls my phone from my pocket, taps the screen, and holds it up to scan my face. With it unlocked, his thumbs taps, followed by the swoosh sound of sent message, and the vibration of his own cell before he returns it to my pocket. “Look, the blame train isn’t a one-seater, no matter what this town thinks. Joey’s right there next to you. Ride your crap wave to the shore and show these people you’re not the big bad wolf who crumbled his house of sticks.” He nods to my cell. “If it gets to be too much, text me. We’ll commiserate life’s bad decisions together.” Cheeks flaming pink, he offers a sweet smile before disappearing into the kitchen.
I hear mumblings of ‘She’s at it again’, ‘She must be after his money’ even catching a few ancient insults referring to me as a trollop and floozy as the door glides closed.
Seven Mile Hell for the win.
Twelve
Preslee
Safe in the warmth of my car, I text the image of the man at Dot’s to Detective Highland. With the morning I’ve had, my interaction with her seems like weeks ago when it was an hour. Before the word read replaces sent under the message, my cell rings through the car's Bluetooth connection.
I don’t even get out a muttered hello before his rough voice vibrates my speakers, “Who the hell is this?”
“And a happy good morning to you too,” I respond sarcastically.
“Miss Carmichael, I haven’t drunk enough coffee to handle you yet, so cut to it. Who is the grainy photo of?”
I’d forgotten about the time difference. Through the line I hear the sputtering brew of a Keurig, while I relay the man’s interaction with Dotty.
“Wait, this guy offered ten grand for the contents of your teenage bedroom, and you’ve never seen him before? What about the store owner, did she know him?”
I remind him how small Seven Mile is, refreshing him on everyone knowing everyone, reiterating how mystery man is not a local or new transfer. Dot is busiest of the old biddy gossip brigade, and if she doesn’t know you, then you don’t live here. Hell, she could tell you who moved in, out, and when or if you were passing through. This man stumped her with his dollar offer, hindering her five-minute information grab. If he returns, I guarantee she’ll get the scoop, but I get the feeling he’s a one and done.
“Were you able to identify the one who claimed he was Curry?”
“Not yet. Have you ever suspected more than one man was stalking you? It’s rare for these deviants to work together, but not unheard of.”
My phone jingles, alerting a new text, as I’m parking in the circular plantation drive. I click open the text bubble from Hendrix, and a new image of a man appears above his words.
“Jesus, no.” My breath stalls and I hope if I stare at the words long enough, they will change. “That’s impossible.”
“What?” Highland grunts.
“Hendrix sent me another guy who was on his set wondering how to reach me. Introduced himself as Cash Holmes. Oh my God. He’s here.”
“You recognize the photo?”
“No. I met Cash Holmes this morning. He’s the six-year-old son of my high school boyfriend, who until an hour or so ago, I didn’t know existed,” I yell, acidic bile climbing up my throat.
“Calm down, Preslee. This doesn’t mean he’s there, but I can confirm it’s not feasible for three different men to be your stalker. He’s using proxies. Paying unfamiliar men to leave subtle messages to rattle you. This guy wants you to believe he’s lurking around every corner. He’s using your past against you. All the information he needs is available on social media. Remember the degrees of separation we discussed. Even though you’re not active, your friends are and the internet never forgets. Your generation posts selfies and shares your entire lives. Nothing is sacred. Not your friends, nor your family or the food you eat and where. It’s all right there, one screen tap away.”
“Stop with the lecture on internet safety. I haven’t been home in years, nor is Joey on any of my friends lists.” I hate him blaming this on me, even if deep down the guilt is eating me alive.
“Here in lies the problem. Samantha Gentry tagged you and two other people in a post. Unless her profile is private, it’s fair game and all the people who know the others she tagged see this post and their friends and their friends… it’s a never-ending cycle and this is just one social site. Through you, I find Samantha, who leads me to Josiah Holmes, who points me to someone named Amanda Holmes, which is where I see a little boy named Cash.
“But we set all our profiles to friends only—”
He interrupts my reasoning with logic I don’t want. “Whoever this is has been after you for seven years at least. He broke in your home on multiple occasions and snapped photos of you without your permission or awareness, not to mention paying at least three men so far to throw you off his scent, and you believe a simple privacy setting is enough to stop him?”
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask.
“Tell. Your. Friends. And. Family. NOW!”
“Hendrix won’t be home until next week— ”
“Either you warn those around you today or I’ll take matters in my own hands. This guy is off the rails and everyone who matters to you is in danger. Waiting isn’t an option. You need protection now. The Chief there is unreachable, but I’ve got a former colleague who lives a few towns over. I’ll call him and send him your way until we find a better solution.”
“No. I don’t want outsiders. I’ll invite everyone here and we’ll figure it out. You keep tracking and searching. If you can figure out who these stand-ins are, maybe we can figure out who paid them to invade my life. Stay in touch.” I disconnect the call before exiting the car.
