“I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry.” He takes my hand and a deep breath as if about to speak but doesn’t.
“What?” I ask after a long pause.
Michael breathes deeply again and turns toward me. “I’m sure this is none of my business and you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but... what happened to you? I mean, it had to be terrible and I don’t really want to know, but I feel like I should so I don’t trigger-”
“Shh,” I say, placing a finger over his lips. “You’re right, I don’t like talking about this. My friend, Savannah, is the only one who still knows me from that time. Even my parents...” I sigh, preparing myself. “Long story short, I didn’t have a pleasant childhood and ran away at sixteen. There was this guy. I thought I could handle myself... Turns out I couldn’t. Before I knew it, I was locked in a cheap motel room and ‘working’ all hours of the night and day. It took me almost a year to escape. It was terrifying.” There’s so much more to tell him but it will have to wait. I can’t bring myself to say one more word.
“Oh, Beth.” Michael squeezes my hand. “I’m so sorry I made you go back to that mental space. I promise things will be so much better from now on. I’m going to take care of you... of everything.”
THE NEXT MORNING, WE wake up early, despite the long night spent talking and exploring each other’s bodies again and again. Michael takes me home to change before work. I choose a demure pale blue button down and straight leg gray slacks. At the last second, I slip out of my modest black dress flats, opting for a three-inch pump. One small confidence boost on what may turn out to be a rough day.
We pull up just in time for the morning buzzer, for which I’m eternally grateful. At least the bulk of the employees will be at their stations when I walk in.
Henry stops us at the door. “Where have you been? They’re asking for you.” He’s wringing his hands and his normally pallid complexion is nearly ghostlike. There’s no need to ask which ‘they’ he’s referring to. “I’ve been trying to reach you all weekend. Your phone-”
“Her phone met with an unfortunate accident,” Michael interrupts as he pushes into the doorway.
I barely stifle a smile at that particular memory - Michael locking my phone... and panties... in his bedside drawer, never to be seen again - under strict instruction by yours truly.
Henry stutters, then catches himself. I remember him telling me that he stuttered as a child and how difficult it was to overcome, and now I’m the cause of his relapse. He blows out a puff of air before continuing. “I don’t know what went down at Senior Sweets, but corporate is losing it. Campbell’s in there.” Henry lets his raised eyebrows punctuate the significance of that development.
I freeze until Michael’s strong hand presses the small of my back, propelling me forward. “Perfect.” He smiles at Henry and leads me into the conference room where all this first started.
“You, sir, have some explaining to do!” Michael’s voice booms as soon as the door opens. All heads turn to us, then to Mr. Campbell, following Michael’s glare.
“What?” Mr. Campbell asks, indignant.
“It just burned you up, didn’t it? Being pushed out of your old job only to find it being filled by a... woman. You couldn’t stand it, could you? Well, I never expected this, not even from the likes of you.” By this time, Michael is pounding his fists on the conference table in front of Mr. Campbell. The sound reverberates through the room. No one dares to speak, especially me.
“What are you inferring, Renzo?” Mr. Campbell leans back, away from Michael.
“Sabotage! That’s what I’m ‘inferring.’” Michael air quotes the last word and pulls out the chair at the front of the table. He takes his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his call log for all to see. “I had a nice conversation with the VP over all the Senior Sweets Southeastern Regions and he had some very interesting things to say about our friend here...” He points to Mr. Campbell. “...and an updated ‘final’ certified spec drawing delivered by courier just one day before the retrofit.”
All eyes return to Mr. Campbell who is turning beet red and muttering, “But... but... but...” and shaking his head vehemently.
Michael drives the point home by motioning to the entire room. “And now, after fabricating a very costly and detrimental error, which you knew poor Ms. Covington would be blamed for, we find you here with the Who’s Who of Excel Engineering. Come to save the day, have you?”
Mr. Campbell continues to bluster and deny everything, but it’s no use. Moments later, Jerry enters the conference room and escorts him off the property.
