by Ani Gonzalez
Zach fought down the urge to tell her every single excruciatingly painful -- to his ego at least -- second of his ordeal and see how she reacted to it. Instead, he gave her the condensed version. The legendary Banshee Creek grapevine would embellish it without his help.
"I've been dating this girl," he said, somewhat inaccurately, because the cause of the problem was that he hadn't been dating Brenda. He'd been too busy with the pizzeria and too engrossed in his new project to pay attention to his girlfriend.
And now she was his ex-girlfriend. He had to hand it to Brenda, she sure knew how to stage an exit.
Patricia raised a brow.
"You've been dating many girls," she corrected primly.
"Not this time," he replied, stung. "I was turning a new leaf."
Or at least he was trying to. Sure, he'd had a busy social life, but that was to be expected. He'd been a guitarist with a popular indie band, girls came with the territory. When his lead singer's boyfriend passed away and the band went into hiatus, he joined a reggaetón troupe and toured Latin America, which meant the girls got prettier and more numerous. But a motorcycle accident in the Andes had cut his music career short and he'd returned to take over his dad's pizzeria. He was a respectable business owner now, a pillar of the community.
Okay, so maybe pillars of the community weren't often found naked and chained up. Still, he was a quasi-reputable citizen who should probably stop bed-hopping quite so much. Brenda, who was cute and fun and owned a catering service, had seemed like the perfect girl. He'd thought he'd actually be able to settle down and give up his Lothario ways.
He looked up at the chains and sighed. So much for that idea.
Patricia followed his gaze. "Well, this is certainly new. How did she talk you into this?"
"It wasn't hard," he replied ruefully. "I was all for the sex magick experimentation. I didn't know she was angry so I wasn't suspicious."
Patricia looked down at the markings on his skin. She looked away quickly and blushed. Her discomfort was quite interesting. Had she been surreptitiously checking him out? No way, not Patricia. As far as he knew, she was completely asexual.
"Um, is that what this was?" she mumbled. "A, um, magic thing?"
"Probably not. Her Latin chanting sounded a lot like tourist guidebook Spanish. I think she asked for directions to Chichén Itzá while she lit the candles."
"You're fluent in Spanish," Patricia chided. "Didn't you know something was wrong?"
"Well, yes," Zach shrugged -- well, as much as one could shrug while shackled to a wall -- and smiled. His family was Argentinean and he knew perfectly well that Dónde esta la píramide Maya? wasn't a supernatural incantation. "But I wanted to see where this was going."
That made her smile. Patricia, he suddenly realized, had a lovely smile.
The thought was somewhat disturbing. He pushed it away by focusing on his predicament. He was tied up and naked and the sun was climbing high above the sky. He had to figure out how get out of here. He had things to do and papers to file.
She motioned toward the shackles. "Well, you found out."
He sighed dramatically, eliciting another smile. "Yes, I did."
And it hadn't been a pleasant experience. The kinky sexual escapade turned into an hour-long crying session where every single neglectful act of the past six months was rehashed in detail. After two bottles of wine and a long, cathartic speech detailing every single one of his many shortcomings, Brenda concluded that he'd never truly loved her. In spite of his protestations to the contrary, she'd run out of the room sobbing, taking all his clothes.
He'd had bad break-ups before, but this one took the cake. He should go back to serial dating, he concluded glumly. It was a lot safer.
But that had to wait until tomorrow. "Can we cut the scolding short and focus on getting me out of here? I have things to do."
"How do we get these off?" Patricia asked, squinting at the chains. "They look old."
"They're not. They're some sort of fancy reproduction. The PRoVE guys wanted something that looked dramatic, you know, for filming. Brenda put the keys in that box over there." He gestured toward the metal shelves, wincing as the chains made a loud clanging sound. "The one that says Maryland Goatman."
Patricia got up and walked to the shelves. "Isn't the goatman a kind of satyr?"
"Yes," Zach grumbled. "She was trying to make a joke."
Patricia opened the box and recoiled.
"Eew." She grimaced, stepping back. "That's gross."