Inside the plantation, I shuffle up the grand staircase to my room where I face-plant on the bed, no longer bothered by the shitty green color. If I keep my head buried under the pillows, I can pretend I don’t have to stand in front of my friends, informing them of some random possible dating disaster from my past polluting our lives.
∞∞∞
Warm toasted corn, savory seasoning, and a damp pillow pull me from a dreamless sleep. Stress headache tapping behind my eyes, I groan. Prying open one heavy lid, I spy a plate of cheese heavy chimichangas steaming on my bedside table. I’m still spread-eagle on my stomach, and where my head shifted against the blankets, one side of my hair pulled free of my messy bun. Several ratted strands stick in a line of crusted slobber near my mouth. A round wet spot puddles where I drooled.
The early winter sunset paints the sky hues of a
pink, blue, and purple in vibrant brush strokes between the dotted clouds and sprays fading light through my bedroom window. Rosa’s homemade tortillas and seasoned chicken deep fried and gooey with queso cheese pull a hearty growl from the pit of my empty stomach.
While I shovel forkfuls of the deliciousness, I shoot off a group message to Sammy, asking if she and Mazric will come to the plantation for coffee in morning and to bring Curry James if he’s around. I’m not sure where the guys are at in their NBA season, but I want to drop the bomb all at once.
When I take my plate to kitchen, I ensure Rosa and Nona will be around; then back in my room I email my parents since cell service is spotty in the villages where they live.
I decide the best approach for Aunt Vivianne and Hendrix is a group FaceTime call. Since Mom and Dad are too remote for this idiot to bother, I’m not overly worried for their safety. Hendrix and Viv are out in the open and too easy.
I text both to check they are available to talk. Neither responds right away. After pacing a worn path in the carpet, I tire of waiting and use reclaiming my space as a means of anxious nervous time wasting.
Arms weighted with the final three boxes, I’m trying to close the trunk with my chin as tires crunch on the concrete drive. Car doors shut and within minutes the load tightening my overtaxed biceps vanishes from my arms. Line of sight free from the blockade, I meet the half smirk and shining eyes of Mazric Vortex. Over his head towers the stunning bald head and gorgeous black face of Curry James.
I’ve never come face-to-face with the number one center in the country. The pictures I’ve seen don’t do justice to his plump pink lips and broad nose, combined with stunning green eyes under black brows. Big broad shoulders, toned corded biceps on long arms. His stretched torso meets tight wide thighs and mile-long legs. He’s a better embodiment of the Old Spice dude. Live and in person, he’s enough to make you choke on your tongue.
I’m saved from commenting by a shout. “AUNT PRESLEE!” Her youthful voice precedes fast-moving feet and a head of wild spiral curls hits my abdomen.
“Hey there, Mazzy Jae,” I say through an oomph.
“Do I want to ask why parts of your bedroom are in these boxes?” Sammy Lee asks.
I pry Mazilynn’s arms from around my waist but keep hold of her hand. “You won’t need to once you see my room. Come on, you big muscular men. I’ve already made too many trips up the stairs carrying boxes. Lug those for me,” I say, swinging Mazzy’s arm and waving them inside.
Thirteen
Preslee
“Wow, this is...” Sammy’s saucer-wide eyes take in my puke meets baby shit room décor. “Yep. Wow, is all I got.”
I share a quick rundown of Nona’s plantation overhaul as the men fidget near the door.
“Can I be here when Vivianne sees the changes? I don’t want to miss ‘the queen of calm’ losing her shit all over your grandmother's head.” Mischief glints in her overly happy eyes. Aunt Vivianne wields yoga and meditation to deal with life’s stressors akin to a druggy abusing pills. She never loses her cool, in fact, she’s entirely too chill for a person who doesn’t smoke weed. Then again, maybe she does. How else did she handle two teenagers without ever raising her voice or enacting the big grounding when we were stupid?
Rosa appears in my doorway, smiling. “Who wants some churros and coffee?”
“Woman’s speaking my language,” Curry says smacking his lips.
We move in pairs down the stairs, deciding to snack in the kitchen. No one wants to risk spillage in the white room. The sprawling kitchen remains an unchanged stainless-steel chef’s paradise. Countertop stove, double oven, dishwasher, indoor gas-powered grill, and double-door refrigerator surround the twin basin sink along one wall. A long butcher block topped island separates the room and a plush country blue booth bench lines the outer bank of windows with three chairs opposite the mahogany-stained oak table. We all take a seat while Rosa serves up cinnamon doughy goodness and rich Columbian roast coffee.
“What are you all doing here?” I ask around a mouthful of sugared churro. “Thought we were meeting tomorrow.”
