by Ellen, Tracy
Courted by Karma
The Adventures of Anabel Axelrod
(Volume II)
by Tracy Ellen
Courted by Karma by Tracy Ellen
Copyright © 2013 by Tracy Ellen
Amazon Edition, License Notes.
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Dedication
This second book is for all the wonderful women I’ve been fortunate enough to have in my life. Thank you for your friendships and love.
TE
Cover Art
by Corrie Erickson
Special Thanks to the Contributing Editors
Kelly Beausoleil
Amber Leigh Gleisner
Beth Lake
Shannan Robinett
Table Of Contents
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapte II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Epilogue
Prologue
Wednesday, 11/21/12
5:03 AM (CST)
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Guten Morgen!
Dear Number Four Granddaughter,
I read your email first after returning to civilization in Egypt. (There were 24 in my inbox.) Good Lord, Miss Agnes; what a weekend you had! I’m very proud of you, although defending yourself and others comes as no surprise to me. Were you born a man, Anabel, your testicles would be enormous. Feel free to ask Charles Barkley to open the safe in my condo—you’ll know why.
I spoke with Anna and Bob Crookston earlier. What a sad state of affairs. This is a prime example of why we should never underestimate the inherent dangers of mental complacency. When reading our history, it’s easy to see this lazy condition is nearly as evil as the unchecked wickedness it allows to flourish. Aunt Lily was a known quantity and therefore not a dangerous stranger to us. The wrongness of her escalating bad behavior was shrugged off with indifference. We’re blessed with instincts for a reason, dearest, do you not agree? We need to always listen and use them. Perhaps undiagnosed Alzheimer’s or some other degenerative disease may help explain Lily’s extreme behavior?
Jasmyn is excited about the purportedly amazing man she is considering for partnership. I’m interested what your thoughts are concerning this James Byrd. Your description of Luke brings to mind your grandfather. He, too, was quite boisterously athletic. My plane is called. Happy Thanksgiving, enjoy your visit with Layla, and my love to all. Auf Wiederesehen, Schnucki!
Chapter I
“Should I Stay Or Should I Go Now” by The Clash
Tuesday, (technically Wednesday morning) 11/21/12
12:47 AM
We were going in dark again. For the second time in only a few days, I find myself bouncing and swaying in the front seat as we slowly blunder down the deeply rutted, but snowplowed lane towards Luke Drake’s farm. My laughter at the rough ride is entirely due to the terrible conditions of the long driveway and has absolutely nothing to do with the vodka shots I practiced tossing back all evening at our impromptu little soiree at Bel’s Books. Anna’s stash bottle of whipped cream-flavored vodka was so tasty and went down so easily; I could have been squirting a can of Ready-Whip directly into my mouth. Since I have been known to do this upon occasion and I never did have any dinner tonight; I am licking the red lip gloss off my mouth just thinking about one of those cold cans of creamy delight.
The next jolt of the road jolted my brain, too. I felt a little shocked when I realized that I’m acting like a regular girl again.
‘Holy crapola, I’m probably performing another classic move!’
Jaz and Tre would be so proud of me and they’d probably have a proper title for this move, too. Not that I’ll ever know what that title would be since they’ll never know about tonight. I’m making an executive decision here. In honor of whipped cream, I’m calling my plan “His Turn with a Cherry on the Top”.
Leaning forward and bracing against the dash, I forgot my growling stomach and laughed maniacally in excited anticipation.
I was in total accord with that playful sex kitten voice purring in my head, ‘This is going to be so much fun!’
My name is Anabel Katrina Axelrod, and I am many things. Some are good, some are not so good, and some are downright warped. But one thing I am not is a welsher. Once given, my word is gold.
When my alcohol-drenched brain comprehended Luke’s text message ordering me to open the envelope, I took a fortifying sip from the vodka bottle sitting on the floor next to my bed. I sedately obeyed his command like the mature, sensible woman of twenty-eight that I am. Being an enthusiast of horology, I reckon that description of my behavior lasted for less than a Planck length of time. Then I was drunkenly diving for Luke’s card buried deep in my dresser’s lingerie drawer. Panties and thongs of all shapes and colors went flying through the air. It was raining silk and satin confetti while I dug like a crazed badger.
Inexplicably, I was humming and singing an old Beatles tune about the USSR that suddenly popped into my head. The annoyingly loud doorbell continued ringing nonstop in accompaniment.
‘Aha! I’ve got you now, you taunting little bastard!’
Clutching the sealed envelope tightly, I went careening off down the pitch black hallway towards the foyer to see who was trying to drive me crazy at midnight.
“Blast it all, I don’t have time for doorbells,” I complained out loud, “I have a sex fantasy to read!”
