by Billie Dale
Fourteen
Joey
Cash. This son of a bitch used my boy as an alias. I’m beyond furious. Preslee brought a shitstorm to our doorsteps, but the terrorized tears in her eyes and ghastly pale complexion hinders the ass-chewing waiting to fall from my lips.
Crime in Seven Mile Forge is the occasional drunk and disorderly from our resident tractor driver, petty shoplifting from overzealous teens, and the drug herd, which I cracked down on when I joined the force because I knew most of them. A man obsessed with the woman who broke my heart wasn’t part of the instruction manual. I brushed up on stalking when Mazric moved back to town but an eager fan is not a cat-killing impersonator who steals panties.
A shudder of revulsion skates down my spine from the deluge of wondering what he does with her satin and lace. Panty sniffers creep me the fuck out.
I suspected a story behind why she returned, figured she skipped out on another boyfriend. Never in my wildest could I think she ran home to hide.
Ah shit. The calls from California were trying to confer with my department on her safety. Go ahead. Label me Officer Dumbass; I deserve it.
She passes around her phone, showing us who to look for. I draw a blank on the first two. But I’ve seen the one from the secondhand store. Now if I could just remember where. She shared Highland’s conclusions on these guys’ name choices. But I’m not taking any liberties with my son. My first order is to assign a few of my best men outside my parents’. Next, I need the rest of her family where we can protect them as a unit.
After Viv and Hendrix confirm their flight, I step out of the room to call Trudy, so she can coordinate with the respective departments to offer an escort and send a patrol unit down my parents’ street. I don’t want to alarm my mom, so for tonight I order them to sit across the street.
Mazric offers security, but I only trust my own with my son.
I ask Trudy to log in from her home server and tell me what she finds about the man working Preslee’s case.
The woman may be old, but she’s lightning quick with a computer. I hear her fingers clacking at the keys and within minutes she’s relaying what she’s found.
Detective Brick Highland is a well-respected member of the Los Angeles Police Department. High accommodations over his fifteen-year career, including being one of the youngest officers appointed to detective. As cops our pay is peanuts so in his early years on the force, he side-gigged as private detail for a few high profile actors.
After his detailed dossier, we disconnect and she texts me his number. A tap later and his line rings once before a hissing gruff tone answers, skipping past pleasantries. “’Bout fucking time you returned my call. If Miss Carmichael hadn’t been in contact already, I’d been beating down your damn door. Bad form, Chief.”
“Cool it with the shit slinging,” I snap, pacing the god-awful white living room. Cash could stain this monstrosity even after he’s bathed. “There is history at play here you don’t understand, plus a wintery mix we were unprepared for. I’ve had my hands full the last few days. I’m sort of up to speed. Now tell me what you aren’t telling Preslee.”
“What makes you think I haven’t told her everything?”
“Because this isn’t your first rodeo, man. We’re a small community and don’t deal with this shit, but I can’t risk him hurting her on my watch, plus the motherfucker’s using my son's name. Stop yanking me around and spill.”
“Ah, so you’re the ex. Huh. Explains her freak-out. Like I told her, this guy’s name-dropping to scare her. It’s telling because he knows which ones hit the hardest. We ID’d the three men he’s used. All have novel thick rap sheets, but none link to each other. At least not through any connection I can find. They all served time for cybercrimes. Identity theft, dealing in cryptocurrency, and a bunch of other bullshit I don’t understand.” He sighs through the line before continuing, “I can’t find any link to Preslee Carmichael and without some federal help; I don’t possess the manpower to track them through the dark web. I can tell you they are puppets and the guy we want is the one pulling their strings.”
Preslee mentioned how things worsened with her last move. “Any clue what made him escalate into violence? From what she said, he was kind of benevolent in a pain in the ass way until now.”
“Can’t say for sure, but he devolved fast. I’m still trying to locate these guys. We need one to question and usually these geeky types break quickly, but damn are they good at covering their tracks. Between you and me, I think he knows where she is. This asshole’s good, Holmes. Wiley and resourceful with unfettered knowledge about Miss Carmichael’s life. Stay on your toes and we’ll talk if something new pops up. Make sure you answer next time I call.”
