“What about the garage?” I ask.
“Plenty of space. This house has everything you can think you of—modern amenities, nice neighborhood, good school district. You just have to pack your bags, and move here with your wife and kids.”
“I wish.” A picture of ‘the blonde who got away’ holding my newborn baby flashes before my eyes. “I am still single.”
“Oh . . .” She is more disappointed to hear that than me saying it. “If a handsome man like yourself is single, then what hope is there for us?”
“Stacy, the reason that I never married is that I never found a girl like you,” I say, looking her in adoration. “If you were a few years older, I would have proposed you right here, right now.”
She is blushing. Good. At least, she is not sulking.
“Mr. Bryce . . . are you hitting on me?”
“No, Stacey, I am not. I am telling the truth. You are a beautiful girl, and if men can’t see it, then make them see it. Wear nice clothes, give your hair a blowout, a little makeup wouldn’t hurt, and men will be on their knees, kissing your shoes. And by shoes, I mean, something of this century—not Jesus sandals.”
“You think so?” She pushes her glasses with a smile on her face.
“Yes . . . and get contact lenses, will you?” I adjust her slippery glasses on her face. “Now, shall we complete the tour? Where is the master bedroom?”
“Master bedroom?!” she says with the look of terror on her face, and reluctantly hold out her shaking hand, pointing at the staircase. “It’s upstairs.”
“Come on, then. Lead the way,” I say.
After hitting on her, giving her beauty tips, and praising her for her looks, I thought she would be over her nervousness. But she is now more nervous than ever as she climbs the stairs to the bedroom with slow and cautious steps.
“Nothing to see here, really. Just a bedroom where you sleep.” She is acting jumpy and moving her eyeballs sideways as if it’s the bedroom of a boogeyman.
“Are you all right, Stacey?”
“Yes . . .” She presses her palm on her sweaty forehead to check her temperature.
I stand at the master bedroom window to take a look at the neighborhood. It’s nice, quiet, and I feel what I felt in Chicago—home.
“You will not get a house in this condition and location in this neighborhood for less than $4,50,000. But the owner is in a hurry to sell, so is asking for only $3,50,000. It’s a very good price.”
I close my eyes and take a couple of deep breaths to center myself. I need to clear my head and assess this property before I consider putting an offer; it’s a major investment.
I open my eyes a few seconds later, and there she is, across the street, emptying the trunk of a car off groceries—mostly noodles and canned soups.
It goes without saying that I am delighted to see her. It has been a long time since she last appeared. However, it’s odd how she is dressed this time. In the history of my hallucinations, she always looks like a runaway model—pretty dresses, perfect hair, and pointed heels.
But not today.
She is wearing a gray T-shirt with blue jeans; casual sneakers in the feet; her hair tied in a loose bun; and no makeup at all. Even though she looks different, I still recognize her. How can I forget the face which awakes me in the middle of the night?
While Stacy yap about why I should buy this house, I look at her in adoration, breathing deeply, as I capture this simple persona of her that is setting my soul on fire.
Her simple look is not the only thing that’s off. She appeared so far from me this time. I don’t know why? Could be another trick up her sleeve to tease me by ignoring me, giving me the silent treatment? But as long as she is before my eyes, it’s all right.
What in the blue fuck? Is she is talking to someone?
She is talking to an old woman with a walker.
Is she real?
Have I finally found her?
I am not sure. I can’t be sure after being wrong so many times.
“Come here . . .” I grab Stacey by her hand and pull her to the window.
“Do you see her?” I point at her.
“Yeah . . . ,” she answers, giving me a quizzical look. I can’t blame her; I have started to feel delusional.
“You do? Oh, my God, you do.” I am on top of the mountain.
“She is Mrs. Wilson.”
And then she pushed me down that mountain with that information.
She is married.
My worst nightmare has come true. The one thing that I didn’t want to happen is now facing me. There is no recovering from this heartbreak. With a heavy heart and heavier steps, I cover the three feet distance from the window to the bed and crash on it like a dead body.
