by J. D. Mason
Ron’s wife, Laura, shook her head and laughed. “Still, that does sound like stalking, Jordan.”
“Can I help it if I was attentive?”
“Obsessive is more like it,” Ron shot back.
“I was young. What? Eighteen?”
“And bold. She was a junior.”
“What?” Laura asked, stunned.
Jordan grinned. “I rocked her world.”
Ron laughed. “Aw, c’mon, man. She rocked yours, which is why you were put on academic probation for that semester.”
He laughed too, remembering Darlene and all those things she taught him how to do in bed. Jordan nodded. “Boy, was she worth it.”
“I take it you plan on asking her to marry you?” Ron asked, turning serious.
Jordan happened to look up at the deck above them and noticed Abby making her way to the staircase. Without answering Ron’s question, he walked over to the bottom of the stairs and waited for her. Jordan had spent all afternoon in bed with this woman, and yet seeing her now was like seeing her for the very first time.
Abby wore a long multicolored dress, with a split stopping midway on her thigh. It was cut into a low V, highlighting full, round breasts, and the material clung to her shapely figure, singing praises to every lovely curve. Her short hair was parted on one side, sleeked down, and brushed back.
“Don’t you look beautiful,” he said to her.
“Thank you, baby,” she said, smiling and toying with the collar of his shirt.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Ron called out to him from the bar, raising his glass in a toast.
* * *
Once they were in port, a limo was waiting for the twelve of them. While everybody else talked about whatever, Abby stared out the window, marveling at architecture that seemed to be a fusion of Roman and maybe British influence, but sprinkled with a taste of Greek. They ended up at a restaurant called Tarragon. Jordan damn near ordered the whole appetizer section off the menu. Calamari, trout carpaccio, tiger prawns, lamb shoulder, some kind of ravioli.
Of course the wine flowed like Jesus was in the kitchen personally changing it from water coming out of the tap, but Abby opted for sparkling water.
“You all right, baby?” he asked when she did.
“Oh, I’m good,” she assured him.
For dinner, Jordan had a black Angus fillet and Abby ordered the lobster.
After dinner, the driver took them to a city called Bugibba, and Jordan led them up the stairs to a gold-painted door. The music bellowing through the room sounded ancient but had been infused with what sounded like hip-hop. Tall, arched, and ornate cathedral ceilings had to have been at least fifty feet high and looked like they’d been hand-painted by Michelangelo. Silk and satin draped from them, and across tables and chairs—and there were belly dancers. Jordan turned to her and smiled. He knew how much she loved belly dancing.
Abby stayed plastered to him the whole night, gazing into his eyes
“Happy birthday, my love,” she whispered.
Jordan kissed her, but immediately noticed something concerning in her expression.
“What’s wrong, Abby?”
She swallowed nervously. “Would you…” She paused and then took a deep breath. “Would you want to have a baby with me?”
Jordan cocked a thick brow and let what she’d just asked gradually take root.
“Yes. I would like to have all my babies with you.”
Abby turned her face away from everyone around them so that none of them could see the tears forming in her eyes. He studied her for a moment, realizing that the question might not have been rhetorical.
Jordan whispered in her ear, “Are you pregnant?”
She nodded. “Sort of.”
Day 4
He’s Chokin’
MARLOWE HAD SPENT ALL NIGHT at her aunt Shou’s house. The old woman was going crazy or something, having irrational fears about peaches and a deep-rooted belief that Plato was trying to kill her, so he figured it was best for him to keep his distance and let Marlowe and Belle sprinkle holy water on the old woman or something until she snapped out of whatever it was she was tripping over.
Three days into looking for Abby Rhodes and Plato had absolutely nothing to go on. He’d hoped that Crown Distributors would lead him somewhere, but it didn’t. Hundreds of people went in and out of that place all day long. It wasn’t like Abby’s kidnapper was wearing a T-shirt that read “Hey, yo! Pick me! I got her, man!” Gatewood hadn’t called him—yet—but he expected to hear from him at some point today. Tomorrow was D-day. And that dude’s head was likely ready to explode, and understandably so. Plato’s was throbbing, too.
