by Brenda Storm
The night is ours.
“Yes, Kev. The night is finally ours.”
With Callie Jo’s blood still on my hand, I triumphantly reached out and accepted my ghost lover’s hand as he led me across the prison yard that didn’t look so sterile beneath the twinkling starlight. My darling Kev and I were off—finally—to finish the love we began so many years ago.
STALKERS
The Cottage
From behind the long, ivory drawback curtains of her dark bedroom at her pale yellow cottage with louvered shutters and a small porch accented with gingerbread trim, Brianna watched the man…perhaps the man of her dreams as he pranced back and forth in his bedroom. His tall shadow darted swiftly across his bedroom window at the two-story log cabin across the street, across the pond and up on the hill. He must not plan to go out tonight...again. No girlfriend? She hoped not. No wife, according to the neighborhood grapevine. He owned a masonry business that she often observed him managing from the cedar barn at the rear of his property. Working with nature, brick and stone daily he probably wasn’t an arrogant, spoiled “company man”—that type of men she dated in the past, the type that she learned to despise. Married for seven years to Mark Maxwell, the ultimate boot-licking “brown-nose” company man, she vowed, now that she was a 32-year-old widow, not to make the same mistake again of falling for a guy with a tight, white collar. The suffocating nine-to-five life was boring. She craved romance and adventure…spontaneity. Might it all be as close as across the street?
The Cabin
He sensed her watching him again. Damn, silly woman! Did she really believe she could get away with snooping, invading his privacy and then playing him for a fool as she’d no doubt pretend she didn’t care who he might entertain in his bedroom? Her Ice Princess act that he’d already heard about from male neighbors didn’t fool Deacon one bit. He saw right through her manipulative mind games. Now he enjoyed the game of “tit for tat” as he also peered straight into her bedroom. While she left her curtain open to spy on him, she’d probably shit green apples and howl at the moon if she knew that he looked straight back at her in the dark. She used cheap binoculars. He could tell by their size. Ha! He had high-powered, expensive night vision hunter’s binoculars. Wouldn’t she blush if she knew he could see the curlers in her hair and her glasses when she normally wore contact lenses? How silly she looked in her child-like Mickey Mouse nightshirt, yet how lovely her curves looked, despite the hair curlers and spectacles. Her breasts spilled invitingly over the top of her pink nightshirt and he wished he was close enough so he could caress them…kiss them…savor their sweet taste against his hungry lips.
God! For a woman I barely know and probably wouldn’t like much, she’s driving me crazy! he thought, remembering how long he’d gone without a woman to satisfy his lustful male urges. In the background the song made famous by John Cougar Mellencamp, “I Need A Lover That Won’t Drive Me Crazy,” played and each beat matched his wild heartbeat. He wanted a woman in his private world, needed a woman, but every female he’d loved so far, even his mother, had let him down. Then there were the wives. Unfaithful. Liars. Tramps. The last spouse ripped him off so much financially in their divorce settlement that he’d even come close to losing his beloved cabin—his “rock,” the only stability in his life, only refuge that comforted him during the storms of life. There was no way in hell he’d ever trust another woman and risk losing his home and his fifteen park-like acres! No woman was worth losing his real “love”—the cabin and the land.
The Gypsy Wagon
The man that wasn’t supposed to be on Deacon’s land hovered by the 8’ wide X 20’ long gypsy wagon, or vardo. It was scarlet red with pale blue and gold trim and had large, round spoked wood wheels. The stealthy intruder noticed that the property owner he nicknamed “Mr. Logs” gazed through binoculars again. At least while Deacon St. John busily gawked at Brianna, he must not have detected the weary, nightly trespasser that slipped inside his restored wagon.
