Tom bolted up in bed, shaking, his head throbbing with the pounding of his heart. His choking breaths became sobs as he fought restraining, sweat-soaked sheets to reach the bedside lamp. In the pool of soft light, Tom sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and chest heaving, running unsteady hands through his damp hair, before stumbling naked into the bathroom. He splashed cold water over his pale face and let it trickle down his neck and chest as he stood trembling, braced against the sink. His head hung limp between his shoulders as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Then, avoiding the revealing truth of the mirror, he fled the room.
Rejecting the idea of sleep and the possibility of his nightmares returning, Tom stood in the den’s doorway and took a deep, calming breath. He saw the book he’d picked up the week before lying on the coffee table and retrieved the lap blanket from the back of his sofa. His mother had knitted it in a deep rich blue. “To match your eyes” he remembered her saying. The memory nearly closed his throat, and he felt the prickle of tears behind his eyes. He took another deep breath then slowly expelled it as he picked up the John Saul novel. He sat in the recliner, covered his bare legs to his waist, and tried to concentrate. Before long, the book began to sag and his eyelids closed. The scent of roses hung heavy in the air as the light from the lamp beside his chair went out.
“You have to help her, love. You have to help all of them. Don’t be afraid. I’m here with you.”
Tom heard the whispered words from a woman in his mind; they were like a caress. They soothed him with their softness just like the fingers and lips he imagined stroking his bare chest. The lingering touch swept lower along with the blanket and he felt himself grow firm.
“I’m here with you,” he heard again, as he gasped with pleasure when enveloping warmth closed around his erection.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The weatherman promised that the overcast skies would clear up by late morning. Tom could already see blue sky through breaks in the clouds as a mild November wind pushed them to the east. He sipped coffee from his green insulated travel mug then placed it in the cup holder on the console between the Jag’s bucket seats.
As he merged into heavy traffic on I-75 headed southbound toward Atlanta and Georgia State University’s city campus, he tried not to think of the nightmares of the past week. It would be hard to decide which haunted him more and seemed more real—the imploring children or the erotic presence. Instead, he turned his mind to the workday ahead.
The lot adjacent to the Fine Arts building was half full by seven when Tom parked and took his bag from the car. As he opened the door to his office, he hoped to get a handle on a week’s worth of paperwork before his nine o’clock class. He mentally groaned when he saw his inbox and immediately began whittling at the teetering pile.
By nine o’clock, Tom was in his classroom leading a fastpaced review of the Quattrocento’s major developments that justified the name “Renaissance.” This had been the focus of the multiple-choice test administered in his absence, and everyone was anxious to learn their results. At the end of class, he promised his students that he would have their papers graded and returned in the next two days, and he poured over the material for the next three hours until his stomach demanded attention with a complaining rumble. Tossing his pen on the test in front of him, Tom pushed away from his desk and went in search of food.
Tom, along with most of the staff, still called the cafeteria the Student Union; the students, however, rejected the idea and just called it the Café. As usual, it was alive with the cacophony of voices, laughter, and the clank of trays. Aromas from a variety of foods cooking and being served wafted through the air. The whole atmosphere was comforting in its unique way, and Tom felt himself relaxing for the first time in days.
Forking up his last bite of roast beef and potatoes, he wiped his mouth with a thin, practically useless paper napkin, then crumpled it and tossed it on the tray. He looked up at the sound of a familiar voice.
“So, you finally decided to come back.” Marsha pulled out the orange, plastic chair across from him and Tom smiled.
“Yep, I’m back,” he said, pushing his tray aside and leaning back in his own plastic chair. He watched her withdraw a wrapped sandwich from her shoulder bag.
Marsha’s appearance had changed since the last time he saw her. Her make-up had been applied flawlessly, enhancing her almond-shaped hazel eyes and high cheekbones. Instead of jeans and a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt, she was wearing a skirted business suit the color of dark chocolate and a cream silk blouse. Her dark hair was pulled up and clasped behind her head revealing a slender, elegant neck. She was all business while maintaining the soft allure of a woman.
“How are things going at the house?” she asked, unwrapping what looked like a ham and cheese. She popped the tab of her Diet Coke and managed to keep her manicured nails intact.
“Couldn’t be better,” Tom answered. “How are things going with you and Jonathan?”
“Good.” She paused and met his gaze. “Why?”
“No reason.”
“Uh huh. Has Jonathan been talking to you?” she asked and watched his eyes widen with innocence. “He has, hasn’t he?”
Tom’s brow creased with indecision as she waited for his reply. Then a mischievous grin curved his lips.
“Okay,” he said. “We might’ve discussed a thing or two. But I have to admit, I’m on your side. I can’t understand why he’s dragging his feet.”
“I’ll bet,” Marsha retorted and dropped her sandwich on her napkin without taking a bite. She folded her arms beneath her breasts and watched him from across the table.
Tom threw up his hands in self-defense. “I’m dyin’ if I’m lyin’, sweetie.” He leaned forward and held her gaze. “One thing’s for sure. If you were mine, I’d do everything within my power to keep you.”