The line beeps, signaling he hung up. I run a hand through my hair, fisting the strands until they burn. “Jesus fuck, this is a hella mess,” I grumble, stepping back in the kitchen.
Curry still stands with his arm around Preslee, holding her tight on his chest under his chin. Jealousy punches my gut.
“J man, Imma stay here tonight with Elvis to keep everything copacetic and you can go home to protect your own.” His bright toothy grin sends my palm to the Taser on my hip, but I can’t justify a high-voltage electric shock to a famous NBA player. Though the paperwork might be worth taking down the behemoth cheeky bastard.
“No,” I snap, “I’ve covered my family and I’ll stay here until Mazric’s guys get here. You three,” I point to Curry, Samantha, and Maz, “stay close if you can. I know you have practices and shit, so keep security tight until we know who we’re dealing with. Make sure Joe and Johnny ready their shotguns. I appreciate the offer, Curry, but Gayle Carmichael is a tough nut to crack and I have history. Plus, when Vivianne sees this house we could all end up cannon fodder.” I chuckle but, in my head, I’m dreading Viv’s return because the space station will see her nuclear reaction.
They all stand. Sammy wraps Preslee in a tight hug. “I’ll come over in the morning and we can deflect the worry by stressing over wedding planning instead.” Preslee returns a grim smile, nodding in agreement, and walks them all to the door.
As the heavy oak clicks shut, she turns meeting my eyes but she can’t hold them. “Stop. You didn’t ask for this. I wish you would’ve told me—”
“Yes, because your version of the Welcome Wagon was so warm and encouraging of conversation,” she bites back, but her vigor fades. “I’m sorry he drug your little boy into the mess.”
“This douche is grasping for anything to make you jump out and say, ‘Here I am.’ He tried using Curry, when it didn’t work, he moved on to Cash. Curious how he didn’t use me.”
My cop brain kicks in. “Come on. Let’s go to your room. I have a theory.”
“Right, ‘cause the last time we were in my room proved fortuitous,” she mumbles, hedging forward on shuffling feet to the majestic, wide staircase.
Behind her I admire the second skin mold of her leggings framing her plump, delicious, round ass with each thigh-flexed step she takes. The woman is five foot nothing, but her legs seem miles long. She’s added weight over the years and it landed in all the right places.
“I can feel you staring at my ass.”
“I’m still a man, Pres, and you’re still rockin’ a terrific backside.”
She pauses mid-step, frowning at me over her shoulder. I hold my hands up in defense, offering her an unapologetic shrug and a wink. Her cheeks pink before she huffs and jogs the remaining way to her room.
I slow my pace, reminding my dick how she minced us up and spit us out. No matter how good the years have been to her, she is still the devil. With my body under control and anger firmly notched in place, I step through the door prepared to face the slap of history and pain.
“Jesus, Preslee, your room is the shade of what a cat horks up after eating grass.” I cringe, happy for the change because it keeps me from reeling, but the color is awful.
Fifteen
Preslee
> The boxes the guys carried in earlier sit stacked against the wall, but the green is hard to miss. I flop down on my bed, watching Joey’s shoulders relax the longer he glances around my room.
“What was your idea? I’m tired and my limit of Joey-time is charging overage fees. Spit it out so you can grab a guest room. The sooner morning comes, the quicker you leave.” I can’t for the life of me understand why he volunteered to stay, anyway. Curry is a perfectly acceptable babysitter for the night. I mean, only a crazy man would tangle with a six foot seven, ripped NBA center, who appears decidedly frightening until he turns on his glistening, childlike smile.
“Hand me your list,” he demands, to which I respond with a confused stink eye. “Any cop worth their salt ordered you make a list of names when the stalker made himself obvious. Any and all people you’ve dated, chatted with, or knowing you, pissed off over the last nine years.”
“Riiiiiigggghhhhttt,” I drawl, “they’ve all checked out.”
“Woman, just give me the damn list.”
