Kill the Competition

by Stephanie Bond

  “Sure,” she said, her chest warming at the prospect. “Thanks again.”

  He winked, then glanced at her car. “I can follow you home. Just to be safe.”

  “You’re not safe.”

  His smile vanished. “What do you mean?”

  Belinda laughed and leaned closer. “The first two times we met we literally ran into each other, then you set my mouth on fire with Thai food, then you seduced me in a public place, and now I discover that you drive as if you have a death wish.”

  His mouth curved into a sexy grin. “So I get a kick out of danger. Does that scare you?”

  Electricity crackled in the air, reminding her of the Big Daddy stun baton the girls had given her. In the low lighting, he was handsome, frighteningly so. The hair raised on the back of her neck. “No,” she lied.

  His grin deepened. “Good.”

  “B-but really, there’s no need to follow me home. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I am.” She straightened and stepped away from the car.

  “Okay—I’ll call you.” He flashed a killer grin, put the car into reverse and backed out onto the street, then sped away.

  Belinda watched until his taillights disappeared, then walked to her car in the gloom of late dusk, plagued by the same creepy feeling she’d experienced leaving the office. After she slid into the driver’s seat, the irrational feeling persisted while she stowed her briefcase and purse, the sense of someone bearing down, ready to pounce. At a rustling in the tall bushes, her heart lodged in her throat. She locked the doors, flicked on her headlights, and fumbled to start the car. When the engine roared to life, a bird flew away, and she chastised herself for letting her imagination get the best of her.

  Perhaps witnessing the Jim Newberry episode had spooked her more than she realized. Or maybe it was Julian who had her spooked in an entirely different way. Then she glanced down at the pages of the manuscript Libby had given her. She had one for the book:

  DO assess the risk level of a relationship before you proceed.

  Chapter 19

  Being licked awake was not unto itself such a bad way to greet the day, but when the tongue belonged to a crotchety feline known for biting, it was less pleasant than alarming. Belinda turned her head into her pillow and pushed Downey off her chest. “I’m trying to sleep late.”

  Downey yowled, indicating that was not to be the case.

  Belinda opened one eye and peered at the alarm clock. 6:20 A.M.—later than she’d slept any weekday since moving to Atlanta, but after tossing and turning all night from unreasonable fear she couldn’t pinpoint, she felt far from rested. The daylight streaming through the mini-blinds danced warm and comforting over her bed. Strange how one’s anxieties could manifest, especially in the dark, and how unfounded they seemed by the light of day. She reached over to turn off the alarm that hadn’t yet rung and was rewarded with a breath-stealing pain shooting up her left arm.

  Gritting her teeth, she held up her compromised limb. The swelling had gone down, but her wrist had turned a purpley-cranberry color—nice for Kool-Aid, not so nice for flesh tone. Her cheek still felt puffy and tender beneath her fingers, so she dragged herself out of bed for a look in the mirror.

  Yilk.

  She would not make an attractive boxer. A brilliant blue bruise highlighted her cheekbone and the outer edge of her eye. Pancake makeup and sunglasses would be the order of the day.

  Making the bed was a bit of a challenge with her tender wrist, but she managed to make it look slightly less rumpled in the event her mother put in a surprise appearance (or psychic phone call). The cold front that had settled over Atlanta had pervaded her bedroom, raising gooseflesh on her bare arms and legs. She shucked her nightshirt and stood under the showerhead emptying the hot water heater. When she stepped out, pleasantly magenta-hued from the rolling boil, she switched on the radio to dress by.

  Julian’s voice rolled out full-throated and sexy, hitting her in the glide. Last night…last night she wasn’t sure what had happened to her, what had made her scramble away from Julian. Panic attack? Hormonal heebie-jeebies? Or was she simply afraid that Julian was going to nail her to the wall on this new impulse of hers to break a few rules?

  He was in good form this morning as Talkin’ Tom, diverting drivers around an accident at Jesus Junction (an intersection on Peachtree that boasted four sizable churches), and letting everyone know in thinly veiled code words that the police were patrolling the Alpharetta Autobahn (Georgia 400) southbound for speeders.

