Devil In Her Bed

by Amarie Avant

  I decide not to chicken out and continue with, “I'd like for us to continue as friends, one day....”

  Again, I pause. Head cocked just so, I determine the suspiciousness of me indicating that we should be friends in the future. Why the future? Well, the laziest DA could indicate that I wanted to hold off on our friendship while I attempted the art of entrapment. To catch a stalker.

  Premeditated murder.

  Pressing Select All, I delete the entire message.

  “That's a no go.” I shake my head. Pulling my phone out, I text Lincoln.

  “Run tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow is Friday. The iPhone tinkers as he seems to be typing back.

  “Out of town.”

  Once again, the phone tinkers as he types a message. Then the phone pings as the text appears. “Return Tues. Run Wed. Would be lovely to hear your voice prior.”

  “Okay… when can you chat?”

  The phone lights up in my hand. A giddy grin is displayed across my lips and I press the speaker button.

  “Hello, Lincoln.” The sound of my voice is as melodic as a song. It's hard to fathom how I pushed him away.

  “’Ello, Siobhan.” His voice is loud and clear through the speaker.

  I sigh deeply. “The way you say hello.”

  “I brushed up on my native dialect, in hopes to woo you, once you were ready, of course.”

  The grin wavers briefly. “Lincoln… let's get back to being platonic. My… my… stalker—crap, that sounds too intimate. The asshole who is watching me never perceived you as a threat prior to our outing. I know previously we just ran, here in Willow Bluff. But the yacht, the bike ride leading to a romantic picnic; maybe that set him off?”

  “I've been wondering,” he changes the subject, not answering or consenting to the clause of nonsexual friendship I have offered. “How the arsehole has a means of following you around? From Northern California to San Diego, Monterey. What if your cell phone has been tampered with? He might be listening to us now?”

  When nervous, I fidget with the cross around my neck. “Like I said, no cops.” Why did I just mention this again? Lincoln will know something is up.

  “All right, if he’s listening, we will let him listen. And trust me, I recall your aversion to outside help, which is why I still have the dog collar. It’s been bagged. Bernard took it to one of his old mates, an SID tech. But I must assume that if your stalker has a tracker on your phone, as the least intrusive means to follow you, perhaps the barmy bastard wasn't there at all. One could merely pay a local flower delivery guy to play such a sick trick.”

  My brow furrows in thought. “Oh my God, that's disgusting.”

  “Whatever it is, I will have an answer for you.”

  “Th…thank you.”

  “We've already chatted other ways to thank me, Siobhan. I'm not a fan of words.”

  I sink back, a confused smile on my face. I want so badly to show my gratitude. Lincoln went behind my back, and has decided to help me. Damn, I need this. Maybe if Lincoln and I don’t cross the line, it won’t upset the stalker, before the bastard has the chance to slip up in my house. “For now, kind words are all I am capable of giving.”

  “Platonic, for now,” he says with all assurance. “Roger that.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Stalker

  The phone tracker signal flickers, going off like fireworks, before it dies completely. I roar. The smattering of freckles across my face and body ignite on fire. I chuck the cell phone tracker onto the floor across from me.

  I lean against the lumpy cushion of the driver’s seat. I’m by no means tall, at five foot eight. But a trifle over 200 pounds of all muscle makes me feel claustrophobic in an unmarked white van. The rear of the van has no windows. Across the sides of the van are the stolen decal of an “ADT” home security company.

  Damn it all to hell! I punch at the steering wheel, loud honking sounds resounding with each hit.

  “You’re starting to lose yourself again,” my therapist breaks through my thoughts. “Dig deep. Only you have the power to make yourself happy. When’s the last time you’ve taken your med—”

  “Fuck the medication!” I shout, battered knuckles giving the steering wheel one last swift punch.

  My mind races. Why hadn’t I been the one to hold Siobhan while the pit bull had barked and snarled and threatened her life? To lick the fear off her cheek? To taste it exuding from her body, timid and scared and swimming in angst?