Away from the spill of light from my open bedroom door, I was moving fast despite being unable to see two feet in front of me. I slit open the card and tore off the envelope. The sharp burst of pain from the paper cut on my forefinger, and then bouncing hard off the wall, didn’t even register in my nervous excitement to read Mr. Secretive’s sexual fantasy instructions.
Feeling up the note inside, I could tell it was constructed of sturdy paper stock, the size and shape of a business card. From practice of long habit, I patted along the wall for the light switch near the bathroom. In my mad dash, I stubbed my big toe against something hard and solid. It was the leg of a table that I could have sworn wasn’t in that spot when I went to my room earlier tonight.
This pain registered big time.
Moaning in tune with the throbbing of my big toe and the words “Back in the US, back in the US, back in the USSR!” still playing a relentless refrain in my trashed subconscious, I kept heading towards the intercom. The long and short bursts of the shrilling,
buzzing doorbell was loudest here and overrode my shouting curses of stinging pain.
Without pause, I delivered a bulls-eye smack with my open left palm to the round dimmer switch for the overhead chandelier in the foyer. I ran past the stairwell on my right. In a move that only proves I should never be trusted to have a lick of booze again, I pressed the lock release for both the front door to the building and my apartment without even a glance in the view screen.
Smiling and swaying unsteadily on my feet, I held the card against my chest for one last savoring, titillating second before I pulled it away to read His Turn. Under the twinkling lights of the foyer chandelier, I looked blankly at the card. Slightly cross-eyed and definitely fuzzy-brained, I saw only incomprehensible red patterns of blood spatter smears. In horror, I squinted to decipher the writing under the bloody fingerprints from the dripping cut on my finger. Sucking on my wounded digit while turning the card in different angles under the light, I was vaguely aware of the sound of the steel door screeching open at the bottom of the stairs. It was still sticking a little.
Anabel—open the black gift bag.
Luke’s low voice spoke in my head, as if he had commanded me in person.
I whispered back with fervent joy, “The day you have to tell me twice to open a present is the day I’ve reanimated as the walking dead!”
Laughing with relief and heart racing with exhilaration, I twirled and ran back across the polished hardwood floor. For safety’s sake, I’d stashed the loud-mouthed gift bag in my closet on Sunday night after Luke had left. This was to avoid temptation. Not from me, but from my sisters and girlfriends. They could not be trusted with the mystery of an unopened gift bag, especially a big shiny one like this beauty. I couldn’t chance them descending on it like a pack of ravening beasts and tearing it to pieces. Before the bag was put away, I do confess to performing the expected female rituals. I shook the large present, weighed it carefully from hand to hand while listening for identifying sounds, and then felt it up like a horny teenage boy out with his first easy date. Whatever awaited my discovery in the bag was in a tall, rectangular box and impervious to my eager squeezing. It was sealed tight as a drum across the top and the two edges were perfectly aligned. I would have to cut this baby to get it opened.
I was impressed. I adore surprises. This was the perfect surprise package.
Not that my Dark Prince would believe this for a second, but I wouldn’t peek inside this gift bag without his permission for nothing. Trying to guess what was inside from the outside was simply my idea of a mental exercise to test my psychic abilities. I would never actually cheat.
Throwing open the walk-in closet door from the hallway, I remembered learning my hard lesson about anticipation, surprises, and cheating when I was nine. My little gang of cohorts and I went pathological on a Scooby-Doo kick the week before Christmas.
I was Daphne, but bossed everyone like Thelma. Anna was Thelma, but giggled like Daphne. Reg played Shaggy. At age six, he didn’t do much but repeatedly say “Scooby Doo, where are you?” until we all begged, and then threatened him to be quiet. Trey J was Scooby Doo and Jazy was Scrappy-Doo. They both barked and growled nonstop at anything and everything, but mostly at Shaggy. He bawled in terror when they walled him and started snapping. I collared the dogs while Thelma cosseted the quivering Shaggy.
Somehow, we successfully detected every hiding place in the building while scaring the living crap out of ourselves in dark corners. We found every present that every person in the family was giving us before our traditional Christmas morning gift extravaganza. This thorough investigation included the opening of any wrapped gifts for us, and the precise rewrapping of the gifts after our careful forensic examination.
I can’t speak for the others, but I was emotionally destroyed for weeks after that horrible Christmas morning when there wasn’t one surprise for me under the tree. Not even in my stocking. Never again have I purposely ruined a surprise by cheating.
Sweeping up the black gift bag, I ran out into the hallway to go across to my office. I knew I’d have a pair of scissors there to cut this sweetheart open. I misjudged my turning radius. Banging so forcefully off the office door frame on the left side, I ricocheted and hit the right side.
This hurt bad. Real bad. It only slowed me down for a second, though, and I never once lost my grip on the gift bag handles. I was getting dizzy and warm from all my running around and bouncing off obstructions. I was aware of being terribly thirsty. My mouth was dry from passing out hard for roughly twenty minutes before my phone and the doorbell woke me up. I felt like I had been zonked out for hours, but I knew I was still wasted. My brain was only transmitting in short waves of clear thought. Otherwise, I wasn’t operating on all cylinders.