“Guess my invitation to the hootenanny was lost in the mail.” His deep timbre raises the hairs on my nape as Joey strolls to the table as though it’s his own home. Mazric stands and they do the whole bro half-hug-backslap thing.
“I got a message from Hendrix requesting I stop by. He said something about his Spidey twin sense tingling,” Joey answers my unasked question.
“Same here,” Sammy offers at the same time my phone chimes with FaceTime request lit up with my brother’s face.
I answer with a serious bite to my raging hello. He orders me to hang on while he patches in Aunt Viv.
When she’s connected my brother demands I spill my guts. I hate how he reads me better than anyone else in the world. The temptation to lie is large, but I can’t risk hurting my friends to prove him wrong.
“I’m not sure where to start with all of this, so I guess I’ll go back to the beginning. When I first moved to Los Angeles my roommate hosted parties nightly. For a while I hung out in the library until they kicked me out, but I grew lonely.”
Joey harrumphs an I-told-you-so grunt. Sam slaps the back of his head before waving hand for me to continue. “I decided to see what all the hoopla was about her gatherings. I met tons of people and over time I grew to like the constant influx of people, but my grades suffered.”
Too many faces hang on my every word. Uncertainty and embarrassment tighten my skin and I need to move. Shoving out of the booth, I pace.
“After a few semesters it became obvious that if I wanted my degree, I needed a new living situation. I found a dumpy studio, not much bigger than a shoebox. It was great for a while then all the aloneness caught up to me again but instead of partying it up all night with enormous groups, I took to dating. Controlled chaos or so I believed, until I felt eyes on me all the time and then the gifts started appearing. At first it was bundles of wildflowers, then roses and candy. It was sweet and for a hot minute I enjoyed having a secret admirer, but then things started disappearing from my place.”
“What things?” Joey asks low and menacing.
“A favorite shirt I wore all the time, my mint lip gloss… inconsequential items but stuff I used frequently. The first time he stepped away from subtlety, he took intimates I’d hung in my bathroom to dry and placed a red rose on my pillow. I called the cops. They made a report and suggested I move, so I did. He always found me and the cycle began again. It remained harmless until I’d settle and go on a date. Like clockwork, the next day he’d break in and alert me of his presence. After the seventh move I kind of started seeing someone, as in went on more than one date with the same man. It pissed him off. The live vibrant blooms became dead maggot infused death and when he compromised my living space, he took all my clean and dirty undergarments. Instead of a rose on my pillow, he sliced them open, tossing the stuffing all over the room. He even started sending warnings to my quasi-boyfriend. Too much drama for any budding relationship. The cops suggested higher quality living with the security of doorman or buzzed entry. Luckily, I was making decent money by then, so I found a wonderful place in a safe neighborhood and if you weren’t on Decco’s approved list, you never made it past his desk.”
Back and forth, back and forth, my socks skate on the linoleum. My hands twist at my waist and I rush through the story faster than my breath can keep up. Dizzy and sucking in air, I hazard a look at my friends. They all wear varying masks of shock, except for Joey. Wide rapid blinking eyes, dropped jaws, and fidgeting hands.
Joey’s nostrils flare, as his posture turns ridged. His jaw ticks as he tucks his fisted hands into his crossed arms and glares me down.
“You’re here so I’m guessing he somehow got through?” Sammy Lee asks.
“I’m guessing it’s bad if the detective sent you into hiding,” Joey challenges.
“He killed my cat.”
Sammy’s hands fly to
her mouth. “Oh poor Binx.”
“There’s more.” I garble around my own withheld tears, explaining the random men who keep approaching Hendrix and the guy from Dot’s. “Joey, the last guy introduced himself as Cash Holmes.” I recoil, preparing for his verbal rage.
His face grows pensive but red rage sweeps up his neck. Curry rushes his tall frame to my side, wrapping one long arm around my shoulder. “Look, J, these people take all facets of our lives and twist them into their sick games. Trust me, stalkers, whether male or female are crazy and this guy is desperate.”
“Curry’s right.” Mazric nods. “Preslee is protected in Seven Mile where everyone recognizes an outsider but to be safe, I’ve already sent for extra security. I’ll post guards here at the plantation, at Double V, and if you need it, Joey, two can set up camp at your house. Curry already has a team and he’s staying with us for now.”
Avoiding Joey’s glare, “What about Viv and Hendrix?” I ask.
“My flight’s already booked. I leave in a few hours,” Vivianne answers.
“I’ll contact local PD and see if they can send someone to escort you. Same for you, Hendrix. Climb your ass on a plane, ASAP,” Joey demands. While inappropriate, I can’t help but notice how hot he is when he kicks in his cop mojo or the spectacular way his ass-tastic backside leaves a room.
Therapy. Certain I need some. Is there a pill to cure hate-lust and bad timing thoughts? Because if he detested me an ounce before, he despises me a ton now.