He’d never failed to deliver on an assignment before. Plato had always managed to come through with whatever it was he’d been hired to do, claiming property, gathering information, or making bodies disappear—living or dead. It had never dawned on him that he could fail. And to fail in this? Well, this was … personal. He’d never had much of a conversation with Abby, but she was nobody who should’ve been anybody in this type of situation. Abby Rhodes was a victim of circumstance in Gatewood’s world. Plato couldn’t help but think that the man should’ve left well enough alone. He should’ve stayed away from that woman and left Abby Rhodes where he’d found her. In that respect, Gatewood and Plato were alike. Plato should never have latched on to Marlowe, either.
He wasn’t a fan of the man, but Plato couldn’t deny that the two of them traveled in dark circles and they had both been drawn to the light of sweet country love, which neither of them deserved. The Abbys and the Marlowes of the world were innocent to the demons that Plato and Gatewood toyed with. Gatewood had put Abby at risk simply by being who he was. He’d pissed off the wrong people. Or he had something that they’d wanted. The brotha was enviable, living in his ivory tower and staring down his nose at everybody he’d stepped on to get there. Somebody didn’t like it.
“More coffee?” the waitress asked, hovering over him.
Plato had left the house early this morning since Marlowe wasn’t home and opted for breakfast on his own.
He nodded. “Thanks,” Plato said when she finished filling his cup.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tall, thin, blond woman coming into the place. She sat down at a table near the window across from a brotha staring at his cell phone.
The bacon was good here. Smoked? Thick cut. Eggs were a little runny for his taste, though. That couple, the blond woman and the brotha, were in his line of sight, so without even trying, he watched them while he ate. Animated. Her. Not him. Like she was angry with him, fussing but keeping her voice down so that no one could overhear. She was pissed, but that cat sitting across from her didn’t give a shit. The dude finished his food, set his phone down on the table, leaned back, pulled a matchstick from his shirt pocket, and stuck the wooden end in his mouth, like a toothpick. He waited patiently, letting her rant until she’d finished saying whatever it was she’d needed to say before she got up and stormed out of the place.
A few minutes passed, and Plato was about done. Dude across from him paid his bill and got up and left, too. Plato contemplated his next move. Where the hell was Abby? In Blink? Nelson? Clark City? Was she even in this dimension anymore? Where the hell was her truck? Plato gave the waitress a twenty.
“I’ll be back with your change.”
“Keep it,” he said, leaving.
Did he need to go back? Back to the beginning, to Abby’s house? As he was leaving, he held the door open for an old woman hobbling in on a cane.
“Hey, Peaches,” the waitress said when she saw the woman. “How you been?”
Peaches?
“Thank you,” the old woman said, nodding at her and smiling.
Peaches couldn’t have been more than four and a half feet tall. Reddish-brown skin, white hair, and round.
“Oh, I been trying to keep these old bones of mine loose.” Peaches laughed heartily and waited for the server to pull o
ut a seat for her to sit down at an open table.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
“James just left. Did you see him?”
“I did. Saw him outside.”
“Well, your food will be ready in about ten minutes. Want some coffee while you wait?”
“You keep yo’ distance and you keep them peaches away from me. You hear me? I mean it. You keep them peaches away from me!”
Dismiss it. Plato didn’t have the luxury of entertaining coincidences. Especially dumb ones related to fruit and old women. He took about four steps before he stopped. The thing was, Shou Shou wasn’t just any old woman. He would never openly admit it, but he believed she was magic or a witch or maybe even a mean, little fairy. He turned back toward the restaurant and stared at fat Peaches sitting near the window.