Hopping on one leg in my office doorway, rubbing my aching left shoulder, and moaning low in my throat from pain; I laughed exuberantly around my sliced finger stuck in my mouth to be alive, happy, and about to get much happier.
‘And that stinking doorbell was finally off my back!’
That thought stopped me cold. I popped the finger out of my mouth. “Uh-oh.”
Pivoting slowly towards the foyer, I held the gift bag up in front of me and cuddled it tight within my arms. I strained to see down the long hallway.
I whispered, “Don’t worry, Gift Bag. I’ve got you.” I called out, “Who’s there?”
It was blurry, but once my eyes focused I could see a very tall, bulky shadow standing at the top of the stairs and doing something herky-jerky.
I didn’t have time to be really frightened before I heard a sheepishly apologetic, “Hello, Bel. Sorry about the buzzer, but I forgot the lock code.”
A polite houseguest, my friend Crookie was toeing off his boots while unzipping his parka. It had slipped my mind he was still out meeting with his sister-in-law to discuss his dead wife’s funeral arrangements. Giggling, I dropped down my protective stance with the gift bag. Due to the death of brain cells by alcohol pickling, it had actually slipped my mind Crookie was even staying with me for a few days over Thanksgiving.
“It is cold with gusts of winds coming from the Northwest. The temperature is dropping steadily out there tonight and it is already below zero with the wind chill factor. It will warm up significantly tomorrow. There is no precipitation in the forecast until late Thursday or early Friday. Then the temperatures may raise high enough to produce rain instead of snow on Sunday.” He called out cheerfully, “Freezing rain.”
Luckily, it doesn’t take much brain thrust for me to be a smart mouth.
I called back over my shoulder, “Hey, no problems, Crookie. I was up anyway freaking out over the extended weather forecast. You know how anxious I get that I can’t control Mother Nature yet, no matter how many times I stamp my tiny, cloven foot.”
I flipped on the light and dashed into my office. The scissors were smiling and waving at me from the yellow bowl I’d made when in a ceramics phase. One of the dividends of being left-handed is that nobody steals your shit. Items such as left-handed scissors stay right where I last left them.
“Mock me as you will, but it only reaffirms the fact you are an unnatural female. You never listen to weather reports, yet you live in a state that routinely experiences dangerous, life-threatening weather conditions. You make ME anxious, Bel.” Crookie’s voice was getting nearer to the office door. “My point being, the good news is Layla and her friends should not have any problems landing on schedule tomorrow night due to the weather conditions here.”
“You’re right; that is simply awesome news,” I agreed, giggling at his aggrieved tone. I love my Florida cousin Layla and having her come stay over Thanksgiving is always a treat, but right now I was all about the sexual fantasy. I placed the gift bag on the center of my desk chair and grabbed the scissors.
“Umm…Bel?”
“Yes?”
I saw Crookie note the gift bag on the chair. Without one question or any curiosity, he looked away and disregarded its existenc
e. You want to talk about unnatural, men take the cake.
Crookie was standing in the open doorway to the office and watching me with a strange look on his affable, open face. I hid my grin. This perplexed, slightly harried expression coming from Crooks whenever he talks to me is not uncommon and I’ve become used to it. This doesn’t mean I still don’t have to curb my impulse to shout with laughter whenever I see it. I’ve been practicing my curbing since way back in high school when we first became friends.
Wearing rimless glasses over round, hazel eyes, Crookie blinks at the world with an expression of slight surprise and shy friendliness. His straight, brown hair is cut short with bangs that fall across his high forehead, no matter how hard he tries to keep them swept back. His face is long and narrow, his nose long and noble, and his smooth complexion is uniformly pale—unless it’s beet red from blushing. He spends the majority of his time buried inside EcoLab using his enormous brain to make them pots of money. This hasn’t helped his tendencies to be shyly anti-social. Put him around people that make him comfortable, Crookie is gregarious and outspoken. Get him in a crowd of strangers, my friend tends to clam up and observe.
He’s also very tall and lanky. With arms extended straight up over his head, he was easily gripping the top of the door frame with his long fingers. He moved back and forth, stretching out the kinks in his back.
I tried to blow out a whistle at Crookie’s cool ability to use things like the top of door jams and the top of refrigerators in his everyday life. These are mysterious, uncharted territories in my world. Unfortunately, I forgot I can’t whistle.
Crookie caught my pathetic attempt and sadly shook his head. “You still cannot whistle? How many times have I showed you how to do it, Bel?”
“I still can’t whistle. I don’t care how many times you have showed me how; it just doesn’t work for me. My mouth won’t cooperate.”