"Just grab the keys," Zach pleaded. "I need to get out of here fast."
She walked back and picked up the manila envelope from the floor. Then tiptoed toward the box. "What's the big hurry?" she asked, peering cautiously inside.
"I have stuff to do."
"Another girl, I suppose?" She grimaced and used the envelope to move the contents of the box. Satisfied, she reached inside carefully and took out a shiny key.
"I wish," he sighed. "I actually have work."
That made her laugh. Unfortunately, it didn't make her hurry with that key.
"I have to file an application by noon today," he explained. "And I haven't even started the paperwork."
That wasn't really accurate. His lawyer had drafted the proposal and all his financing was on track, which meant that his application to purchase the ritziest building in town -- well the ritziest building in town not subject to a curse -- was almost complete. All he had to do was sign on the dotted line and deliver it to the Banshee Creek Historical Preservation Committee by noon today.
But first he had to get out of these chains. His little white lie would, hopefully, hurry Patricia up. If she got him out now, he'd have enough time to drive home, put on some clothes, and take the application to the committee.
But his reluctant rescuer paused, the keys jingling in her hand.
"Application?" Her brow furrowed. "Application for what?"
"Good question," he snorted. "I shouldn't even have to apply. I should just be able to purchase the damn building." He shook his head. Just thinking about the Committee's stupid requirements made him mad. "But cold hard cash isn't enough for the Historical Preservation Committee. They want a proposal. They want to make sure that the project will be good for the town."
"Are you talking about--"
"They don't really care about the town," he interrupted, his anger intensifying. "They just care about their stupid regulations. They want to make sure the moldings are correct and the stupid paint colors are perfect."
"Is this--"
"You wouldn't know. You didn't have to do anything to the bakery. Your stupid awnings weren't historically significant. It took me months to get the pizzeria remodel approved. Months."
"Zach--"
"I had to take Edina Effington out for a date. We went to..." his voice dropped to a horrified whisper, "Cracker Barrel."
"Will you let me--"
"It was nightmarish," he continued, shuddering in remembrance. "But it did give me the idea of creating a pizzeria with a horror movie theme. So it wasn't a total loss."
He finally looked up to find Patricia scowling at him. The hostile look ended his tirade. What was she so upset about? She wasn't covered in henna dye and chained up to a wall, was she? She should be thankful.
"You're purchasing the Rosemoor?" she asked sharply.
She definitely did not sound like someone who was counting her blessings.
"Yes," he said, a bit confused. "It's the best building in town. Well, except for the Hagen House, but that place is, you know, cursed."
Her jaw clenched.
"It's pretty old and ragged, but it's still a gorgeous Victorian home. It would be perfect for a British-themed restaurant. I'm thinking of going for a Jules Verne theme."
"Jules Verne was French," she corrected in a flat, lifeless tone.
He waved away her objection. "Verne, Haggart, Shelley, you know, all of the Victorian fantasists. It would fit perfectly with Banshee Creek's Most
Haunted Town in the U.S.A. schtick. I'm sure I can convince the stupid Historical Preservation Committee to go for it."
Her eyes narrowed. "Yes, you probably can."
She stood next to the metal shelves, motionless except for the keys jingling in her hand. She seemed to be thinking hard about something, which was rather inconvenient because he really needed her to think about one thing.
Setting him free.
But she just stood there, glaring.
"So," he said. "Maybe we can hurry this along?" He shook the chains for emphasis, the metallic clang echoing in the quiet room. "I need to get out of these."
She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for a difficult task. Then she stepped forward.
"Great," he said, thoroughly relieved. "If I get out now, I still have time--"
The keys fell to the floor.
He stared at the shiny treasure, lying temptingly out of reach.
"Sorry, Zach," Patricia said, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "But you're not getting out."
"What?"
Patricia opened the door to the specimen room, studiously avoiding his gaze.
"You see," she explained, "I'm also presenting a purchase proposal for the Rosemoor."
