by Rachel Woods
Or, more likely, dead.
Chapter Three
Pay what u owe mofo
Despite the warmth of the afternoon, Eamon Taylor felt an icy chill pass through him. Pay what u owe mofo. He knew exactly what would happen if he didn’t pay the debt. With trembling fingers, Eamon deleted the text. It wasn’t the first warning, and it wouldn’t be the last.
If he didn’t find a way to come up with the money, he would be killed.
“Eamon! Over here!” A chorus of excited voices to his left stole Eamon’s attention from the threatening text message. Turning in the direction of the group calling to him, Eamon saw several acquaintances sitting at a table between two Sego palms.
Eamon pushed his phone into the front pocket of his jeans and started across the lawn, thankful for the distraction. At the picnic table, a rowdy, high-spirited debate raged between Tina Chen-Soo, Kevin Cook, Jimmy Quible, Sarah Linde, and Matt Delaney.
Taking a seat in the space between Tina and Matt, Eamon tried to focus on the conversation. They were talking about their job prospects. Specifically, the lack of job opportunities. Kevin, especially, was bitching more than he was bellyaching.
“What you have to realize,” said Kevin, “is that the most qualified person doesn’t always get the job.”
“That’s not true,” disputed Tina.
“If you’re good at what you do you’ll get a job.” Sarah rubbed Kevin’s arm, an intimate gesture suggestive of a closer relationship, but Eamon caught the longing glance Sarah gave him—which he ignored. The extra-long looks had become more frequent recently, since their last hook-up two weeks ago. Eamon had rebuffed her persistent and aggressive advances, hoping she would take the hint and leave him the hell alone.
“Cream rises to the top,” said Jimmy Quible, who sat on top of the table with his feet dangling.
“You know what else rises to the top?” asked Kevin, glancing at Eamon. “Scum.”
A chorus of dispute erupted against Kevin, who was accused of having sour grapes and being unnecessarily negative and pessimistic.
“You guys know I’m right,” Kevin said. “I mean, look at what happened with the Palmchat Pharmacy job. The smartest person didn’t get it, and that doesn’t really seem fair.”
Eamon glared at Kevin. He was getting damn sick and tired of Kevin’s sarcastic barbs, insinuating that Eamon hadn’t deserved the Palmchat Pharmacy job. If Kevin made one more bullshit comment about his lack of intelligence or ability, Eamon was going to rip the whiny little bitch a new one.
“Well, maybe it’s not fair but since you aren’t the smartest intern,” said Tina, with a smirk, “you weren’t going to get the job anyway.”
Tina’s snappy, sassy comeback elicited laughter and clapping. Even Kevin had a self-effacing grin, knowing he’d been properly put in his place.
As the laughter died down, Sarah said, “Well, it’s like Dr. Bean told us. We’re all more than capable of being excellent pharmacists.”
“Fuck her motivational bullshit,” Kevin griped. “I almost hurled when she said, ‘I wish I could have hired all of you.’ Yeah, right …”
“It’s not bullshit, dude,” said Jimmy. “Plus, she’s gonna give us recommendations.”
Kevin scoffed. “Like a recommendation from some island twat is going to do me a damn bit of good.”
“Dr. Bean is not an island twat,” said Eamon, itching to lunge across the table, put his hands around Kevin’s scrawny neck, and choke the shit out of him. An aggressive reaction would only give Kevin more ammunition against him, though. Eamon didn’t want to be stereotyped as just another Handweg hood.
“You shouldn’t say that, Kevin.” Sarah frowned as she scooted away from him. “It’s rude and misogynistic and sexist.”
“Look, we all knew there was only one position,” said Matt. “Only one person was going to get it.”
Nodding, Tina said, “We should just be happy for the opportunity that Palmchat Pharmacy provided us.”
“Eamon is the only one who got an opportunity to get the job,” Kevin said, his tone caustic. “The rest of us never had a chance. We’re not from Handweg Gardens.”
“What does me being from Handweg Gardens have to do with me getting the job?” Eamon demanded.
“You know exactly what it means,” Kevin said. “You island people stick together and help each other, whether you deserve it, or not.”