Every single senior board member stands to shake my hand and offer their sincerest apologies. When they’ve all gone, I slump into the nearest chair, deflated.
Michael exhales and leans over to kiss me on the forehead. With a wry smile, he rubs the smooth surface of the tabletop. “Now, I bet that’s the most exciting thing this table’s ever seen.”
I pull him to me and taste his lips. With a fierce kiss, I say, “Until tonight.”
The End
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About the Author
LARISSA SCOT SPENT most of her time writing spellbinding and award-winning books for other people as a ghostwriter. When she finally had enough of making other people rich and famous, she decided to quit her day job and write what she loved. Turns out, she loves smut, just like you.
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For a change of pace, Larissa Scot’s cleaner alter ego
Meet Toasha Jiordano, author of Fantasy and SciFi Epics like:
Hatchling
Glitch
Exodus
Revolt
TO BE OR NOT TO BE
Amanda Sievert
WHAT COULD POSSIBLY make a ghost so angry that he waits two-hundred years for his revenge? Sarai knows something isn't right when she feels the temperature drop in her London flat- and that's only the beginning. Everything goes tits-up when she agrees to help a ghost uncover the mystery behind his murder and learns something horrifying in the process. Will the discovery lead to terror, or will it be Sarai's first real Valentine's Day?
ONE
ALLOW ME TO SET THE scene. I was sitting in the window seat in the living room of my flat, legs encased in my favorite decade-old jeans and drawn up to my chest, a book balanced precariously against my knees and a steaming mug of peppermint hot cocoa resting beside me on the tiny side table I had dragged over. My feet, too long and bony for my liking, were warm and snuggly in fuzzy purple socks, my sweatshirt matched the emerald green woven blanket that had slipped off and was puddled on the floor beside me, largely forgotten about as I became more engrossed in my book-a romantic take on the classic Jekyll and Hyde tale, strangely interspersed with bits and pieces of Hamlet. I had discovered it in the Valentine's Day display at my favorite hole-in-the-wall bookshop a few days before. Now I was more than halfway through it and fascinated by the differences and additions the author had managed to make to the original tales.
There was a chill in the air, the only light the dull yellow of the streetlamp directly across the cobbled road from my window. It provided more than enough illumination to read by, though it barely began to cut through the thick London fog. The first snow of early spring was falling lazily, gathering in ever-rising drifts atop the old winter snow that never quite melted. I'm hopeful it will bury my tiny jalopy by morning-or at least that the cold will freeze up the motor so I won't have to go to work tomorrow. It was Valentine's Day, after all, and I really didn't have any desire to be bombarded with the evidence of love and romance all a
round me when I, at age 22, had never had a boyfriend and had no prospects looming on the horizon.
I flipped the page, took a sip of cocoa, and hissed as I set the cup back down, pressing my top teeth down onto my tongue in an attempt to calm the sharp ache caused by the too hot liquid and my rush to consume the deliciousness of the chocolate and peppermint. The pain dulled to a throb and I shook my head at myself, drawing my hands up to my lips to warm my half-frozen fingers. My index finger brushed the tip of my nose and I was astonished by how cold it was, too. Even my eyeballs felt cold when I blinked, the way they sometimes did after I rubbed mentholatum on my chest and the first wave of it hit my face. I sighed, placed my Gemini bookmark between the pages, and got up to stretch before padding to the hallway to turn the heat up. After all, I didn't want to turn into an ice cube upon exiting the shower I had planned for later.
The heat kicked on with a few ticks and a thump a moment later, and I headed into the kitchen, tripping on the frayed edge of the rug as I reached for the light switch. I caught myself on the corner next to the pantry and gasped. I had a fear of falling, after having tripped over a footstool at my mom's last year and breaking two toes and my ankle, as well as gashing my face open on the edge of her fancy coffee table. I had a nice three-inch scar on my cheekbone thanks to that incident. Its puckered, pinkish-white color stood out against my slightly darker skin, and I hoped that the scar-ointment provided by my doctor would eventually make it less noticeable. I really didn't want to go through life looking like a pirate.