“I wish I find someone like Mr. Wilson to spend my life with.” Stacey is still at the window, looking her, admiring her husband, unaware that her words are causing me psychological damage.
“She broke her hip on their wedding anniversary last month. A little sex injury to remember by their 40th wedding anniversary.”
“40th wedding anniversary!” I lurch up out of bed.
It couldn’t be her 40th wedding anniversary even if she got married on the day she was born. She is in her prime for God’s sake.
“Are you crossed eyes?” I run to the window, and point again in the direction of ‘the blonde who got away.’ “I am talking about the blonde—the one with whom the lady with the walker is talking to. Do you see her, or is it just me?”
“Is this some kind of joke?” she says.
“You don’t see her.” I start walking to the bed to continue with the sulking.
“I wear glasses. I am not blind. Of course, I see her.”
“You do?” I retreat back mid-way.
“You know you are acting very strange for the last couple of minutes. Are you high?”
“Are you?” I say, looking at her eyes. “Your eyes look red. Have you smoked pot?
“I smoked a little in the morning just to take the edge off. I was nervous. I haven’t made a sale in a while, and my boss is breathing down my neck. She is threatening to fire me and—”
“Shh . . . say no more. It’s okay if you smoked a little pot. It’s not a crime.”
“It’s a crime in New York.”
“Really?!”
What a shocker! New York can learn something from Colorado. They are just losing revenue.
“Stacey, now I am going to ask only one question that will determine whether I would make an offer on this house.”
“Ooh! That sounds like a million-dollar question of the game show.”
“It’s answer is worth more than a million dollars to me. So, here it is.” I cross my fingers. “Are you absolutely, positively sure, without any shadow of a doubt that you can see her?”
She takes a deep breath and says in a depressing tone, “This game is getting old. Yes. Yes. Yes. I can see her.”
“Glory to the lord!” I shout with my hands in the air.
♪Glory to the lord ♪
Wow! My faith has some serious power to make things come true. I can hear Don Moen singing ‘Glory to the Lord.’
She starts humming the song.
My God! She can hear my thoughts.
“There is also a voice-activated music system. I forgot to tell you about that.”
“Music off,” I shout. “Do you by any chance know her?”
She laughs a snorty laugh while I patiently wait for her to get it to over with. “Mr. Bryce, I know this neighborhood like the back of my hand. I am a realtor. That’s what we do. She lives across the street.”
“What’s her name?” I ask with my eyes fixated on her.
“Honey Hornell,” she says.
“Honey . . . So, I did remember her name,” I mumble as I revisit my wet dream. I called her honey a couple of times in it, but never realized that I am not calling her honey out of affection, but it’s her actual name.
“Poor girl! There
was a time when she exuded happiness. Always a smile on her face, that would make one’s day. But now . . .” Stacey takes a deep sigh and stop.
“Something happened to her?” I say, feeling the tremble in my voice out of concern for her.
“She lost her husband two years ago and has never been the same since,” she says, shaking her head in pity. “He was just 30 years old. Went to the grocery store and had a stroke while waiting in the checkout queue. I guess when it’s time, it’s time.”
“Yeah, when it’s time, it’s time.”
My heart goes out to her, really. I cannot imagine the pain she suffered, and still suffering. But I can’t deny the fact that there is something that’s pushing me close to her. I search for her in 12 cities, but I found her here—so close, just an hour car ride. She was here all along, and I didn’t know. I guess it was time to meet her.
“I’ll take it,” I say.
“You do? Really?”
A broad smile appears on her face that make her slippery glasses slip even more from her nose. She pushes it back, mumbling, and then her expression changes.
“I am sorry, but I can’t let you make an offer,” she says while furiously shaking her head in a no. “I was not going to tell you this, but since you are a nice guy . . .” She stops and leans in to whisper “. . . people died in here.”