Horny bastard! Damn you, Mr. Logs! You’ll have Brianna over my dead body! the nomadic traveler cursed. He’d traversed too far to lose her again now. At the correct moment, whenever it would be, he planned to show himself to her, but the time wasn’t right yet. She might no longer recognize him after all the hell he endured since she saw him last. It would be wiser, safer, to gently prepare her for the surprise of her life rather than spring it on her. There was no denying that his covert ways turned her on and gave him the upper hand in the past. He remembered how she loved it when he used to sneak up behind her and make her laugh as he placed his hands over her eyes. She always knew it was him, always knew his touch and sensed his spirit even when he slipped up behind her. Last time he did too much wrong, though. He went too long without calling her…she needed him and he was off seeing the world. No more clumsy mistakes. This time he intended to play a smarter game.
You will be mine, Brianna, he vowed possessively. All mine forever, till the end of time!
It didn’t matter that she might actually fancy herself in love with the conceited moron in the cabin. Or if she may still love her husband that was out of her life finally. If her heart did belong to another man, she could get rid of that crazy notion. Things were about to change drastically for her. Soon, maybe at her cottage, or perhaps even on the hand-crafted maple bed at the gypsy wagon he “borrowed,” he’d teach her all about love beyond the moon and the stars.
But first I must get rid of the jerk inside the cabin. That wasn’t such an easy task when the property owner lived year round at the cabin.
There has to be a way for a poacher to enjoy a little privacy, he plotted and chuckled, satisfied with his new “boudoir.” The cramped little makeshift bedroom with ivory crocheted curtains covering the only round window suited his needs just fine. Here the fresh country air, the chirping and croaking of night creatures, the occasional “splash” of a boisterous frog leaping into the pond, the swaying of the pine-scented branches sure beat living on the streets in the city. That was a nightmare he never wanted to experience again!
The Cabin and the Gypsy Wagon…two days later
“Sure, you can have permission to photograph my log cabin and my land,” Deacon told Brianna, whose pale white blonde hair reminded him of a full midnight moon in its color and also how she made him feel. Far away. Enchanted. Curious. Lost. Found. She somehow made him feel all of these emotions at once. How could this exasperating woman he barely knew make him feel so many different feelings all at once?
“I’ll enjoy seeing my log cabin on your future book cover.”
“Thanks.”
“Just make sure you don’t use a zoom-lens next time you spy on me through my window at night. It’s my cabin, pond and grounds you have permission to shoot, not me personally.”
Her face reddened with anger, resentment and embarrassment. She’d been so careful to observe him quietly in the dark. How had he known when she studied him from afar? It would only inflate his strong male ego more if she admitted he was correct. She’d never allow him that satisfaction!
“What vanity! You believe I’ve been watching you?”
“I know you’ve been watching me through my window and on more than one night!”
She laughed mockingly, determined to deny the truth.
“And why would you imagine I’d do something stupid and ill-mannered like that?”
“Perhaps you crave a man in your arms, in your bed, and you’ve been checking me out, testing if I’m a proper fit for the role.”
“Why, you egomaniac! I have better sense than to want a man for mere flesh pleasures! For the record, I’ve never been interested in casual sex or one night stands. Only true love that lasts forever and a guy that is my compatible soul mate attracts me.”
“That’s what both of my ex-wives said,” he recalled, “but each time ‘forever’ didn’t last more than a few years.”
“You’re divorced?” Somehow she erred in thinking he was single. Divorced twice increas
ed the chances that he might not be capable of fully trusting a woman. “I’m single, too. Widowed over a year ago.”
“I know. Your husband used to work on my pickup truck at his repair garage.”
“My husband worked as a plant manager at a lighting company. The auto repair shop was only his side business—one he inherited from his father. It’s my auto repair shop now. Mark, my late husband, left it to me.”
“If I were you, I’d expect to earn a much better living off the auto repair shop than what your silly romance novels will likely ever earn.”
The infuriating man! Where did he get so much nerve? “For your information, sir, I’ll have you know that those ‘silly’ romance novels made the best-sellers list nine times in the past. Just because you’d probably never buy my books, plenty of other people do.”
“Actually, I read one of your novels.”
Unexpectedly, she felt flattered. “Really?”
