Soul Mate

by Massa, William

  Soul Mate

  WILLIAM MASSA

  Critical Mass Publishing

  Copyright © 2017 by WILLIAM MASSA

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Cursed City Preview

  Ice Shadows Bonus Story

  About the Author

  Also by WILLIAM MASSA

  Prologue

  “It’s Saturday night. Let’s hit up some bars in the city and meet some ladies,” Josh’s roommate Peter said. He wore $400 designer jeans and an expensive button-down shirt, both beyond the means of a starting salary of a twenty-six-year-old bank teller, and looked serious about getting some action tonight.

  “Don’t tell me you’re just going to stay home and sit in front of the TV.”

  “Catching a UFC fight isn’t just sitting in front of the TV.”

  “Watching two guys bashing their heads in without their shirts on is gay.”

  “Fuck you,” Josh said in a playful tone. “Beats the bar scene.”

  Josh meant what he said. He had no intention of leaving the comfort zone of the man cave tonight. Hitting a club or trendy bar to meet a chick was a costly exercise in frustration and a waste of time. He was over it! Of course, his attitude might be a direct consequence of his most recent break-up. He’d thought Karen loved him. The bitch didn’t just break his heart, she had shattered it. He was still picking up the pieces. Bottom line – he wasn’t quite ready for the face-to-face rejection to be found in New York City’s nightlife.

  “Come on, Josh, I could use a wingman tonight,” Peter said. A ‘wingman’ was Peter’s code for a designated driver. Why waste money on Uber when your buddy can chauffeur your drunk ass around town?

  Josh gave it to Peter straight. He loved his roommate but this wasn’t the first time they’d played this game. “Only reason you want me to come is because you need someone to drive your alcoholic butt to Taco Bell if you strike out tonight. Seeing you medicate your sexual frustration with junk food isn't my idea of fun.”

  “Hey, you got a problem with me, fine, but don't knock Taco Bell.”

  Peter grinned. He could be an asshole, but he was a charming asshole. Josh smiled despite himself but stayed firm and shook his head.

  Peter shrugged, accepting defeat, and said, “Have fun.” With that he marched out of their two-bedroom apartment and the door slammed shut behind him.

  Finally some peace.

  Josh’s attention returned to the television.

  Back in his college days when dinosaurs still roamed the Earth and he’d just started courting Karen, Josh was like poor Peter. He’d hit the bars and clubs on the weekends, cruising the various watering holes in a horny, alcohol-infused daze. His prowling for girls mostly pickled his liver and blew through his hard-earned cash. After living with Karen for three years straight out of college, Josh wasn’t quite ready to return to his old lifestyle.

  On a whim he grabbed his phone and called his kid brother Mark. It took two rings before Mark picked up.

  “So what’s up? You going to catch the fight with me?” Josh asked.

  “I shouldn’t. I got a ton of homework. Classes are kicking my ass.”

  Unlike Josh, who at twenty-six had been navigating the corporate job market for a few years, Mark was still in school – lucky bastard. He was at Hunter College studying to be a physical therapist and would make bank when he graduated. The city school’s nursing and physical therapy programs were considered among the best in the state.

  “Come on, bro. How about a study break?”

  Josh didn’t see himself as a bad influence here, just a concerned older brother. He knew from experience that prolonged work produced diminishing returns. Some time away from the books would do the kid some good. Give him a chance to clear his head.

  “Alright, count me in,” Mark said.

  “Good man. Don't forget to pick up the pizza. I'll see you in a few.”

  CLICK. Josh hung up. He took a deep, satisfying swig from his Stella Artois and switched his attention back to the fight.

  Suddenly his phone pinged. Incoming Facebook message from a girl named Akasha.

  “Hi Josh, how are you?”

  Josh hesitated. He typed a quick, perfunctory response. “I'm good.”

  Josh stared at Akasha’s profile pic, which was visible next to the message box. A haunting, intense beauty, her looks managed to be both ethereal and sexual at the same time. Lush black hair framed a pale face dominated by a pair of dark, penetrating eyes; there was a promise in them accentuated by a hint of a smile. The girl possessed a real edge that came through even in the stamp-sized image on his phone.

  Another pinging sound announced her next message.

  “What are you up to?”

  “About to head out to dinner with a friend,” he lied. “No time to chat...”

  Her next text was immediate – he wasn’t getting off the hook that easily. “Why are you avoiding me, Josh? Don't you love me anymore?”

  “How could I be in love with you after one date?” Josh said to himself.

  His question was met with a loud banging sound.

  What the hell?

  It had emanated from his bedroom. He waited a second and…

  The pounding repeated itself, this time much louder.

  Josh rose from the couch. The sounds were too pronounced, too insistent to be ignored. Wary, he approached the partially open bedroom door, body coiled and jaw bunched tight.

  “Hello? Anyone there?”

  No answer.