Zach's heart sank. He stared at the keys. No, Patricia was a by-the-books type of person. He didn't know if the Catholic Church now had altar girls -- he hadn't been to church for a long time -- but, if they did, Patricia would definitely be a candidate. Surely, she wouldn't...
"And my tea-shop idea," she continued, glancing down at the plain envelope in her hand, "is not as grandiose as your..." She paused in the doorway. "Victorian Whatever Club."
He gaped at her, eyes wide in disbelief.
"So, you know, I hope you understand."
"Understand?" he shouted. "What exactly am I supposed to understand, Judas O'Dare?"
A guilty grimace crossed her face indicating that his dart had hit its mark.
"Don't worry, Fire & Rescue should be here soon...ish," she concluded, exiting the room quickly.
"Are you kidding?" he shouted after her. "They'll take their own sweet time. They hate the PRoVE false alarms. Patricia, you can't--"
But the door closed firmly behind her and he was left, naked, in the dark.
Patricia O'Dare, the town's official goody-two-shoes, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth, angelic baker had finally gotten her hands dirty.
And he was the lucky victim.
CHAPTER THREE
PATRICIA CLOSED the heavy wood door behind her and leaned against it, breathing heavily. The cool air felt good against her flushed face. Outside the PRoVE house, Main Street was waking up. Her bakery, as well as Zach's pizzeria, was still closed, but Banshee Creek Hardware was now open and Noah, the owner, was putting up a Valentine's Day display in the window. The town librarian was walking her basset hound and Rafe, the owner of the local auto body shop, was coming out of the hardware store with a bag of purchases. He gave her a cheerful wave.
She smiled back, her smile a bit shaky. Dear Lord, what had she done?
She clutched the manila envelope and took a deep breath. She'd sabotaged Zach. Well, to be fair, he'd sabotaged himself first. Zach would get tangled up in a messy love affair the night before a major deadline, wouldn't he? One could argue that this was all his fault.
Right?
No, she admitted with a heavy heart, one couldn't. She walked toward the Historical Preservation Committee building. She had to face facts. She'd sunk Zach's application. She'd betrayed a friend. Well, okay, maybe friend was not the right term. A colleague? A friendly rival?
Well, not so friendly anymore.
But Zach didn't want the Rosemoor as much as she wanted it. It was just a project for him, another feather in his We-Are-The-Francos-And-We-Are-Marketing-Geniuses cap.
But for her it was a lot more.
Maybe he'd understand. After all, he was the master of the unorthodox maneuver. Maybe they'd end up laughing about this incident over a glass of his signature sangría.
But there was no backing out now. She walked up to the entrance and rang the doorbell. An old-fashioned chime rang out and a glamorous blonde in towering high heels opened the door.
"Hello, gorgeous," Elizabeth Hunt said, waving Patricia into the room. The B-movie star -- her signature film, Cannibal Clones from Alpha Centauri was an enduring cult hit -- wore a belted plaid dress that screamed haute couture, and her only concessions to the inhospitable winter weather were a short black cardigan and black tights. Elizabeth did not let insignificant details like temperature or wind chill dictate her fashion-forward clothing choices.
Her attire clashed with her surroundings. Unlike the PRoVE headquarters, the Historical Preservation Committee's offices were subdued and tasteful, with light blue paint on the walls and plain white moldings. A pair of wing back chairs in white slipcovers flanked the fireplace and vintage photographs of various local buildings adorned the walls. Elizabeth's heels click-clacked on the polished oak floors as she led Patricia to the antique mahogany desk. With her L.A. hairdo and ritzy clothes she did not look like the Acting Chair of the Historical Preservation Committee, but that, indeed was her role.
"I knew you'd be our first applicant," Elizabeth said, laughing. "I expected to see you waiting by the door when I arrived half-an-hour ago. I'm glad to see you've overcome your punctuality fetish."
Patricia smiled nervously. Elizabeth was her best friend and she desperately wanted to confide in her. The irrepressible Ms. Hunt was known for her madcap, marginally unethical escapades, so surely, she, of all people, would understand.