Marsha’s pixie face melted into a heart-stopping smile. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear something like that. Thank you.”
“You just keep your chin up. He’ll come around.”
“I hope you’re right. I really do love him a lot, you know?”
Tom smiled at the romantic softening of her expression. “I know you do. It’ll happen, don’t worry.”
“What about you?” she asked, picking up her discarded sandwich.
“What about me?” Tom’s heart skipped a beat. The memory of being half-awakened in the dark of night by the same invisible lover as before flashed through his mind.
The scent of roses had enveloped him. Her fingers, lips, and tongue had trailed over his body leaving him engorged and yearning before her sucking lips and throat engulfed his erection, forcing him to climax in an explosion of almost painful pleasure. When he had awakened, he had been shaken by the vividness of the erotic dream and by the lingering reality of it. It didn’t fade into a vague confusion of disjointed fragments the way all dreams did in the light of day. There was also the slightly embarrassing physical evidence of his climax on him and on his bedsheets.
Wet Dreams. Nocturnal Emissions. The terms came back to him from the lessons of adolescence. Succubus was another forgotten term that arose unbidden in his thoughts. It just fit in with the other unbelievable and previously discounted super-stitious concepts that had begun to force themselves toward credibility since moving into the house. But would a succubus plead help for someone else? He didn’t think so. And didn’t they use sex to drain energy from their victims to sustain their own lives? Except for a few sleepless nights, he didn’t feel drained, he felt good. In fact, he felt great. Granted, it had only happened twice. How many times did it take to drain a person?
He was jerked back to the present by Marsha’s persistence. “You know perfectly well what I mean. Have you found anyone you’re even remotely interested in yet?” She took a dainty bite of sandwich and smirked as he rolled his eyes.
“I should have known that was coming.” Tom made a mental note to add Succubus to his list of research subjects as soon as p
ossible.
“Well?” she insisted from the corner of her mouth as she resumed chewing.
“No. I’m not even looking. Besides, who has the time to look anyway?”
Marsha gave him a level look and swallowed. “You may not be looking, but that’s not to say someone won’t find you,” she said before biting again.
His expression grew daring. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”
Marsha chuckled. “I guess so.”
“Enough said about my lacking romantic endeavors. I want to know about you. Anything interesting brewing in the realm of criminal psychology?”
“Actually, there might be. I’ve been offered the opportunity to analyze a man arrested for beating his son to death.”
Tom’s expression grew doubtful. “Sounds like fun,” he drawled. “Who made the offer?”
“The DA’s office contacted me. Someone over there seems to have taken an interest in the articles I’ve written discussing the psychological theories of crime causation. The main study focused on the social development of individuals with traumatic childhoods, particularly with the element of abuse.”
“Sounds deep.”
“It is,” Marsha said and laughed. She put down her half-eaten sandwich and took a sip of Coke. “But it’s extremely interesting. Especially to someone who delves into the depths of a criminal’s mind. Actually, this could be a big break for me. It’s an opportunity to expand my research, but at the same time, it’ll give me the chance to explore, in more depth, a hardcore element of my profession that I need more experience with.”
“Which is?”
“The United States Court System.”
“Are you saying maintaining a healthy private practice while teaching classes twice a week isn’t enough for you?” he asked, intrigued.
Marsha shrugged. “Maybe not. I do know a few psychologists who would rather have their eyeteeth pulled than have to deal with the courts. Ask me again in a couple of months.”
“I’ll do that,” Tom said and chuckled as he matched her grin.
His own laughter sounded strange to Tom’s ears. He suddenly realized it had been days since he’d felt the urge to laugh.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Marsha asked. Her expression was serious, her lunch forgotten.
“Sure I’m sure,” he said. “Why shouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I have this feeling I should be worried about you.”
Tom’s shuttered expression tightened. “It’s unnerving when you go all witchy on me. I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he announced, startled by her insight.
“That’s what Jonathan says too. I can’t seem to help myself. I’ve always had feelings. But it’s nothing more than a woman’s intuition.”
“I think the word is clairvoyant,” he stated, only halfway joking.
“Ahh. Telepathic intuition, huh?” she said, looking intrigued. “Okay, let’s go with that. So, just what am I sensing? What kind of turmoil? I feel like it’s something connected with the house.”
Tom shrugged. “It’s nothing really,” he edged, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. “I’ve not been sleeping well lately.
I guess I’m just anxious about my upcoming opening.”
Marsha’s steady gaze made him want to squirm.
“You shouldn’t worry about it,” she said finally, picking up the remembered sandwich. “Didn’t you say everything’s falling right into place?”
“That’s just it; everything’s going so smoothly. I keep expecting it all to crumble around my head.”
“Have you been painting? That always seems to relax you,” Marsha replied and noticed Tom’s hesitation.
Not lately it hasn’t. He pushed the thought aside. “I’ve been keeping myself busy. I’ve been hanging paintings for the past two days.”
She just looked at him. “That didn’t exactly answer my question.”