“Yes. Our mutual neighbor, Ed, loaned it to me awhile ago. He digs living next door to you because he thinks you’re hot to trot after he read the steamy love scenes you write.”
“That’s extremely sexist! Romance writing is a job just like any other career.”
“If you say so.”
“I do!”
Talking to him in person wasn’t quite the soothing experience she’d hoped it would be. Obviously he was set in his ways and a straight-shooter instead of used to conversing gently with a woman or caring what she felt. Despite how sexually attractive his sky blue eyes, thick dark, arched brows, firmly chiseled chin or full, luscious lips, high forehead and long, straight coal-black hair were, he might not make good husband material after all. In her past, she’d already loved one strong-willed male that had often behaved too proudly for his own good. Long ago, before she wed, she hadn’t been able to hold onto her old boyfriend with a wild heart, so she wasn’t sure she wanted similar complications in her future love life. Some men were too hard to hold, too untamed in all their ways, which made them dangerous like hazardous smoke. The last thing she needed was to deal with any more guys that were toxic to her emotional system!
Hours later Brianna returned to finish taking pictures of the log cabin and pond. The daytime shots turned out perfectly, but why didn’t the sundown poses do well and what was the bright, silver-white orb that appeared in more than one picture? Luckily, she spotted the need to redo the photos before the glowing orange sphere disappeared entirely below the horizon. Now the setting sun cast reddish rays on the rippling pond. Peeking over the long, slender, fuzzy brown cattails, she spotted the red gypsy wagon that glistened invitingly.
How charming! What other interesting treasures did Deacon keep hidden behind the forsythia bushes and fragrant pines? She couldn’t resist opening the outer door to look inside at a narrow wooden pathway that led to a cozy bed that dominated the Art Nouveau interior. The only other items inside were a hard wood chair, a guitar, a tiny round oak table, barely large enough for two adults to sit at or dine. The sides of the bed at the bottom provided handy, 6’ long drawers on heavy duty slides that pulled out for dry storage. Odd. The headboard with a wolf carved into it looked nice, but the unusual long, broad drawers on the bottom near the floor reminded her of a casket. Why did she sense that the dead might feel more at home here than the living did?
“Do you always break and enter where you aren’t invited to go?” Deacon accused, appearing in jeans and a gold T-shirt as he stood at the door. He blocked her from stepping outside to the green glade where smells of cedar and pine wafted from the woods behind the pond where waves danced playfully across the water.
Trapped! She felt like he’d cornered her as if she were prey that he intended to hunt and amuse himself with by watching her squirm as she begged for him to release her. Was that his goal? To make her beg? To force her to acknowledge his power over her?
Pretending to be confident when she felt guilty and wished she hadn’t gotten herself into her current predicament, she cleared her throat before speaking. “The door on the wagon was unlocked. Intrigued, I stepped inside for a closer look. I didn’t think you’d mind. I apologize if I crossed over any lines that I shouldn’t have.”
Deacon sighed, annoyed as usual with his gorgeous blonde neighbor. The hair curlers, glasses and dowdy night-time beauty routine was gone. Now she reminded him of a super model. Blonde. Willowy. Big, brown eyes that cut through a man’s soul. He could easily imagine her long legs entwined with his own. “Damn it!” he swore aloud.
“What’s wrong?” She dreaded what he might say next. If looks could kill, she’d probably already be a dead woman, judging by his stern facial expression.
Ignoring her question, he thought how much he disliked females that were “eye candy” to men. Their seductive beauty was how his ex-wives deceived him with their wily, wicked ways. He didn’t intend to let good looks and flirty, puckered lips bring him down again anytime soon. Still, he couldn’t deny his strong attraction to Brianna. On impulse, he leaned forward, reached out and ordered, “Kiss me.”
Did she hear correctly? How dare he command what, if she weren’t his captive like at the moment, treated like a piece of his property, she might otherwise have freely offered him. “No,” she refused, wanting him to get to know her better, to love her, not merely desire her body.