  She wondered where the girls were in the melee, and what had happened in Rosemary’s evaluation, and if Libby and Carole had managed to get out of her where she’d been going every couple of weeks. With a start Belinda realized she missed the morning conversation. Did they miss her?

  And Julian’s words about the speed trap made her think of Wade Alexander. She toweled off while replaying their conversation yesterday in the vending room, thinking what a buffoon she must have looked like, hiding from her neighbor behind the Coke machine. Come to think of it, the man had seen her during some of her most embarrassing moments. As if to remind her of one of those moments, Downey nosed open the door and dragged in the maimed satin pillow that had once proclaimed the joy of her and Vince’s wedding day. Apparently the pillow had become Downey’s imaginary friend.

  And if that’s how the cat chose to deal with Vince’s rejection, then who was she to judge?

  She pulled jeans out of a drawer and reached for a Cincinnati Reds sweatshirt, then remembered her last driver’s license photo a la Mickey Mouse and switched to a lightweight lime green cardigan. Perhaps the loud color would distract everyone to the point of not noticing her black eye.

  By the time she finished dressing, camouflaging her bruise, and feeding Downey and herself, it was nearly 9:00 A.M. Which was fine, because the nearest DMV office opened at 9:00 A.M. She’d be the first in line.

  Apparently, six hundred other people had had the same good idea. Belinda had estimated she’d be an hour taking the computerized exam, tops. Two hours later, she was still waiting in line to be processed to be put in yet another line. After memorizing the exam booklet—thankfully, the traffic laws from Ohio to Georgia didn’t differ that much—she was glad she had Libby’s partial manuscript to pass the time.

  She turned the cover page with no small amount of skepticism, but a couple of pages into the manuscript, she was laughing. Libby had taken their DOs and DON’Ts and expanded on them based on the conversations in their car pool. No one’s privacy had been violated, but she could clearly see their individual tastes and attitudes emerging. She was impressed—Libby demonstrated a true knack for writing short humorous pieces. Finding a publisher for the manuscript would still be a long shot, but this project might provide Libby a more productive outlet than shopping.

  Another hour later when she was still standing in the preliminary line, she began to weigh her need for a Georgia driver’s license against the cost of the fine for not having one. Her wrist throbbed and she hadn’t thought to bring painkillers with her—or lunch, as some people who were obviously more familiar with the system than she had thought to do. McDonald’s bags prevailed, and many people sat on the floor, eating picnic style.

  She was supposed to have her car to the auto body shop by noon, so she was already running late. But since she was nearing the front of the line, she hated to leave now. Her choice was made, though, when a stoic-faced processor informed her that to obtain a Georgia driver’s license, she needed to produce two pieces of mail addressed to her current residence to prove that she was, indeed, a Georgia resident.

  Vince’s envelope flitted into her mind, although she had a feeling the state of Georgia expected something more official.

  Belinda pushed her tongue into her cheek. “So I stood in line all morning for nothing?”

  “Not for nothing,” the man declared. “Now you know for next time.”

  She didn’t trust herself
to speak, so she simply turned and walked out. Across the street was a sandwich shop with a pay phone from which she called the auto body shop.

  “We gave your appointment to someone else,” a gum-snapping woman said.

  “Do you have any appointments this afternoon?”

  “No, but we’ll call you if we have a cancellation.”

  That didn’t sound promising, but what else could she do but go home and wait for a call?

  She ordered a stromboli sandwich and a Diet Coke (a beverage choice she didn’t want to analyze), then decided to call Margo’s assistant while she waited for her order.

  “Archer Furniture, Margo Campbell’s office.”

  “Hi, Brita, this is Belinda Hennessey.”

  The woman sniffed an acknowledgment.

  “I’m off today, but I thought I’d check in with you.”

  “Why?”

  Belinda blinked. “Margo asked me to cover for her while she was on vacation.”