“Look, I didn’t ask you to stay. You volunteered so take off your asshole hat. I didn’t come back to make your life hell. I’m here because this person wants to Buffalo Bill my ass in a hole, telling me to use the lotion while he prepares to sew a suit out of my skin. If you can’t work around our past, fucking leave. I’d rather take my chances with the man behind the curtain than the one killing me with his eyes.”
“Wrong. From what I’ve researched, it’s more of a You situation than Silence of the Lambs. He wants a human blow-up doll to play with, before he realizes having isn’t the same as wanting and sacrifices you as homage to the demon of psychopaths without dates.” He plops down next to me releasing a chest-caving sigh around an apology.
A snorting chuckle barks from my lips. The situation is beyond preposterous. I reach to the side of the bed for my media bag and grab my notebook. He was correct in assuming I compiled a growing list of names. The downside of working on movie sets is the volume of people I encounter and sadly the number of those I anger. Makeup doesn’t work miracles. Just saying.
At first, I listed men I dated, but when those petered out and the stalking accelerated, I began adding everyone I talked to. They are color-coded based on familiarity and organized by association. I’ve had lots of time on my hands since dating with a psycho up my ass is nearly impossible.
His eyes grow saucer wide as he flips through the multiple pages. Huge names in Hollywood fill the lined sheets. Male, female, producer, director, actor, actress, stagehands… all are fair game now with Binx dead.
“The blue highlights are those I dated, the pink represent people I’ve worked with, yellow means friends, and green is miscellaneous. For instance, the guy at Starbucks who makes my coffee daily or the sandwich cart girl who prepares my lunch is green.”
“There’s a ton of names here. Highland checked these?” he asks incredulously. “You haven’t dated anyone for four years?”
“If there is a star next to their name then yes, they’ve had an alibi provided by managers, agents, or questioning. And no to your other question. When one lives in their very own Fatal Attraction, complete with pet killing, the dating scene turns volatile. For instance, first date lingo should never include warnings of the potential for death or dismemberment for kissing me goodnight.”
Internet dating is bad enough without worrying the man stalking you will catfish his way to your door. Plus, I explained my situation to a few guys, who seemed sweet and understanding; with the hopes one would enjoy my company enough to pony up for protection. Turns out, what’s in my thong wasn’t incentive enough to lay their ass on the line.
Did I mention men suck? Like take it up the ass without lube while drunk and unsuspecting, suck?
“You’ve been dating dickless pussies.”
“Well, they can’t all be hometown, golden boy cops with adorable sons and a broken edge. And aren’t all pussies dickless?”
He scrubs a hand down his face to hide his grin over my literal interpretation of his comment. “Jesus, you’re impossible,” he mumbles shaking his head.
When his eyes land on mine again, heat and sincerity swirl his blue irises darker. “If they were worthy enough for you to grant them a second glance and spend a minute of time gazing into your eyes, an hour enjoying your witty smarts, and basking in the light of your smile, then they were lucky.” He tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. The warmth of his fingers sends a jolt down my spine. “Becoming your knight in shining armor by slaying the stalker is a bonus. Providing you with even a millisecond of safety to erase the worry from your forehead is worth laying your life on the line.”
I drown in the deep swirling sea of his eyes. Each of his words stabs all the festering insecure places I fight daily. The boy I loved lives in the pale gold flecks surrounding his pupils. Surfers and movie stars can’t hold a candle to the first man I gave my heart to. As I lean closer, he recoils, blinking his long lashes he shakes his head, scooting away from my advance he trains his stare on the paper.
He drops the notebook on my lap. “Go through these again, checking for someone who knows your past or where to find it, and any you think would be efficient with technology.”
I gulp around the lump of his rejection in my throat, chastising myself for even trying. The past might not be able to hurt you, but the reminder of it slices and dices better than a Slap Chop.
He says he is sleeping in my brother’s room on the other side of our Jack and Jill bathroom, claiming he wants to stay closer than the guest rooms down the hall. I listen to the water kick on then off as he readies for bed. The click of the adjoining door descends me into silence.