“Afraid?” he taunted her, climbing up the rest of the way so he could easily pin her down on the bed, but he didn’t do it since his goal wasn’t to scare her away.
“Afraid of you? Hardly.”
“Why not?” he probed.
She regained her poise and opened her black leather clutch purse before she pulled out a small handgun. “I hold a concealed carry weapons permit. It prevents me from having to fear any man. I always carry my gun with me where there are no ‘guns prohibited here’ signs. You didn’t post any on your property.”
He smirked and motioned for her to step first out of the gypsy wagon as he followed behind her. “So this is the thanks I get for granting you access to my land? You pull a gun on me. What a wildcat you must be, Brianna, especially if you meet up with a real man instead of ones with no mettle like your fictional romance heroes who undoubtedly display weak wills and soft spines.”
“Obviously you never really read my books, at least not in their entirety, or you’d know I always create strong-willed, lovable, adventurous male heroes.”
“Like me?” he asked, grinning and then with his large, sun-tanned hands he cupped the sides of her face to stare directly, passionately into her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want a kiss before you go?”
“I—I…”
Laughing again, he murmured, “That’s what I thought. Come closer.”
His hungry lips claimed her mouth that opened to taste the slight hint of wine that clung to his tongue as it brushed lightly against her own. Their kiss slowly built to a more sensuous one, but then she felt warm stirrings of desire as his hand slipped beneath the back of her yellow cotton eyelet blouse and slid down to squeeze her lower waist above the back pocket of her white jeans.
Wait! she realized, shocked. Deacon’s hands still held her face. Then how did she feel someone touch her waist? Who could possibly reach out to her when they were alone? Or were they alone? No one else appeared to be around, but she felt sure someone touched her where Deacon could not. She admitted he was a good kisser, but his kiss couldn’t be that intoxicating. Something was definitely amiss!
The ghost from Brianna’s past that had guarded her inside the wagon now determinedly protected her as he joined her outside. The pond was close enough, the ground still soggy like a sponge from the previous day’s rain. Jealousy flickered in the specter’s opaque eyes, visible only to the unseen world beyond the veil. He extended his leg and foot that was no longer made of solid human flesh, but it was still useful in causing Deacon to stumble and fall into the cold water.
“Shit! Why did you shove me into the pond, Brianna? It’s colder than a witch’s blue tit in this wate
r,” Deacon complained, shivering and crawling up onto the muddy bank that was slippery and dangerous. After several attempts, he accepted Brianna’s outstretched hand as she helped him steady himself on land again.
“You must have slipped. I didn’t push you,” she assured him.
“Like hell you didn’t! I felt you shove me.”
“No, I really didn’t!” Then it dawned on her that Deacon must have felt an eerie touch on his body like she experienced a spooky sensation on her waist. If she revealed this, though, he’d probably call her “crazy” and claim that her revelation was humanly impossible.
“I’m going inside to find some towels and dry off,” Deacon announced, strutting off toward the cabin.
“And I’m going home,” she retorted, turning to stroll down the long, gravel drive that led to the street and to her cottage on the other side of the country road. How did she hear what sounded like a double set of footsteps as she walked away? It couldn’t be Deacon. She watched him enter his log cabin and close the forest green front door.
Startled, she realized she forgot her Canon camera and left it behind in the gypsy wagon. What else could go wrong on this spooky night that left her nerves on edge? Hurriedly she revisited the bohemian wagon and grabbed the camera that she must have dropped on the floorboard when Deacon first appeared. As she started to exit the wagon, she watched the brass knob turn on the door before it clicked shut and locked her on the inside. What was going on now? She saw clearly that no human stood anywhere close enough to slam the door shut.
No human. Suddenly she felt the wiry hairs on the back of her neck rise. She wasn’t alone. Slowly an apparition formed as her heart flapped wildly. An owl soared low and made scary “hoo-hoo” sounds as she wondered who it was—or what it was—that forced her onto her back on the mattress of the wolf-bed before she fainted from fear.