by Jane Henry
“Right,” Judson says, in a voice laced with judgment. I leave the bar and bump into the wall, setting a photo off kilter. I turn to straighten it and freeze. It’s a picture of Beatrice with another man. He’s young, and attractive, and the two of them are with her parents at some sort of beach home. Who is this? I’ve looked at lots of pictures of Beatrice upstairs, but this is a new one. And it’s down here, hidden in the man cave, where Muriel can’t see it.
I don’t like the way she looks standing beside another man. The guy has a shock of jet black hair and is tall and lean with a swimmer’s body. He’s leaning in and kissing her cheek, and something in me flares to life. I want to shove this nameless person away from Beatrice and show him she’s mine. I suddenly hate that I’ve let her go to the wedding alone and wish I hadn’t offered to stay behind. But the truth is, the sooner we leave this place filled with demons and ghosts of Beatrice’s past, the better.
“Her room?” Judson asks.
I nod. “So she says. I’ll go to her room and look, and you go to the main living area and look.”
“You got it, chief,” Judson responded, his voice laced with sarcasm. I clench my jaw and ignore him. We just need to find her bag and get out of here. I go through everything in her room, even her shoe bag and clothing bag, but see nothing. I rifle through the closet and with chagrin realize there’s a whole pile of pictures in here, too, with the Superman-lookalike guy in several of them. What the fuck?
Her bag is nowhere to be found. I run a hand through my hair, exasperated, when I hear Judson calling from the other room. “Found it!”
He comes in with the silver bag in hand. “She left it out on the porch. Must’ve been taking pictures or something,” he says. I don’t trust him, though. How convenient that she lost her bag and he was the one who randomly found it?
“Thanks, man,” I say, reaching for it. He hands it to me, and I unzip it. There are her keys and phone and makeup and cell. Something’s wrong, though. I take out her cell and eye it carefully, not turning it on. The case is askew, like someone’s torn it off, and then put it back on in a rush.
Sometimes I hate my job. For all I know, this is just in my head, seeing ghosts where no one else does, guessing everyone’s motives and intentions. I sigh. I wish I could take things at face value, but I can’t. It’s just who I am, how I’m wired. Next, I open her wallet while Judson stands, his arms crossed on his chest.
“You think I went through it?” He asks, he is voice tight and angry.
“Didn’t say that,” I say. “But I’m just making sure no one did.” I open her wallet, and everything’s there. I made her hit the ATM the day before and I knew she got out one hundred dollars in cash for the trip and clearly, she hasn’t spent it. Every bill is still there. Somewhat satisfied, I put it back in her bag.
“Ready to go?” Judson asks, his lips pursed. He’s turned away from me. Yeah, I’m ready. Her phone buzzes and I look at the screen. Jesus. She has thirty-nine notifications. This is out of control.
“Bag looks good with your outfit, officer,” Judson says with a huff of laughter.
“Thanks,” I say without responding to his assholery. This guy is not my friend. I’m not even going to pretend otherwise.
When we arrive at the wedding, I ask her to look through to make sure everything’s there.
“Seeing ghosts again, honey?” she asks, her blue eyes bright.
“Yeah, babe. It’s my job. Making sure the ghosts aren’t giving you shit.”
She looks through her bag. “I think it looks normal. Can’t say I would notice if someone stole a mint or something.”
I smile at her. “Good.”
I take my seat behind the others, after giving her a parting kiss on the cheek. She’s the most beautiful one of the bunch, and my heart swells to see her standing, looking at her cousin with damp eyes and pink cheeks, like a little girl about to ride the carousel. She doesn’t want to be married, she’s said, but I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be the one standing up there with her, taking her hands in mine and pledging lifelong devotion, then sliding the band around her finger.
I swallow hard, the rest of the details a blur, then before I know it, a groomsman is holding up the hands of the bride and groom and cheers erupt around us. Beatrice finally joins me.
“God, I need to find a seat,” she mutters. “My feet are killing me, I’m dying of starvation, and my mouth is so dry I feel like someone’s stuffed it with cotton.”