  I press the rewind button on the iPad in my hands. The iPad is connected to the surveillance system in Siobhan’s home. Video 8, entitled “Bedroom” is streaming. Siobhan had placed the call on speaker as she’d lovingly leaned back on her plethora of pillows. I press rewind until she leans forward in her bed, in shock.

  Siobhan’s hair cloaks her face as Lincoln says, “But I must assume that if your stalker has a tracker on your phone, as the least intrusive means to follow you, perhaps the barmy bastard wasn't there at all. One could merely pay a local flower delivery guy to play such a sick trick.”

  “Oh my god, that's disgusting.”

  I press the button again, this time judging where to stop in order to hear her voice.

  “… delivery guy to play such a sick trick.”

  “Oh my God, that's disgusting.”

  I smile and pause the video. My fingers reach out and touch Siobhan's face. My index finger glides across the cool screen. Her plush mouth is all tightened with worry. It’s all I can do not to fall deeply, madly in love with Siobhan Lowe again.

  “You are totally and utterly wonderful, Siobhan. Every single inch of you belongs to me,” I whisper. “You need me.”

  I rub a hand over my face. When will she be made aware that her best friend, Regina, has been murdered? Then I can go to her, hold her at night as she cries in my arms. The anticipation is overwhelming. I can't wait for her to know, but unlike other aspects in Siobhan’s life, I can't very well call her up and suggest that she order a dozen condolence roses.

  Heck, I blocked her mother’s phone number after erasing the worried call Shania left on her phone last night. I blocked her father’s cell phone and their house phone too. No incoming calls allowed. Luckily, her parents aren't big on email or Facebook. Each time Siobhan attempts to reach out to her parents, the calls are forwarded to my cell phone due to the simple update I placed in her iPhone. Siobhan doesn’t have a home phone.

  They didn't need to support her during this grief. I'm the one who holds her at night. She needs me. I crave her sadness and distress. A vivid image of our first encounter during Samuel’s untimely demise reminds me that I’m helping her even now.

  I have a fetish for tragedy and the beauty of a broken woman. I love the continual breaking of her, and that’s why Hosea had to go. And I’ll love her through every tragedy that has yet to strike.

  Lincoln will be the next to go, once she actually gives a shit for him.

  Like a billion times before, only one thought consumes my mind. She needs me. She still does need me and always will.

  Chapter Twelve

  Siobhan

  Two months before Hosea Murrell’s disappearance, he planted himself behind me. It was a chaotic morning, and like many times before, Hosea worked his magic. But unlike any other morning, I was preparing to pitch On Demand to what would become our highest marketing brand. I had donned a navy-blue pencil skirt and a matching blazer, white blouse, Italian silk. Just enough makeup to imply I took the time to wear it, but anyone could read my intent. Power and prestige.

  “Look at that smile, Siobhan.” Hosea glanced at my reflection through the dresser mirror.

  I glared back. “Go away, Hosea. I’m not in the mood to smile. Not until I secure the Rockstar Productions account.”

  He planted his hands on either side of the dresser, blocking me from pushing him away. Still staring at me through the mirror, Hosea said, “That brain of yours is running a mile a minute, isn’t it? What’s the motto? Con
fidence in the suit you’re wearing. Charisma in the smile you’ll offer to a potential client later… though no smile for your man. What’s the third C?”

  I sighed. “Hosea, I’ll be home soon as Rockstar signs on the dotted line, and I’ll be smiling my ass off. And how did you forget ‘Charm,’ you’re good at it in every aspect except for my father. You will be picking up my parents from the airport this afternoon, right?”

  His hazel eyes sparkled humorously as if he wasn’t yet ready to try on another dose of charm with my father. He reached around, his hand clamped ever so softly around my throat, thumb grazing against the silk of my jaw. “Yes, I’ll be at the airport promptly at one fifteen. Now, back to that smile. You think you’re going to run off this morning and smile for some rich old geezer?”

  I almost told him that the potential clients were young as hell, but he continued. “That’s not gonna work for me, beautiful. While you’re away, I won’t get a lick of work done, imagining you smiling and batting those eyelashes at some rich prick.”

  “Then go write your book,” I snapped because this is me, and this is what I do when my mind is inundated with thoughts of one thing. Transforming On Demand into a powerhouse.