“I got that idea when I saw that sprinkle of blood on the wall.” I point to the wall to the left, the corner of which was missed during fresh paint.
“There were multiple victims. So much blood—”
“You listen to me, Stacy.” I took her face tightly in my hands and give it a shake. “You were not required to tell me about the murder-suicide under the law, but you still told me about it, and I appreciate that. You are a good person. But I want this house.”
“Are you sure?” she says in a muffled voice with her face still in my grasp.
“I am sure. All-cash deal. Double your commission. And me telling your boss what a great person and realtor you are. Mwah!” I give a kiss to Stacey on the lips and let go of her face. “Now, go-go-go. Get the job done.” I rush her out of the bedroom. “I want to move here as fast as I could.”
Honey Hornell—that’s the name I ached so long to know. But now, when I know that, ‘the blonde who got away’ is not so far away.
Chapter 20
“GET OFF MY BACK!” I grunt as I step into my apartment in the evening.
Todd follows me inside like a bloodhound, ready to hunt me down for buying the house at a higher price. Again, kudos to him for consistency; he is at it since afternoon and haven’t shown any sign of slowing down.
“You didn’t even put up the offer!” he shouts. “No negotiation. Just a straight up cash deal. Who does that?”
“Damn it!” I slap my forehead as I sit on the couch. “I always forget that I am just a novice, learning things all over again. You should have been there to hold my hand, Todd. Look what you did.”
“Hey, don’t dare turn this on me! It has been four months now. Stop making amnesia as your excuse for everything, and move on, Monk.”
“Monk?!” I ask, surprisingly.
“That’s what you are. How long is it that you had sex, huh? Let me think.” He taps his finger on his cheek, gazing up. “How about as far as you can remember—never.”
“You dick!” This isn’t the first time he has taken a jab at my amnesia, but lately, it has increased much more. He is a man, but in the last few days, he has been so bitchy like a woman going through menopause.
“Yes, I am a dick, and you know very well where this BBC was in the morning—deep inside a white girl. Yeah, that’s right! I wasn’t in Long Island in the morning because I happen to enjoy my life, women, and money unlike you who has been on a roll lately to bankrupt himself. If you are so fed up with money and women, then what’s left for you in life? Why don’t you shave your head and move to Tibet?”
I was in a good mood as after weeks of search and months of patience, God finally smiled on me and made me see her in real this time. I didn’t think that this feeling of joy would end anytime soon, but Todd sucked it right out of me with his hurtful words.
I get up from the couch with my fist clenched, blood boiling with anger. “You—”
“What’s happening, Todd?” Jeremy comes from the kitchen with his hands covering his ears. “Your screams are making the windows vibrate. Since when you became Black Canary?”
Before Todd could accuse Jeremy being a racist, I jump in right away. “Not racist! Just a fictional character. A comic book character.”
I am not proud of reading a comic book, but I kind of got sucked into going to the comic book store when I saw a group of nerds wearing Flash T-shirt in a heated discussion on Marvel vs DC.
“That you know?” He scoffs. “He shat on a perfectly good investment property, Jeremy. It was the motherload of distressed property—three murders and two suicides.”
“Three murders and two suicides? Interesting,” Jeremy says.
Interesting?! Nothing is interesting about it.
“Yes . . . Three murders and two suicides. I could have gotten it at $2,50,000, or maybe less, but he agreed to buy at the asking price of $3,50,000. That’s $1,00,000 straight down the drain. And even after remodeling the house, we won’t be able to break even, so losses all-around.”
“Are you sure it’s not four murders and one suicide?” Jeremy couldn’t understand the combination of murders and suicide.
I can’t blame him; I couldn’t either. I made the same mistake of asking Stacey about it and got goosebumps when she told me the back story of the house. It’s a story that gets dark very fast, very soon.