Peaches had just walked into the same restaurant he’d had breakfast in. Shou was allergic to peaches and had been adamant about making sure he understood as much. Peaches. Not a thing, but a person? Had she been trying to tell him something? He walked contemplatively back to his car, climbed in, then immediately shook the ridiculous theories of Shou Shou and her allergies out of his head. Damn! Was he that damned desperate, or what?
Plato shook his head and started the engine of his car. Before he pulled away from the curb, the old lady came out of the restaurant carrying a bag.
“Mornin’, Ms. Gooden,” a man said, walking up and hugging her. “It’s been a while.”
“Oh, it has, Mr. Braxton. How’s yo’ wife?”
“Her sugah’s been acting up. Had to increase her insulin, but other than that, she’s fine. We was just talking ’bout you the other day.”
She reared back. “’Bout me? Why?”
“Talkin’ ’bout that cobbler you used to make.” He grinned. “Oh, Lord, that was the best cobbler.”
She laughed. “That’s what people still tell me.”
“You ever think about opening up again just to make cobbler?”
“Naw, my arthritis is too bad.”
“Well, tell somebody else how to make it.”
“Now, I ain’t never been one to give away my recipes,” she joked. “That’s a recipe I’ma take to my grave.”
“Well, that’s pure selfishness.” He laughed. “Write it down so I can give it to my wife. We won’t tell nobody.”
“I might just do that,” she conceded slyly. “Long as she keep the name the same. Can’t give it her own name.”
“You named it?”
“Course I did. It’s my trademark.”
It was silly banter that for some reason held him captive, probably because Plato was at a loss for how to do his damn job and “peaches” had been the buzzword of the week.
“What’s it called?”
“Miss Peaches’ Precious Peach Cobbler,” she said proudly.
He laughed so hard he nearly fell over.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, offended. “That was the name on my menu. Don’t you remember?”
“Nah. I just remember asking for the peach cobbler,” he finally conceded.
“See. I ain’t giving y’all my recipe,” she huffed, and started to walk away.
“Oh, c’mon, Ms. Gooden.”
“You had your chance,” she said, stopping and turning back to him. “Like I said, I’m taking my recipe to the grave.”
“Fine. Want me to tell Mary to call you?”
She paused for a second. “She can call me, but that don’t mean I’m giving her my recipe,” she said, walking off.
He shook his head and dismissed her with a wave. “Crazy woman,” he muttered.
It was a humorous interchange about peach cobbler, deadly to a crazy blind woman. Shit. Plato had nothing. Not a single lead to finding Abby, and time was not on his side. So why the hell was he sitting here enthralled, watching Peaches hobble, wobble down the road, cursing under her breath and shaking her head, ready to murder that old man over a damn recipe?
Plato started up his car. “you’re getting pathetic, Plato Wells. Plenty pathetic.”
If You’re Not There
“WAKE UP!”
Abby heard a woman’s voice and felt a shoe bump against the sole of her foot.
“Hey, get up and eat.”
She’d slept, but she hadn’t meant to. Disoriented and panicked, Abby glanced at the woman and then at the food she’d placed on the floor.
“Can I use the bathroom?”
“Eat. Hurry up,” she commanded.
One day had blurred into another in this endless nightmare playing itself out over and over again like that movie Groundhog Day. Abby stared at the bottle of water and at the bag she knew contained a bologna sandwich on white bread. The thought of eating it turned her stomach. Moments later, the woman returned with a man following behind her.
“No!” Abby blurted out, and immediately scooted back up against the wall. “You stay the fuck away from me,” she yelled, with fearful tears filling her eyes. As far as she knew he was as much a rapist as the other one.
He held up a cell phone and took pictures of her.
“Are you going to eat?” the woman asked angrily.
“Keep him away from me!” she demanded.
Why she thought that woman could or would protect her was insane. She was one of them. Of course she didn’t give a damn about what he did to Abby.
He took a few more pictures and then left the room.