  Hosea didn’t seem slighted by my retort. He rarely ever did. “So pick up your parents. Listen to your pops talk shit all afternoon until he sees his gorgeous daughter. Your brother will steal the show with his jokes later tonight. I won’t have you until you’re ready to fall in bed and sleep. How about I just have you now?”

  I wrestled with his hand. Hosea’s fingers slid from my shoulders and then reached around cupping the length of my neck. He planted a kiss against my cheek. “Siobhan, you’ll be a bit late for your meeting today, but I can guarantee you will seal the deal. You’re just that good.”

  I almost smiled at his alpha antics. My Romeo was hardly one to command. Late? No, I wouldn’t be late. He reached a hand down the front of my throat and his fingers traced against my breast before he reached his hand inside of the lace cup and gripped my breast. Nipples gone erect and extra tender to the soft massaging of his hand, I stifled a moan.

  “Smile for me, Siobhan,” Hosea said into the mirror. He massaged the anxiety from my shoulders, thumbs kneading into the tight stress of my trapezius. “Though that gorgeous smile of yours is engrained right here,” he pressed a finger to his temple, and then grabbed around me before I could dash out of his hold, “I must see it. For your sake, I need you to smile, beautiful.”

  The day had begun like many others. An overdose of caffeine and a fixation on business. Then my rock, Hosea, forcing me to slow down.

  ***

  The dream of almost fifteen months ago is so lifelike it feels like I’ve been transported into another time. It’s reoccurring almost every night. Beginning with my relentless search for the proper power suit to wear when giving the presentation to Rockstar Productions. Hosea had me unwind, forcing me to smile, and sexing me just right before the day fully transpired.

  Yet, that very night I witnessed my brother being propelled through the front windshield of his car.

  This morning, fortunately, I woke myself up prior to reliving that dreaded scene.

  As I roll over in bed, the first thing on my mind is Mom. I dial her number, and hold my breath. Pick up. Pick up… The automated receiver comes on, reminding me to leave a message at the beep.

  “Mom, call me when you get the chance.” I speed through the short phrase, and then press the end call button before the voicemail recorder catches the crack in my voice.

  Since Sammy’s death, there has been nothing left for us. Her beloved first born son is dead. It wasn't your typical love thy son, leave thy daughter to the wayside, but I'm to blame for Sammy’s accident, and so it has come to this. Quick phone calls, and only putting the effort to reach out when at the end of my rope. Our relationship once rivaled an early ’90s family sitcom where you can go to your mom to inquire about any moral dilemma, learn a valuable adage and the credits run on a nice, warm and fuzzy moment.

  I get up from bed, and pace back and forth. Why won’t my mom call me back? I consider calling her sister in Dallas. My aunt will want to talk about Sammy. Everyone thinks they can mend my heart over Sammy and Hosea. I could send my aunt a message on Facebook Messenger? Just asking her if there’s anything wrong with my parents’ phone?

  Why hasn’t Regina returned my call? We don’t talk much. We’re the type of best friends who can step away for a while and pick up right where we left off. But oddly, during the season of our favorite reality show, that’s when we talk to each other religiously. Not sure what I’ve said to piss her off, but she gets like this sometimes. But I just can’t be alone with my thoughts. Meandering to and fro on the plush pile carpet, I call the someone who will answer.

  “Good day, Siobhan.” His answer is cheery. “Only two more days and we hit the ground running.”

  I thought hearing his voice might mend the feeling of melancholy overwhelming me. Though craving more, I attempt to keep the sadness from my voice. “Good morning, Lincoln. Yes, two more days…” I begin biting my lip, “Where are you?” I inquire before I realize how personal this statement is. Attempting to cushion how nosey I’m being, I add, “What’s the noise in the background?”

  “I’m at Fort Bragg, stepping away from a couple of trigger-happy wankers who’ve just received a few Zager toys,” he says. The loud shouting and thick thumping sounds in the background begin to dwindle. “Are you all right?”