“Cheers for the happy couple!” God, they’re starting again? And no, this time they’re not talking about the bride and groom, but someone at our table has a flute of champagne they’re raising in our direction. I see Beatrice’s mom narrow her eyes at us from another table, her lips so thin it’s almost comical. I groan, take my flute, and play along.
I eye everyone in the room as I take a sip of my champagne, and now that Beatrice is done with pictures, I hold her elbow. I don’t give a shit if everyone’s going to think we’re engaged. Hell, I want them to know she’s with me. I don’t trust these people. And she isn’t herself around them. She’s skittish and on edge, and I need to get my girl alone again to get her back on track.
“Relax,” I whisper in her ear. “We’ll be out of here soon.”
“It just sucks,” she whispers back. “I wanted this to be nice. I wanted to be happy for Chantilly and give her my support. But everyone’s talking about yachts and vacation homes in Europe and the size of their diamonds.”
“You know what they say about size,” I quip.
She smiles and giggles, then takes another sip of champagne.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” I remind her. The dress she’s wearing looks like it was a custom fit, a low scoop-neck in the front that shows the barest hint of cleavage accented with a long silver necklace. She has dangly earrings that sparkle when she turns her head, and a little pair of matching silver heels. I place my hand on her lower back and draw her closer to me.
Mine.
“Yes,” comes a haughty voice behind us. “So I’ve heard.” I look to the side and see her mother eyeing us. A tall woman with silver hair piled on her head turns and looks at me and Beatrice, purses her lips, then heads our way. She’s heard what?
“Oh, God,” Beatrice whispers to me. “Just don’t talk to her. She’s like a Siren or something and will lure you in then dash you on the shore.”
And she grew up around these people?
“Zachary,” the woman says, holding out her hand. “I’m Muriel’s best friend, Marjorie. I’m told you’ve proposed to Beatrice?” Her hand is ice cold when I take it in mine, her eyes piercing me.
“Fairly recently,” I say, giving her a courteous shake of the hand before I turn away from her. “We haven’t set a date yet.”
“And no ring either, I see?” She looks down her nose at Beatrice, whose cheeks are flaming red. She’s got a shit poker face.
“My mother always said there was no engagement without a ring and a date. Otherwise, it’s just child’s play.”
I’ll give her fucking child’s play.
“There were a lot of things your mother said,” Beatrice says with a fake smile plastered on her face. “One of them was, if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” She tosses her head and turns her back to the woman.
“Beatrice,” her mother hisses, her eyes narrowed on us. She’s unable to hide the outrage written on her features. I won’t rescue Beatrice this time, or make her behave, either. I’m proud of her.
“Want to get another drink, sweetheart?” I ask her. She nods eagerly, and I turn my full body to her, aware of the women staring at us. I wrap a hand around the back of Beatrice’s neck, pull her to me, and kiss her on the lips, hard and possessive. I hear them both gasp, but when I pull away, Beatrice’s eyes are aglow, her cheeks flushed. It was worth it. Without another glance back at the women, I take Beatrice by the hand, and lead her to the bar. Her father lifts a hand in gree
ting. He may be a fool to be married to the Ice Queen, but I think he’s good people.
I wave back, and when we hit the bar, order her a glass of wine. We’ll drink and be merry and dance, then get the fuck out of here.
“You hungry?” I ask her.
“No. I’ve lost my appetite somewhere around stock market and diamond carats,” she says. “And they’re serving prime rib which is like the grossest thing ever.” I snort. I can handle prime rib, but I’m as ready as she is to get out of here.
“How about we wish the bride and groom well,” I say, “then we get our bags and just leave?”
Her eyes light up, and she grins at me, her voice low and seductive. “Zack, that’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
I grin at her. “I’m offended,” I whisper in her ear. “I’ve definitely got better moves than that.”
She goes up on her tiptoes and kisses my cheek. I want to pull her closer, hold her against me, and never let her go.
“Hey,” she whispers in my ear. “I know of this burger joint nearby. They have the best fries on the planet.”
“Let’s go.”