  Josh reached the door but hesitated for a beat before his fingers closed around the doorknob. As the door opened completely, inky darkness awaited within. He flicked a switch and light flooded the room. It revealed his bed, a few cool movie posters, a tangle of dirty laundry...

  Bachelor city.

  Still on edge, eyes scanning, Josh took a few steps into his bedroom. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a room cloaked in shadows.

  Something felt off, though. Josh sniffed the air and picked up the faint aroma of burnt wood. Like there was a campfire outside. Except that it was December in New York City, so that didn’t make any sense at all...

  Josh's gaze dropped and his eyes widened with puzzlement. A black footprint had been burned into the hardwood floor. He crouched to get a better view and touched the print. His fingertips came up black, smeared with ash. It was still hot.

  Following a sudden hunch, his gaze traveled toward the impenetrable darkness underneath the bed. For a crazy moment he expected something to jump out at him, a horror flick come alive, but a quick scan revealed that no boogeyman lurked under his bed. Josh let out a sigh of relief and the tension eased.

  He was about to get up when he sensed rapid movement behind him. He whirled…

  Shock rippled through him.

  And then there was only pain.

  1

  I get off the phone with Josh and already regret my decision to take a break from my studies. My older brother just has a knack for talking me into stuff
. As a kid, whenever I’d get in trouble with our parents Josh was the ringleader. Okay, most of the time.

  I’ve been hitting the books since early this morning – ten hours straight of cramming for my biology final. I’m fried and have to take a break if I want to maintain this pace for the rest of the weekend. I need to shut off my brain for a little bit. I lack the energy and focus to follow the plot of a movie or read a book – watching guys beat the shit out of each other is exactly what the doctor ordered.

  My girlfriend Lynn, who is in the same physical therapy program at Hunter College, flashes me an encouraging smile. She reclines on her couch, wrapped in a Snuggie tattooed with a growing collection of flash cards. There’s a steaming cup of green tea by her side. The same massive anatomy book that has been taunting me all day rests on her lap and once again I wonder why the hell they don’t sell a digital version of this beast. Sadistic bastards.

  “Go. You need a break.”

  “What about you?”

  “There’s a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.”

  I think about it for a moment and ice cream seems like a poor substitute for pizza and beer, but to each his own.

  She must think I’m on the fence about leaving because she says, “We’ve been on a marathon study session. You need to refuel.”

  This is just another example of why Lynn is my girl. I’ve been with her since my first year of college and I’m still crazy about her. She grounds me, keeps me sane. I’m originally from Florida while Lynn is a born-and-raised New Yorker. She’s three years older but seems about a decade wiser and a hell of a lot more worldly. Lynn dropped out of college for a while, traveling extensively, and was married for a few months. She’s Irish-Italian on her mom’s side, African-American on her father’s, and she grew up in Spanish Harlem. Her exotic looks make most people think she’s Puerto Rican — my own personal J-Lo. Fortunately, Lynn doesn’t seem to mind my hick tendencies. In a weird way, she seems to find my simple background charming.

  I give her a kiss and our lips linger. I resist the first stirring of passion, knowing that if I let our make-out session go any further I’ll be late for the fight. Josh would never forgive me.

  “Have fun, sweetie.”

  After a full day of being cooped up with medical textbooks, I definitely will.

  I snatch up my jacket and gloves, bracing myself for the biting December cold that awaits me outside the heated apartment. Lynn’s studio is in Astoria, Queens and you can see the Manhattan skyline in the distance while you wait for the train on the elevated subway platform.

  I, on the other hand, live in Briarwood — about half an hour deeper into the borough. The rents are low in this working-class enclave of various ethnicities. My place is far from glamorous, but you can’t beat the square-footage return rate. An old friend of my dad likes to say, “You’re not only what you eat, you are where you live!” Can’t argue with him but I’d rather have some money left after I pay my rent, so I could afford to eat.

  My brother lives in nearby Forest Hills, an upper-middle-class neighborhood and the home of Peter Parker (aka Spiderman). I’m a bit of a geek, so I know lots of really useful information like that. I catch the N train, transfer to the F and thirty minutes later I get off on 71st Avenue. As I walk down Austin Street, the main commercial strip, I pass my favorite pizza parlor. I go in and order a pie — sausage, pepperoni and ground beef. This is boys’ night out and if it didn’t bleed, it doesn’t belong on my pizza.

  As they shove our pie into the steel oven, I head to the liquor store across the street and purchase a six-pack of Heineken. Before long I’m on my way again, pizza in tow, and the scent of mozzarella bubbling away in olive oil makes me salivate. I’m so looking forward to my evening of scholastic freedom. Beer. Pizza. MMA. Not a textbook in sight. Heaven on Earth.

  My brother’s apartment building is located at the end of the street. A rusted fire escape mars the exterior. Sirens shriek a few blocks down. We may not be in Manhattan, but we’re still in New York.