  “Y-yeah, yes, I’m okay. Just alone and stuck in my emotions.” I attempt to hold the disappointment in my voice. Fort Bragg is another hour and a half north of here. I instantly wish I hadn’t bothered. He is working and doesn’t need my crap. Just hearing his strong, masculine voice isn’t enough. The pads of my fingertip and thumb rub together with the desire of something tangible.

  “I’ll be there shortly,” he responds.

  “Lincoln,” I speak, but the call has already ended.

  Not thirty minutes later, a loud chopping sound swooshes into the air. My typing stops and I’m seated legs folded in the comfort of my suede chair, in my downstairs den. I lay the laptop on the floor before rising from the low seated position. After almost two months of living in Willow Bluff, I’ve never heard such a sound, so close, so loud.

  I start for the kitchen, cell phone ready with 9-1-1 already set under speed dial until various shades of green pierce through the branches of trees right outside the sliding glass door.

  It’s an army helicopter. As the chopper begins to slow, the door slides open and none other than Mr. Lincoln Zager hops out as it hovers a few yards from the ground. He’s donning a suit, dressed in black on black which couples well with his ivory skin. God, does he look like a deranged Tom Hiddleston in all of his beauty.

  The cell phone drops from my fingers and clatters onto the counter, eyes enthralled and locked onto him.

  Unlatching the hook, I open the sliding glass door.

  He’s walking toward me with a purpose. His presence is all consuming. I tell myself to breathe, as Lincoln stalks toward me. He is here. Real and in the flesh. Tangible. Hosea Murrell is merely a figment of my imagination. But I am no longer alone.

  His face is stern, yet keen, as if searching for some underlying horror on my part. Oh no, he thinks I’m some ditz who called because of the stalker sighting.

  His hand takes to my cheek, as his eyes give me a full look-over. He commands the space between us until it is no more.

  “Lincoln, there’s nothing the matter, aside from me being left to my own devices.”

  Visually assured that I am not undergoing any sort of torment, Lincoln reaches down to kiss me. Crap, what about my request for a strictly platonic relationship?

  On my toes, I rise. I reach up and taste his lips. This time is so much different than the first. Self-assurance urges my tongue to twirl around his, and match the vigor in which Lincoln kisses me.

  Nothing else is needed to be said a
s Lincoln’s hands cup my breasts, through the silk of my camisole, brushing his thumbs across my nipples. They become taut, tingling instantly to his hot, roughness. The sensation obliterates all thought from my cognition. Sharp jolts of pleasure propel straight to my nether regions.

  In an instant, Lincoln’s arm has hooked around my waist. I now weigh less than air as he scoops me up. My legs cling around his waist, arms fly around his neck, lips magnetized once more to each other. There is no other taste in this world to match the addiction of Lincoln Zager.

  He walks us back into the house. My ass slams down onto a cold countertop in the kitchen. Lincoln lets me go. Though I can hardly speak for catching my breath, I watch as he fists the knot of his tie from his Adam’s apple, loosening it.

  The heavy sound of breathing takes over. His eyes are this searing, delicious darkness. Darker than I’ve ever seen them, darker than I ever anticipated. And I see myself through that devilish gaze, almost as if I’m trapped within his grasp. My fingers quiver. The thought of sliding the soft pads of my fingertips against the stubble at his angular jawline is just that, a thought. A notion I am too damn afraid to see through. Something tells me that it’s his turn to touch.

  He steps forward. Oxygen slams into my burning lungs. Had I not taken a breath?

  Lincoln reaches down. His lips brush across my forehead. I glance up, brown orbs pleading, yearning, begging for a taste of what I had before. Damn, we have known each other just over three weeks, but I’m hungry. Starving for the notion of being broken by him.

  Break me.

  Free me.

  Fucking light me on fire.

  Those dark eyes dare me to speak. They read me well, promising to surpass what I even believe I want.

  He steps before me, planting his palms on either side of my curves, hands stretched against the edge of the counter. And all I can do is eye him, eye him like a deer stuck in the headlights, waiting for his touch.

  “Siobhan, I am not the type to fuck just any gorgeous piece of ass. Once I taste you, Siobhan, there is no turning back.”