We gather our things and she quickly hastens to her father. “We need to go,” she says, and the relief written on her features makes me want to wrap her up in my arms, poor thing.
“Going? So soon?” Beatrice stiffens next to me. We turn to face her mother, who eyes us both coldly, her eyes narrowed. “Zachary, it isn’t fair of you to take my darling daughter away so soon.”
“Mother, he isn’t taking me away. I have work to do in the morning, and we need to go.” Beatrice’s voice is icy in return.
Her mother’s eyes become nothing but slits. “Since when was your job more important that your family?” She laughs mirthlessly. “Oh that’s right.” The laughter ceases and her voice sharpens. “Always.”
Me? I’ve had enough of this shit.
I reach for her mother’s hand and shake it firmly, though she tries to pull away. “Pleased to have met you, Mrs. Moore”. She tries to pull away, but I don’t let her. “Your daughter’s a grown woman now, Mrs. Moore. And I’m really goddamned proud of her. She’s worked her ass off to get to where she is, dropped everything to come see her cousin get married, and now I’m taking her home.” I hold her hand a bit longer than necessary, making sure she meets my eyes. I finally release her hand and her mother huffs something out, opens her mouth to speak, but I spin Beatrice around so both of our backs are to her now.
We say good-bye to her dad, and she wishes Chantilly well. Fortunately, Chantilly is surrounded by people, and has lots to do, so though she says she’s sad to see Beatrice go, it’s not too hard for Beatrice to take her leave. I can feel Beatrice’s excitement just holding her hand. Poor thing. She’s dying to rid herself of this, the memory of her past, the judgment from people she no longer shares anything with other than in name.
Chantilly kisses her cheek and gives me a big hug. “Be good to her,” she says. “And I want the scoop on the wedding plans. Got it, honey?” she says to Beatrice. Beatrice promises she will.
I take her by the hand, and we go to leave. I feel someone’s eyes on me, and quickly scan the room. Judson stands at the bar, glass to his lips, eyes unwaveringly on us. I look back at him and try to stare him down, but his gaze doesn’t waver. Pissed off, I wave my hand at him. He simply sips his drink. Asshole.
The second we leave the hall; Beatrice’s step is lighter, and she exhales. My heart goes out to her. She needs a good, hard session to calm her, but what she needs most of all is to be removed from this toxic environment.
“Oh shit,” she says, screeching to a halt. She looks up at me sheepishly.
What has she done now?
“Your bag?” I ask with a sigh. She nods.
“Beatrice,” I say warningly. My patience is wearing thin. “Where’d you last have it?”
“Welllll,” she begins, and shoves her finger in her mouth, chewing on her nail. “Um…” her voice drops. “I don’t know.”
I sigh. “This is getting kinda old, you know.”
“I know, I know,” she says, and her eyes water. Damnit. The only time I like to see her cry is when she’s tied up and scening, and only then because she needs the release. This tugs at my heart strings.
“Just so much… stress,” she whispers.
“I know, baby,” I say, taking her by the hand. “Now come on, let’s go back and find your bag.” But it doesn’t take long at all. There’s a pile of bridesmaid’s shrugs and bags and stuff in the room where they took the pictures.
“You girls are just begging for someone to come in and swipe this stuff,” I say with a sigh. “Seriously?”
She looks at me apologetically, and I swear with the light behind her making her blonde hair almost white, her blue eyes shining like moonbeams, she looks like a fairy. I reach out and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s all good, babe. Find your bag, and let’s get the hell out of here.”
She picks it up, leans over to me and kisses my cheek. “You’re a good man, Officer Williams.” She pulls back and takes my hand and we head to the car again. “This is weird,” she says, and she pulls out a large green envelope. “Someone put something in my bag?”
“You sure it’s for you?” I ask. My senses are on high alert. I don’t like this.
“My name’s on it,” she murmurs, standing still as she slides her finger under the flap. “And… yours is, too. Says Zack and Beatrice.”
I give her a nod. “Go on. Read it.” She rips the flap and pulls out a large black card with silver lettering that reads Congratulations. I raise a brow at her. The script below is cryptic.