  I ring the doorbell a few times, but no one answers. Weird. Josh is expecting me, so why isn’t he letting me in? After all, his guest brings booze and chow. Since Karen dumped him, my brother has been drinking too much. Did he pass out in front of the TV? He sounded pretty buzzed on the phone, but I dismiss this idea as soon as it pops into my head. Josh isn’t a lightweight and can definitely hold his liquor. Who knows why he isn’t answering the bell, but my arms are getting tired from carrying the pizza box and sixer of beer. I put the goodies down for a moment and decide to let myself in. I use the spare set of keys from the last time Josh asked me to apartment-sit while he was out of town.

  As I enter the unit I shout, “Hey, what's going on? I rang the bell three goddamn times!”

  My question goes unanswered, but I do catch a whiff of a burning scent and now I’m worried.

  Something’s wrong.

  “Hey Josh, you here?” I ask.

  Once again, there is no response.

  I head for the nearby kitchen nook and put the pizza down on the counter. My gaze travels to the adjoining living room. MMA fighters wrestle onscreen in glorious HD and excited commentary resonates throughout the apartment.

  “Josh, what's up man? You get drunk and pass out?”

  The continued silence is unnerving. I make my way to the bedroom and as I near Josh’s room, the burning smell becomes more pungent.

  “JOSH?! YOU HERE?”

  Still no answer. Fuck it! I thrust open the door and a nightmarish sight awaits me.

  The bed is on fire. Flames lick the ceiling. Strangely, everything else in the room remains untouched by the conflagration.

  No time to wonder why the blaze hasn’t spread, or why there isn’t any smoke billowing from the room. My mind is preoccupied with the search for a fire extinguisher. Each unit has one and I recall seeing Josh’s near the entryway. I back away from the hungry flames, tear through the living room and locate the extinguisher.

  Keeping my distance from the burning bed, I aim the extinguisher. How do you activate this thing? My fingers lock around the safety pin and pull. I squeeze the handles together and sweep the stream side to side. Foam engulfs the flames, suffocating them in seconds.

  The smoke disperses more slowly. Scorched material hisses and crackles. I stare at a melted bedframe with a dark, ashen crater in the middle of it.

  That’s when I spot the charred, smoldering body sprawled on the bed, clothing baked into the skin. The figure is barely identifiable as human. Yet when his eyelids snap open, I recognize the terror-stricken eyes looking up at me. It’s Josh! Oh my God, no...

  For a horrific beat, I just stand there, paralyzed. Josh exhales a throaty gasp. Garbled sounds escape his mangled, scorched voice box. I can clearly make out one word...

  Akasha.

  2

  I’m numb as I approach the Hunter College Brookdale Campus. Located on 25th Street, about half an hour from the college, it houses a limited number of the school’s 23,000 enrollees, mostly nursing and exchange students and members of the wrestling team. Most of the physical therapy classes are taught on the first floor of the campus, including anatomy. Snow cascades down in sheets and I’m just one of many students streaming into the building with shoulders hunched against the merciless wind.

  As I make my way into the auditorium, my mind is a million miles away. I keep thinking of my brother.

  Of the terror in his eyes.

  Of his final cryptic message.

  Akasha.

  What was he talking about?

  A week has passed since that terrible day. I don’t even remember dialing 911. Everything is hazy, like a bad dream. But I do recall the fireman’s theory after they stretchered Josh’s disfigured body to a waiting ambulance. As the rear doors slammed shut, erasing my dying brother from view, he said, ”We found pot in the bedroom and empty beer bottles all over the house. Your brother may have passed out, dropped the roach and then the bedspread caught fire.
By the time he knew what was happening, it was too late.”

  No offense, but I call bullshit. I’m not buying it, not for a second. The bed’s iron frame was a warped mess. Steel melts at 2800 degrees. So how could a small fire generate such heat without spreading? And why didn't any of the goddamn fire alarms go off? I know what I saw isn’t possible. The cops are stumped too and it sure seems like they don’t care enough to probe further.

  At least no one’s suggested suicide. It would break my mother’s heart.

  Josh lived for a few more hours after arriving at the hospital. According to the doctors in the burn ward, Josh sustained third-degree burns over his whole body and about ninety percent of his skin was compromised. One glance at him had convinced me he wouldn’t live through the night. I didn’t need to be a physical therapy student to make my diagnosis.

  The wake took place a few days later. The less I think about, it the better. We had Josh cremated, which is darkly ironic considering how he died. All that remains of my brother is an urn filled with ashes that sits in our poor mother’s New Jersey apartment.

  I’ve been checking on her every day, making sure she’s okay. She lost my father to a heart attack five years ago, but this feels even worse. No parent should ever bury one of their children – thank God she is a strong woman, a fighter.

  I keep telling myself that I’m a fighter too, but losing Josh has shaken me to the core. I still can’t believe he’s gone. For someone studying to become a health practitioner I should be more comfortable with the idea of mortality, but it’s always been an abstract concept. Death is something that happens to other people.