“Fuck you, Kevin.” Eamon stood and walked away from the table. Ignoring the calls to return, he crossed the Palm-dotted quad and headed to the library. Kevin Cook deserved a punch in the throat but walking away had been the best thing to do. Guys like Kevin ultimately weren’t worth the bruised knuckles. Eamon had decided long ago he wouldn’t solve his problems with his fists. People expected Handweg guys to be aggressive and violent, but he’d vowed not to live up to negative stereotypes.
As he stepped onto the path leading toward the library, someone called his name. Recognizing the irritating high-pitched tone, Eamon hurried into the library, deciding to pretend he hadn’t heard the voice behind him. Walking past the information counter, he made a right and headed toward the bookshelves.
Hoping he could navigate through the maze of shelves and make it upstairs to a private study room without being cornered, Eamon made another right, trying to zig-zag his way back to the main lobby where he would catch an elevator, but he accidentally made a left and was caught.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Sarah Linde’s lowered voice held traces of annoyance.
Eamon shook his head. “No, I—”
“Fucking liar,” Sarah said.
Eamon sighed. “Look—”
“Why have you been ignoring me?”
“Sarah—”
“I miss you,” she said, her voice still a whisper but childishly sexy now as she stepped closer to him. “I miss you inside me. It’s all I can think about.”
Laughing softly, he shook his head and sighed.
“Why are you laughing?” She glared at him. “You think it’s funny that I’m addicted to you? Does it amuse you to know that I can’t stop thinking about when we were together?”
“It was a mistake,” Eamon said.
Sarah frowned. “What?”
“When we hooked-up,” he said, switching his backpack from his left shoulder to his right. “We were drunk and high.”
“It was not a mistake. How can you say that?” she asked, lower lip quivering. “What we shared that night was special. Cosmic. Mystical. Supernatural. It was—”
Exhaling, he said, “It was the ecstasy we took before we fucked, okay?”
Sarah scowled. “How can you be so cruel and crude? That night was beautiful and pure. I’ve never felt that way before.”
Eamon scoffed. “I doubt that.”
Glowering at him, she said, “I am not some hit it and forget it, girl, okay? We did not have a casual hook-up. It meant something. I know you know that. I know you want me just as much as I want you.”
“Listen, I gotta go, but maybe I’ll call you,” Eamon said, maneuvering around her.
Nails stabbed into his arm, piercing the skin.
Wincing, Eamon turned and yanked his arm from her death grip. “What the hell is your problem?”
“Don’t you dare try to dismiss me,” she warned. “I won’t be ignored. You break my heart, and I swear, I will rip yours right out of your chest.”
Blue eyes hard, nostrils flaring, Sarah shoulder-checked him as she stomped away.
Watching her leave, Eamon touched the welts she’d left on his skin.
“Fucking psycho bitch,” he muttered under his breath as he shook his head.
Sarah Linde was crazy as hell. Was she out of her mind? They hadn’t shared any magical, cosmic sex. What Eamon remembered was mediocre, at best. Just two horny people using each other to get off. Nothing special or supernatural about it.
Walking slowly through the bookshelves, Eamon remembered Kevin’s warning about Sarah’s strange possessiv
e attachment. “She’s a quick, easy fuck,” Kevin had told him. “She’s down for whatever, but be careful because she likes to fall in love.”
Slightly apprehensive, Eamon glanced at the scratches on his arm, the mark of Sarah’s rage. As much as he wanted to dismiss her threat as the ranting of a spurned lover, Eamon wondered if maybe he shouldn’t shrug off Sarah’s threat.
He wondered if Sarah might be dangerous.
Chapter Four
Heading back into his bedroom with a steaming mug of coffee, Eamon Taylor went to the desk in the corner of the room, sat down and started up his computer.
After a few hesitant sips of the strong, percolated brew, he opened his email.
Before he could read the first message, his phone vibrated. Eamon felt a fluttering of panic swirling through his veins as he checked the text message. Another warning, this one even more intimidating and incendiary than the last few he’d received over the past month.