“Eat or I leave and you get nothing.”
Abby waited until she thought he was gone before reluctantly doing as she was told, swallowing as much as she could of the sandwich and water before pushing it away.
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
Just like before, the woman picked up Abby’s trash, closed and locked the door behind her, and returned moments later with a bucket for Abby to pee in. This time, she watched Abby relieve herself.
After she left, Abby heard their voices coming from the other side of the door. Abby hesitantly walked over to it, and pressed her ear against it.
“That’s it. Right, DJ? Just a picture. That’s all he wanted?” It was the woman. “You send him that picture and he’ll pay?”
DJ.
“He needed proof of life,” he said in a low tone.
He? Jordan?
“We send them this, they send it to him, and he’ll pay. But he needed to know that she was alive first.”
“You hurry up. That bastard needs to get these people their money so that we can get ours.”
“Stop tripping. We’re getting ours.”
“We’d better, DJ.”
“Keep your damn voice down,” he demanded. “And stop saying my fuckin’— She might hear you.”
“I don’t give a damn what the fuck she hears.”
“You’ll give a damn if she talks to the police.”
“Like she’ll get the chance.”
“What the hell you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” she said after a long pause. “Just … nothing.”
After a few moments the sound of the outer door closing indicated that one or both of them had left. Abby slowly backed away from the door, stunned.
“He hasn’t … he hasn’t paid,” she murmured as the revelation set in.
How the hell long had she been here? How long had he known that she was here, and he— Jordan hadn’t paid them? The sounds of her crying didn’t sound like they were coming from her at all. Abby collapsed on the mat, pulled the blanket over her, drew her knees to her chest, and stopped being brave, and she stopped trying to hold on to any faith that she had been clinging to in him. She’d been so stupid, so gotdamned stupid, thinking that she was ever going to survive this. This wasn’t a movie. These people had no intention of ever letting her go. And Jordan—in all the time she’d been gone, he only just now started asking for proof that she was alive?
“What does that mean?” she asked, trying to make sense of all this.
He knew she was missing. He’d known it fo
r days, but why, why wait so long for proof that she was alive?
“We send them this, they send it to him, and he’ll pay. But he needed to know that she was alive first.”
Three days. Four. Longer? And he’d waited? Abby became numb. Memories of the things the two of them had said to each other, of the things they’d done together, all began to dissolve in her mind and heart. She loved him like crazy and believed that he’d loved her too, but enough to stand the test of her life for his money?
“Don’t you dare, Abby,” she warned herself. “Don’t you dare believe that it was a lie.” He loved her. How many times had Jordan promised her that he would do anything for her, that she was everything to him? But he hadn’t paid the ransom. That was the truth. Abby had been missing for days. And he hadn’t given in to their demands.
She looked around at the four walls in this room. They could leave her here and disappear. No one would ever find her. Abby was tired, and broken inside. Nothing in her life had ever been the same since meeting Jordan, and now it would end because of him. To sit here feeling sorry for herself because he wasn’t coming to her rescue was a waste of time. It didn’t matter if Jordan came flying in with a red cape, looking like Superman. He was never meant to be her savior and she’d been a fool to believe that he should be.
“Since when do you depend on anybody to save your life, Abby?”
Abby sat there, gradually giving in to one of those reckoning moments. She might die here, but Abby had been taking care of herself long before she’d met Jordan Gatewood. She was resourceful, intelligent, and she’d never depended on anyone else for anything. At what point had she lost sight of those things about herself?
They would kill her. It wasn’t a question of if. She sat in the corner of that room forcing herself to make peace with it.
“Everybody dies, Abby,” she muttered to herself.
She had so wanted to be a momma. Abby wrapped her arms tight and low on her stomach to hug a child she’d never lay eyes on. She loved it already, and never seeing her baby’s face would be her biggest regret of all.
“Dammit.” She began to sob. “We might have to try this again in the next life, little baby.”