With nothing but the shadowed light of a tiny bedside lamp, I pour over the names, analyzing each in a way I haven’t yet. Determined to find something, I fight the sleep weighing my lids for hours until the inked words become a blob.
Seconds after my eyes close, I hear the trademark creaking of the old wooden floor outside my room and a terrifying scratch down my thick oak door.
Settling. The house is doing its thing as it did when I was a teen. Those nights of sleeping in a heap with Hendrix and Vivianne were fodder of an overactive imagination and a fixation with all things haunted. I’m an adult now, dammit.
I convince myself long enough for my lids to close. The thumps on the floor grow louder, acerbating the echoed steps. Low and distanced, the sound of nails against paint has me clenching my hands into fists. Closer, closer, it inches. Slow, methodical, until it stops.
Whew. I exhale, hoping the restless spirits are done for the night. The bang of a fist hitting my door sends me scurrying to my feet.
Nope. Nope. Nope. I chant in my head, speeding so fast through the bathroom I’m not sure my feet touch the ground. I dive on the bed and crawl toward the headboard. My feet dig under Joey’s side, as I pull my knees to my chin and squeeze my eyes closed.
“What the hell are you doing?” he grumbles, lifting on his elbows. I don’t remember flipping on the bathroom light but he’s haloed in yellow so I must have. Hell, I’d crank up the sun if it meant the spooky would dissipate.
The higher he sits, the lower the sheet falls, and oh glorious rib coverings. There ain’t an ounce of flab anywhere, and woohoo, yummy day, ink climbs one side. Thick to thin swirling, jagged, black lines blend into elegant lettering I can’t make out because it rolls over the hills and dips in the valleys of his hard body.
It’s obvious he isn’t the hunched skinny boy I remember who preferred chocolate milk to coffee, but damn milk did his body good. Perhaps he chose to dead lift the cow instead of ingesting all the dairy goodness. My fingers flex, twitching to weave through the light hair smattering his pecs and follow the happy trail valley over the hills to the promised land.
“The hills are alive with the sound of orgasms,” my flustered hormones sing.
He snaps his fingers before my eyes, breaking me from my muscle drunkard, lusty, show-tune-singing stat
e. “Preslee, why are you in my bed?”
“M-m-monsters. Ghosts, goblins, soul eaters… in the hallway… scratching... banging… need Egon, Ray, Peter, Winston, and a proton pack…. or Sam and Dean… or a priest…” I can’t string a complete sentence together. My thoughts scatter and all my fear from moments ago drowns in the pooling blood between my thighs. Can’t be afraid without brain juice and my current predicament is chanting, We don’t need no stinking smarts, it’s the vagina for the win.
“There’s someone here?” He leaps out of the covers, landing on his feet all comic book hero style. If I tried that move, the sheet would tangle around my ankles and I would face-plant in spectacular spread-eagle fashion on the floor. Not Joey Fucking Holmes, no sir. And fuck me thrice on Thursday, he’s only wearing skintight, I can see all the glory, thigh squeezing, junk hugging briefs.
Eye porn overload. RED ALERT. RED ALERT.
Each and every muscle is prone and taut. He grabs his gun before yanking open the door. It’s slow-motion spank bank material I wish I could record. Fuck me, his backside is almost as scrumptious as his front. The spaghetti noodle-like boy I frolicked with had magnificent glutes and now they’ve developed playmates. Indented, corded thighs and flexed calves accentuate the biteable round high cheeks, and his back is a map of strength I yearn to trace with my tongue. He truly adds the maximus in gluteus maximus.
Totally inappropriate thinking for the time, but if I’m to be sacrificed by the spirits haunting Carmichael Plantation, then why the hell not go down with muscle drunk lids heavy with sexy man?
He grabs my wrist, yanking me off the bed, to tuck me behind him before he peeks in the hall. Testosterone and bravery vibrate in a shield around him, wafting with the fabric softener from the sheets he slept in and the soapy scent of him. I fuse my softness to his jaggedness, enjoying the sheer volume of him until the destruction outside the door bitch-slaps me with reality.