  “I take care of Ms. Campbell’s affairs while she’s gone.”

  “Okay. Well, has anything crossed her desk that would require my attention?”

  “No. I’m processing the performance evaluations she left, and I just dropped the Payton contracts in the mail.”

  Belinda’s heart stalled out. “Excuse me?”

  “The Payton contracts, I just mailed them.”

  “Brita,” Belinda said carefully, “when Margo and I talked last night, she agreed to hold those contracts until she returned from vacation.”

  “They were in my out box, so they went out.”

  Belinda inhaled to remain calm. “But I’m telling you, they shouldn’t have. You have to get them back.”

  “I can’t, and besides, I wouldn’t, not without Ms. Campbell’s say-so.”

  Belinda closed her eyes. “Is Mr. Archer in?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, why don’t you call Margo on her cell phone and ask her about the contracts yourself. Meanwhile, transfer me to the mailroom and I’ll have them stopped.”

  “Mistake or no, it’s a federal offense to impede the U.S. mail.”

  Belinda gritted her teeth. “I’ll risk it.”

  The woman huffed, then Belinda heard the click of the phone being transferred. The implication of those contracts being mailed made her stomach cramp.

  “Stratford mail room,” a man’s voice said.

  “Carole Marchand, please.”

  The man yelled for her, and soon Carole’s voice came on the line.

  “Carole, it’s Belinda.”

  “Hey, I thought you were taking the day off.”

  “I am, b-but I need a favor.”

  “Sure, if I can help.”

  “Margo decided last night to hold the Payton contracts until she returned from vacation, but Brita made a mistake and put them in the mail.” She tried to keep the panic out of her voice. “This is urgent, Carole. Can you stop them from going out?”

  “They were tagged to send via APS, and Hank made a pickup about twenty minutes ago.”

  Belinda groaned.

  “Hang on, and I’ll see if I can reach him on his cell phone.”

  Belinda shot up a fervent prayer, not wanting to think about what she’d have to do to circumvent those contracts if they’d already been mailed.

  “Belinda?” Carole was back. “I got him, and you must have made an impression on the man because he said in your case, he’d make an exception.”

  Her breath whooshed out in relief. “Thank you!”

  “No problem,” Carole said. “What do you want Hunky Hank to do with them? I think he’d be happy to bring them to your house.”

  “That’s not necessary. Just leave them on my desk.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Carole—keep this quiet, okay?”

  “Okay,” Carole said, her tone a bit defensive.

  “I owe you one.”

  “That’s what friends are for. See you tomorrow?”

  A warm, fuzzy sensation filled Belinda’s chest. “Yes.” She hung up the phone, weak with relief. That was so damn close.

  She picked up her order and, suddenly ravenous, ate the sandwich in the car—a mistake, because she dripped sauce on her sweater and smelled up the car with spicy meat. She half-listened to the radio, dwelling instead on her to-do list. The ringing of phones on seemingly endless cellular commercials reminded her she also needed to reinstate her wireless service. And maybe she would go television shopping this evening. By the time she arrived home, she was determined the day would not be a total loss. She parked in front of the garage door, optimistic that the auto body shop would call.

  She took advantage of the free time to sort bills on the kitchen table and fill out change of address forms. Again. The credit card companies, alumni associations, and the federal government had probably not yet gotten around to processing her move from her former Cincinnati apartment to 137 Monarch Circle (aka Vince’s address), and now she was remitting even more paperwork.

  The thought of Vince receiving her mail made her ill, because it was further proof that she had so completely trusted him. She blinked back sudden tears, hating how they could sneak up on her. Picking up the envelope he’d sent, she marveled that the two of them used to share their days’ events and now she couldn’t count the people she’d met and the things she’d experienced that he would never know about.

  That he had no interest in knowing about.

  She ran her finger over the edges of the envelope twice before setting it back against the yellow fruit bowl. Like a smoker who had quit but kept a pack of cigarettes around as proof that they’d kicked the habit…and as a security blanket in the event they ever wanted to resume the bad habit.