U must want 2 die. ignore me at ur own risk
Eamon ran a hand down the back of his close-cropped faux hawk. He wasn’t sure if he should go to the cops ... or handle the situation himself. He knew he could. Eamon had been born and raised in Handweg Gardens. Though he’d never succumbed to island gang life, he was sure he could hold his own against a threat.
Or, maybe not.
Sighing, he sent a response.
not ignoring u just need more time. will b n touch soon.
Hoping he’d bought himself some time, Eamon focused on his Inbox. He stared at the first email and frowned. Another strange email full of intimidating and incendiary language. This one was even more disturbing than the last email.
The first email had been sent to Eamon a month ago, during his first week on his new job at the Palmchat Pharmacy. Eamon hadn't taken it seriously. He'd figured it was a joke. Kevin or Matt or Tina trying to punk him. Kevin Cook, especially, was into playing stupid pranks. The PharmD he'd earned had done little to mature Kevin. He was still the same sophomoric asshole Eamon had met four years ago.
The email had been more annoying than funny. Eamon had deleted it, not giving it another thought.
Until he’d received the second email the following week. The message had been similar to the message in the first email, weird, confusing and slightly terrorizing. The last lines of the email had mirrored the last line of the first email: Don’t ignore me, Eamon. Or, I will destroy your life.
A third email had come last week, similar to the first two, the tone lurid and dangerous. The last line read: Ignoring me is a mistake. I can make your life a living hell.
He stared at the email he’d just opened. The last line was similar to the last line of the previous emails: Keep ignoring me, and I will ruin you.
Eamon didn’t understand. What the hell was going on? Why was this happening? Why send these emails to him? Why try to force him to do something he didn’t want to do? The emails featured the same proposition. A proposal he couldn’t accept.
You’re the only one who can do this, Eamon. I need to know what your answer will be.
Focusing on the sender’s email address, Eamon wondered if maybe he could use the emails to his advantage. He knew the sender. That person had a lot to lose if anyone found out about the emails. Eamon had a lot to gain if he exposed the strange, terrorizing messages.
The email messages were disturbing, but Eamon didn’t think his life was going to become a living hell or be ruined. The threatening text messages had to be taken seriously, but the email messages were nothing to really be afraid of …
Eamon took a few more sips of coffee.
The email messages weren’t as scary as the letters from Sarah Linde. She’d sent him a few bizarre manifestos about love and death and other bullshit he didn’t understand. He’d shown the letters to Kevin and Matt, and they’d all had a good laugh.
Finishing his coffee, Eamon stood. They said things came in threes, didn’t they? Heading into the shower, he realized that he was currently dealing with three different threats. One was comical, one was as serious as a stroke, and the other just might save his ass …
Chapter Five
“Will you be okay if I head out a bit early?”
Startled by the voice behind him, too familiar and much too close, Eamon Taylor took a quick breath. Struggling to compose himself, he prayed to maintain a calm demeanor as he turned to face Dr. Noelle Bean, his boss at Palmchat Pharmacy.
“Um, no,” Eamon said, trying not to stammer. “I mean, yeah, I’ll be fine. We’re slow today anyway.”
Eamon had serviced his last client about a half hour ago, an older grandmotherly type who’d wanted a recommendation to approve her memory. Should she take St. John’s Wort or Coenzyme Q10? Eamon had painstakingly explained the differences between the supplements, taking care to answer any and all questions.
Ultimately, the elderly woman had decided not to buy anything, but she’d left the pill bottles on the counter. Eamon had instructed the pharmacy tech on duty to return them to aisle three, where the supplements were stocked. The tech claimed to be swamped with paperwork. A dubious claim, one the tech often relied on when she didn’t want to take orders from him, Eamon had noticed.
The dearth of customers, which was unusual for a Tuesday afternoon, prompted him to aisle three, where he’d been restocking the supplements when Dr. Bean had sneaked up behind him.
“Are you sure it’s okay?” Dr. Bean asked. Standing across the aisle, she was polished and professional in her white lab coat with her hair pulled back in a bun and reading glasses perched on her nose. “I don’t want to leave you hanging.”