“Sure it did. Like I said, I’ve been keeping myself busy.”
Marsha watched him from across the table until the corners of her lips lifted in a knowing grin. “Oh, I get it. You’re not going to discuss your new creations until your showing, is that it? Okay. I can take a hint.”
“I think you’ll be surprised,” he said, glancing at the clock on the wall.
“Pleasantly?”
“Surprised,” Tom repeated, pushing his chair back before her curiosity and concern created more questions. “I’ve got to go. My next class starts in ten minutes.” He pulled his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on. “Tell Jonathan I said hello.”
“I will. Don’t you be a stranger, you hear? We’d better not have to come looking for you.”
He picked up his tray. “Don’t worry,” he said, before turning toward the disposal window. “I’ll be in touch.”
Tom loved the smell of his classroom. The scents of paints, charcoal, chalk, and canvas all mingled to create an unmistakable blend. He was in his element here. He enjoyed teaching the fundamentals and then watching the progress of his students as they began to understand and respect the beauty that can be created from their imagination and talents.
As students began to trickle in, Jason Stafford, a third year student, bounded into the classroom. A wide grin spread across his face at the sight of Tom sitting behind his desk.
“Hey, Mr. Shear. Where’ve you been?”
“I’ve been moving into my new house,” Tom answered, smiling.
“Oh yeah? Well, I’m glad you’re back. Your expertise has been sorely missed. Do you think I could talk to you later on? I need some advice about the class exhibit next month.”
“I’m free after class,” Tom offered.
“I’m not. I’ve got Finance next, and if I’m not there on time, Mr. Crowley’ll deck me.”
“Okay,” Tom said, “how about meeting me back here at three fifteen. That’ll give me a chance to catch up on some paperwork.”
“That’s no good, either,” Jason replied, flashing an apologetic grin. “My sister’s picking me up at three.”
Tom’s amusement increased. He couldn’t help but like the young man.
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you tell me where your sister’s picking you up and I’ll meet you there.”
“Great,” Jason agreed with mischief in his eyes. “I’ll even introduce you.”
The afternoon sunlight was bright, creating a short term illusion of warmth as Tom emerged from the building. He looked up for a moment to enjoy the sight of the cerulean sky, clear except for a few thin wisps of cloud and two vapor trails from jetliners high in the sky. He wondered at their destinations.
He took a deep breath and felt the chilling air fill his lungs. Trees, swaying lazily in the breeze, were in their last stage of fall colors. Leaves blanketed the ground like a patch-worked quilt. Students headed in all directions to different buildings on campus, some at a saunter, some at a dead run. Others were arm-in-arm with here now, gone tomorrow significant others. And then there was Jason waiting patiently on the steps. Even at a distance, he was a striking young man being tall and athletically built. His auburn hair was short and parted in the middle. Moss-green eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled or laughed, which was often, flashing straight, white teeth that his parents had probably spent a small fortune on. But, as far as Tom was concerned, one of Jason’s best attributes was the way he always seemed to find the bright side or humor in things. He was the type of person people enjoyed having around. As these thoughts ran through Tom’s mind, he returned the smile on the young man’s face and headed in his direction.
“Hey, Mr. Shear. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me. I know you must be pretty busy,” Jason said, falling in step with Tom’s stride toward the parking lot.
“No problem. That’s what I’m here for.”
Tom watched a smile form on the younger man’s lips before he looked away.
“What?” Tom asked.
“It’s nothing
really.” Jason gave his head a slight shake. “No, that’s not true. You’re different from my other teachers. I feel like I can really talk to you. That means a lot.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Jason. I’d like to think I’m your friend as well as your teacher. So, what problem are you having?”
“It’s about the art department’s exhibit next month. I didn’t know what I was getting into when I volunteered to be on the student committee representing our class. They informed me Friday that I have to pick the ten best pieces from the class to be shown. How am I supposed to do that without having people hate me for not choosing their work?”
“Jason, I can’t tell you what to do.” Tom sighed and shook his head. “But you can’t go through life worrying about hurting everyone’s feelings. I’m not saying you shouldn’t consider them. You should. But there comes a time when you have to start using your own good sense and judgment. You’re going to be making important decisions for the rest of your life, and even though what you decide may not always be right, that’s how we learn in life. But when something is right, and you know it, you’ve got to stick to it. You have to learn to trust your instincts and go with them.”
“I know you’re right, but—”
Jason’s eyes were downcast. The teasing fall breeze ruffled his hair, but he ignored it.
“But it doesn’t solve the current problem, correct?”
“No, not really.”
Tom stopped. He waited until several people passed before meeting Jason’s questioning gaze.
“What I’m about to suggest has got to stay between us,” he said. “Agreed?” Jason’s auburn head bobbed. “It can’t get around that I had my hand in the choosing, however small. Am I making myself clear?” Jason’s head bobbed again and a conspiratorial smile split his face. “Okay. Why not let the other students have a say on which pieces are to be shown?”
“How do you mean? The committee said it had to be my decision.”
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