“Nope, three murders and two suicides.” Todd shakes his head. “I myself found the murder-suicide combination a little odd, so I did some research. What happened was—”
“No . . . Don’t tell him about it. His heart can’t take it.” I try to shield Jeremy from the horror.
But he put out his hand to me. “Brandon, I appreciate your concern, but I am not that weak as you think of me. If the story is not as horrifying as your painting, I’ll live.”
Wow! A blatant insult of the craft I am trying to horn! I just can’t catch a break these days, am I? People have started to take me for granted. What hurts most is that Todd and Jeremy are giggling about it and high-fiving each other.
“You know what . . . go on with your story.” Now, I simply don’t care. I sit on the couch and cross my legs. “But if it comes up to a trip to ER, tell your best friend, Todd, to drive you.”
“Now, don’t be jealous, Brandon, just because Jeremy likes me more than you,” Todd says with a wide, toothy grin.
The only thing I am jealous of is his perfect set of teeth. They are so white and shiny. I have asked him several times about this secret, but he just turns me down by making an excuse that I don’t have the right genes for having it. Bastard!
“Now, you two don’t fight over me,” Jeremy says. “I like you both equally.”
Jeremy mouths ‘I like you more’ to me while Todd is still busy teasing me with his smile, pointing at his teeth to remind me that I can’t have them.
“So, about that murder-suicide?” He just has to know it. Well, I guess it’s his funeral then.
“Yes, about that.” Todd finally takes a break from blinding me with his smile. “What happened was, husband and wife were fighting in the master bedroom. In the fit of rage, the wife shot the husband in the gut. As the husband was going down, he took the pistol out of his wife’s hand and fired a round straight in her head. Wife dead on the spot.”
“Murder—two. Suicide—zero.” Jeremy is enthusiastically keeping track of murder and suicide counts. I hope his poor heart can take what’s about to come next.
“That’s actually one murder till now,” Todd says.
“How so?”
And here comes the revelation, the one constant that will change everything in this story.
“Hus
band was still alive.”
“Interesting . . .” Jeremy adjusts his glasses and gives his chin a little rub. “What happened next?”
“Wife’s parents were also in the house, visiting their daughter. They came running to the master bedroom and found their daughter dead and son-in-law taking last breath. The dying husband thought, ‘Well, my wife is dead. I am dying too. Why not take these two out who raised the bitch that made my life living hell?’ And he emptied the entire magazine of the pistol on his parents-in-law.
BAM
BAM
BAM
BAM”
Todd shouts unexpectedly which catch Jeremy—and even I—by surprise. He then stops and looks at Jeremy. “What’s the count?” he asks in a raspy voice to create suspense.
Jeremy gulps, and in a high-pitch voice, says, “Three murders. Four, if the husband is dead.”
“Wrong again. It’s two. The father-in-law was dead, but the mother-in-law was still alive. She took three bullets, but was still breathing, and so was the son-in-law.”
“That son-in-law was one real tough son of a bitch,” I say, grabbing myself a magazine from the coffee table.
“I am sorry, but is it me, or this story is getting interesting every time a shot is fired?” Jeremy is scared, but Todd has him hooked onto the story. I have to give it to Todd; he is a great storyteller. I couldn’t have told this story better if asked to.
“You find this interesting?” Todd grimaces. “Wait till you hear what happened next.”
“Suicide?” Jeremy bites his nail in anticipation for the next murder or suicide to unfold.
“Another murder.” Todd hisses. “The son-in-law’s and mother-in-law’s gaze met. ‘You killed my daughter and my husband. How could you?’ she said groaning in pain.
“It serves you right—mother of the bitch,” he said gasping for air; his death at the door.
The mother-in-law got infuriated. She dragged her bloody body to the table in the corner and grabbed herself a letter opener. She could have picked up the phone from the table, called 911, and saved her life, but no, she wanted vengeance. So, she dragged herself back towards her son-in-law and . . .”
Dreamy Distraction (Quest for Love Book 1) Page 15