  She fished out a bill from the electric company and one from the phone company and set them aside for her next adventure at the DMV. She checked her watch and considered driving back there, but the thought of standing in that line again made her nauseous, and with her luck, she’d get to the front of the line just in time for the office to close.

  Besides, Vince’s envelope reminded her that she’d been putting off a chore for way too long. Since her sofa was being delivered tomorrow, she had extra incentive to clear the remaining packing boxes in the living room. After swapping her stained sweater for the Reds sweatshirt, she walked into the living room with Downey on her heels and a flutter in her chest, and studied the two boxes squatting in a corner.

  MEMENTOS. KEEPSAKES.

  With a sigh, she sank to her knees and opened the first and smallest box. Inside was Vince’s infamous collection of cards that showed the progression of their relationship—Let’s get to know each other…I like you…I love you—plus show ticket stubs, postcards from the places they’d visited together, and pictures.

  She withdrew a 5×7 photograph that had sat on her desk in Cincinnati. She and Vince at a barbecue in her parents’ backyard. They sat on opposite sides of the picnic table but had leaned together and turned to look at the camera. And she was sure that when the picture had been taken, they had pulled back to their respective sides. She pressed her lips together. Why had that detail escaped her until now?

  The box was crammed with picture frames, stuffed animals, and other knickknacks he’d given to her. She had no idea what to do with the collection—she couldn’t bring herself to throw it all away, but neither did she want to keep it.

  Opening the second box required more fortitude—it contained all the leftovers from her defunct wedding day, packed by her mother and given to her the day she left Cincy. The simple white gown she’d loved wearing, the short veil, the satiny shoes. A pale blue garter, a dried white lily from her bouquet, a tiny satin sack of birdseed.

  A lump lodged in her throat when she remembered how happy she’d been that day, so happy that she hadn’t realized how preoccupied Vince had been. He had repeated his husbandly vows convincingly enough. If anyone—the groomsmen, Vince’s parents, the minister—had known that something was amiss, no one
had let on. Indeed, when the day was over and she was still single, everyone had seemed as equally shocked as she.

  And if the episode itself hadn’t been traumatic enough, the fact that Vince had declined to offer an explanation for his behavior had left her emotionally and physically inert, something she hated herself for even now. Oh, she’d wanted to wail and flail and demand that he account for himself, but since she’d had a good idea that his change of heart had had something to do with their uninspiring consummation, she had swallowed her indignation. And kept the accoutrements of the non-wedding because deep down she’d believed he would reconsider.

  In hindsight, perhaps he’d been testing her, to see if she would fight for their relationship, if she would relinquish some of that “arrogant independence” he had accused her of possessing. But if Vince was willing to go to such lengths, to humiliate her to prove a point, then her love was wasted on him.

  In truth? She suspected he’d been having second thoughts all along and had forced the issue of sex to either rationalize or allay those fears.

  But regardless of Vince’s motivation for canceling their life together, she wasn’t obligated to preserve the reminders of that ghastly day—or of him at all. She took a deep breath and dumped all the wedding memorabilia back into the box, along with the stuffed animals and other bric-a-brac from the first box that someone, somewhere might find a use for. The photos, cards, and ticket stubs went into the trash. Then she collected empty boxes from her garage and went all around the town house gathering other items Vince had given her: clothing, books, CDs. All of it was going to Goodwill.

  She hadn’t felt this good since…since Vince.

  She was finally putting him and her life in Cincy behind her. Moving to Atlanta was the best thing she’d ever done for herself. She carried the first box outside and filled her lungs with fresh suburban Atlanta air. Gratifying, liberating, invigorating. She was going to live a good life here.

  She set down the box, ran the fingers of her right hand along the crooked seam of the trunk and tugged. She had a good job, and she was making good friends. Men did not seem to be repulsed by her. She tugged harder, thinking she might need to get her keys or a screwdriver to compensate for her one-handedness.