“I’m sure,” Eamon said. “It’s fine.”
Dr. Bean smiled. Eamon tried to return the smile, but he struggled to force the corners of his mouth to lift. He couldn’t believe how graceful and considerate she seemed. He couldn’t believe that her kindness and compassion was just a façade.
“I hate to skip out, but …” Dr. Bean went on, explaining why she wanted to leave early, but Eamon wasn’t listening. Fighting a nagging sense of disappointment and discouragement, he couldn’t help feeling like an idiot for believing Dr. Bean had his best interests at heart.
During the internship, she’d been nice to him, motivating and helpful, always willing to answer any questions he had and eager to give advice.
When he’d started at the pharmacy, Eamon had been eager to work with her.
As the lead pharmacist of the St. Killian location, Dr. Bean was practiced and experienced, the model of proficient efficiency. Her knowledge of pharmaceutical sciences was astounding, and she was a gifted communicator, adept at clearly imparting what she knew.
During his first week, as they’d worked side by side, Eamon had thought he and Dr. Bean might become more than just co-workers or colleagues …
Now, he couldn’t stand the sight of the bitch.
“So, I’m off tomorrow,” said Dr. Bean. “But, I’ll see you on Thursday.”
Eamon nodded, wishing she would just leave already.
“Oh, and I wanted to tell you,” she said, giving him another fake smile. “I think you’re doing a great job. I’m glad I chose you for the position.”
Eamon’s heart slammed as Dr. Bean walked away from him, striding down the aisle and around the corner, out of his view.
Lying whore, Eamon thought, his chest tightening. Did Dr. Noelle Bean really think she could fuck with him and get away with it?
Well, the bitch would do well to think again …
Chapter Six
“Babe, what happened to your hand?” Beanie asked. “You cut yourself?”
“What?” Noelle slipped her hand from Beanie’s strong, gentle grasp.
Moments ago, her husband had been about to kiss the inside of her palm, a move specifically designed to get her all hot and bothered.
He’d kissed her palm for the first time five years ago, at the end of their first date. When his lips touched her skin, the sensation had twirled and fluttered dir
ectly to her most intimate places. Despite the lust flooding her body, Noelle had known she’d found her soul mate.
Noelle had been eagerly anticipating the kiss, even though it always made her so horny, all she could think about was ripping her husband’s clothes off, something she couldn’t do at the moment.
She and Beanie were at Dizzy Jenny’s, three courses into their monthly decadent date night, a tradition they’d started after the birth of Ethan, their three-year-old. Becoming a mother had been a dream come true, but she hadn’t wanted to neglect her husband’s needs or her own. Date night had been a way to make sure they continued to make love like they were newlyweds on their honeymoon.
Glancing at the long, thin scratch beneath her right knuckle trailing in a jagged line to her wrist, Noelle shrugged. “I cut myself when I was planting those rose bushes yesterday.”
Grabbing her hand again, Beanie made a sympathetic noise as he kissed the scar that had formed.
“I can’t remember if it was a thorn,” she said, “or that damn shovel. Still can't believe somebody stole it.”
Beanie released her hand to pick up his wine glass. “Whoever took the shovel did you a favor.”
“Roland,” scolded Noelle, picking up her glass of chardonnay. “How can you say that?”
“That shovel was raggedy, Elle,” he said, using the pet name he sometimes called her. “The blade was bent, and one of the foot rests was dented.”
“I got a good deal on that shovel,” said Noelle. “I had to haggle with Mr. Ross for—”
“An hour before he caved and let you have it for half off,” Beanie said, playfully finishing the story she’d proudly recounted when she purchased the shovel two weeks ago.
“Just pisses me off that someone took it because I barely got to use it.”
“Babe, I’ll buy you a new shovel.”
Noelle smiled and then took another sip of wine. She had the most wonderful husband in the world. Beanie was her hero, always trying to make everything better and keep her happy. He was so different from the kind of guy she figured she’d end up with—a man who didn’t care about her feelings or her needs. When she was a teenager before she’d left St. Killian, she’d always been involved with violent misogynists, men who were verbally, and sometimes physically, abusive.