Elizabeth sat behind the desk and opened a state-of-the-art laptop. She smiled cheerfully.
"The Banshee Creek Historical Preservation Committee," she said, in a dramatic voice, "is officially ready for business."
She stretched her hand out for the application. Patricia took the papers out of the envelope, handed them over, and sat down in front of the desk. As her friend grabbed the papers, Patricia couldn't help but notice the pretty ring with the gigantic red stone on Elizabeth's finger.
"Um." She pointed at the rock. "Is that new?"
"Yes!" Elizabeth's smile was blinding. "Gabe popped the question last night."
"Congratulations," Patricia exclaimed, admiring the ring. "It's gorgeous and so very...red. Is that a ruby?"
"No, it's a red diamond," Elizabeth explained. "I can't believe Gabe actually found one. He picked it because my Cannibal Clones character wore a tiara made of red diamonds." She leaned forward and her voice dropped to a whisper. "To be honest, I thought the writers had made them up, but apparently I was wrong. Gabe found an Arab sheik who had one."
Patricia nodded, not surprised. Elizabeth's boyfriend, Gabe Franco, was both filthy rich and unquestionably brilliant. He'd turned their sleepy Virginia town into the country's premier paranormal destination and made a bucketload of money in the process. Gabe wasn't a businessman, he was a force of nature.
And he was also Zach's brother.
Her heart sank. No, Elizabeth would definitely not understand.
"But enough about me," Elizabeth said, opening the envelope. "Let's talk about your plans."
She looked through the papers, nodding in several places.
"You went through the regs, very good. You're keeping the original structure, excellent. Oh, you got a rendering of the façade, that's great."
The rendering had cost her twenty-five dollars through an internet service, but Patricia kept that to herself. It made the application look professional.
"Liam's doing the remodel?" Elizabeth asked.
"Yes," Patricia answered, praying that the bare bones remodel would pass muster. Liam would give her a discount, but fixing the Rosemoor would still be quite costly.
Elizabeth frowned at the papers in her hand. "You're not asking for town funds?"
"No," Patricia replied firmly. The Historical Preservation Committee had a special fund for commercial projects, but she did
n't want to apply for any grants. The committee's requirements were often quite draconian and she really didn't need the aggravation or the inevitable delays.
"Oh c'mon," Elizabeth pouted. "Just a little bit? No one ever asks us for money."
"Yes, well, there's a reason for that."
"Just in case?" Elizabeth wheedled. "Be a sport, Patricia. It's Gabe's money -- the committee pretty much forced him to donate it -- and, seriously, someone should spend it."
"I don't know..."
But Elizabeth just grabbed a pen and made a mark on the paper.
"Renovations are expensive," she explained. "You never know what might happen."
She checked the rest of the papers as Patricia glanced nervously at the grandfather clock on the wall. Her little detour through the PRoVE specimen room had taken longer than she thought. The committee's deadline was only a couple of minutes away and no one else had shown up to present an application.
She might be the only one.
Her dream might be coming true. The Rosemoor Tea Shop would finally be a reality. She could picture it now, a gracious Victorian building with lavender shingles and white gingerbread. She'd put wicker rockers in the porch for customers. The dining room would have crystal chandeliers and white-painted tables covered in Battenberg lace tablecloths. She'd serve gourmet pastries on vintage china.
"Um," Elizabeth cleared her throat. "You don't have any paranormal stuff here."
Patricia winced.
"It wasn't listed as a requirement," she said.
Elizabeth pursed her lips as she considered the question. "It's not," she admitted reluctantly.
Patricia sighed with relief. She didn't mind the town's paranormal reputation. She'd successfully adapted to it and was now the proud owner of the world's largest collection of ghost-shaped cookie cutters. Banshee Creek Bakery now served Werewolf Cupcakes with chocolate frosting, Devil Donuts with Red Hots Icing and a host of other mystical-themed goodies. They all sold extremely well.
But the Rosemoor...the Rosemoor was different. The Halloween theme didn't fit.
"Technically," Elizabeth continued.