“Congratulations to both of you. You deserve each other.”
What the hell is that?
“Well. That’s… nice?” she says, shoving it back in her bag.
“Not signed?”
She shakes her head. “Not signed.” So weird.
“Give it to me,” I say.
“Zack, what are you gonna run a print scan on it or something? See who left it?” That’s not a bad idea. “Don’t you think that’s like way overkill? Just a card from someone who cares about me. Could’ve been anyone. They must’ve just wanted it to be anonymous is all.”
Her bag’s gone missing twice and the second time, someone left an anonymous card with a cryptic message? Not overkill at all. I want to get her home, and I wanna do it now.
Chapter 9
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Beauregard. I’m happy to thin your hair a bit.” I speak so loudly I’m practically screaming, as Mrs. Beauregard is nearly deaf. I still work as a hairdresser a few days a week, though I’m transitioning to full-time work at the gym now.
“What?” Mrs. Beauregard croaks. She’s ninety years old if she isn’t a day, and as many pounds soaking wet, and the sweetest client I have. She comes every Monday morning like clockwork for her hair appointment, and every few weeks she gets a haircut as well. I move to pick up my scissors, feeling the burn across my back and ass as I do. Zack worked me over good the night before with the flogger until I was a puddle of goo in his hands, boneless and in a state of utter bliss. It was hard waking up this morning to him gone, but he had to catch up on the work he missed over the weekend, so he was up and out early. No one can see the marks he left on me, but I can feel them, the stripes from the lash and bite marks he left all over my belly and waist. I smile softly to myself.
“Hand me my bag, please,” Mrs. Beauregard asks. I reach for her bag and hand it to her, a momentary flash of panic causing me to draw in breath. Where’s my bag? Honest to God if I misplace it one more time, Zack’s gonna give me a real spanking, not the kind he gave me last night but punishment. I give Mrs. Beauregard her bag, then quickly scan the place for mine. I find it, tucked under the desk where I normally keep it. Honest to God, some days… I’m glad Zack isn’t here to see.
My phone buzzes. I’m expecting Zack to call. “Hey,” I say, without looking at the Cal
ler ID. But no one says anything. So weird. I look down at the phone and see that the number is blocked. Huh. I put my bag right where I can see it and shove my phone in my pocket, then focus on finishing up my clients. It’s an early night tonight. I’m heading out to do a dress-fitting with Diana, and I need to try on my bridesmaid dress, so I’m taking off early.
“Good night, Chloe,” I say, waving to the young, twenty-something brunette who waves back at me enthusiastically. She’s taking over while I go meet Diana. I exit the main door, and take a left, heading to where I know I parked the car. I rarely drive to work but needed to be able to get to Diana’s in time, so Zack let me borrow his. I stare. His car is gone. Frowning, I look stupidly behind me as if somehow the car has come to life and is hiding behind me or something.
“What the fuck?” I wonder, looking around the parking lot again. I know I parked it here. I walk from one row of cars to the next, looking for his car. I know I parked it here, because I remember grabbing the last space under the “two hour parking only” sign. What the hell am I going to say to him? Hey, sorry, but I actually lost your car? Like that’d go over well.
And then I see it. Easily halfway across the lot, parked rather haphazardly, is Zack’s car. I must be going out of my mind. I had to have driven it there. I mean, who forgets where they parked a car? Ok so actually, me. I haven’t driven much lately, since NYC is so congested and difficult to drive in, and I’m out of the routine, but still. Against my better judgment, though something warns me not to, I walk to the car. I look to makes sure no one’s in it, and when I arrive, my heart hammers in my chest. I’m going crazy. This is stress, and just a figment of my imagination. There’s no way someone got my keys, drove his car, and then parked it somewhere else. But when I arrive, I see a familiar green rectangle on the passenger seat. It’s another envelope.
With shaking hands, I open the door, pick up the card, and read it.
You really should be more careful, princess. My hair stands on end. Who is this? Who’s doing this to me? My hand shaking, I dial Zack. It rings and rings, as I look frantically about me. God. I need him to answer.