I went through the automatic motions of making myself a cup of tea, leaving it to steep on the counter while I retrieved my book and blanket to head for warmer reading on the couch. My cocoa was finally cool enough to drink, and I sipped on it while waiting on my tea. I stood staring out the window at the snow, my thoughts drifting like the large, fluffy flakes. My eyes unfocused a little, and I was seeing both the world outside and my own, private world inside my small apartment. The reflection of my flat superimposed itself upon the frozen exterior that was a quiet street in London, far from Big Ben or the infamous Tower- just an old neighborhood filled with walking paths and a few pubs. There was a chippy on the corner (but there are several scattered around London, usually on "the corner"). From my second-floor flat one could see the red phone-box and post-box on Essex Road, as long as the trees were naked as they were from late September through early April, usually. I sometimes missed that flash of brilliant color in the late spring and during the seemingly endless, hot summers, when the trees were loaded down with leaves of dark green. But in fall and winter, with those same leaves fallen and swept away, I smiled when I caught a glimpse of cherry red and an occasional flash of sunlight off the glass.
A strange, dark flicker grabbed my attention, and I jerked myself out of my introspection. I leaned forward, my eyes straining. I didn't know whether whatever I saw was outside or in the flat with me. Another flicker came as a reflection, looking like someone crossing into the hallway behind me, and I whirled around, inwardly cursing myself for liking to keep my lights mostly off so I could enjoy the velvet darkness of long, quiet evenings.
How could someone get in? I had all three locks bolted and hadn't left my flat for two days, determined to enjoy my time off. I had been within sight of my door at all times that day, except to go have a pee, and no one had even knocked. I heard a leathery, whippy, flappy sound from the opposite end of the hallway, and what sounded like large work-boots trying desperately to be quiet. My first though was that perhaps somehow a bat or a bird got in, trying to get out of the cold. I padded cautiously toward the sound, picking up the wooden slotted spoon from when I made pasta for dinner and holding it like a weapon before me. My floof-covered feet made no noise as I carefully sneaked along the dark hallway, my eyes trying to adjust (I had little to zero night-vision) and failing miserably. I just hoped that I didn't bump into a wall-or a person. God, I hoped it wasn't a burglar or a rapist. I was fully prepared to beat to death whatever- or whoever- had managed to creep into my flat.
The noise came again, lower to the ground, and I bent down and forward to make it easier to whack the intruder. I thought I could hear breathing and muttering, but I couldn't see anything. There was just a sense that someone- or something- was watching me.
Something touched my shoulder and down my arm and I spun around, my socks slid on the floor and I fell on my ass, waving the wooden spoon wildly. My eyes squeezed shut. I expected to be attacked at any moment, and I screeched. I didn't mean to, but it squeaked out. It was embarrassing. I sounded like a tortured titmouse.
After a moment I realized that my spoon wasn't making contact with anything, and I risked opening one eye to look around. Both eyes would be better, I reasoned, so I opened the other and scanned the shadows nervously, slowly pushing myself up from the floor, my heart pounding. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth and nibbled on it to channel my trepidation somewhere.
Since whatever touched me was behind me, I headed back toward the living room, and I was crossing in between the couch and the oval coffee table when a blast of freezing air slapped me. I reeled backwards a few steps, raising my arm in front of my face to guard myself from the coldness, though my teeth began to chatter helplessly. I glanced toward the small window to the right of my big bay window, wondering if maybe the wind had risen outside and blown it open, but it remained tightly closed. The snow was still falling gently, the trees appeared still. So where was the mysterious gale coming from?
Suddenly my head was whipped to the side as what felt like an icicle slapped me across the face as another stabbed through my upper abdomen. I fell hard, clutching at my stomach, expecting my fingers to encounter the handle of a knife while my lower jaw clunked the edge of the coffee table. My teeth clacked together sharply, my lip swelling and beginning to bleed where my sharp canines caught it. I winced in pain as I tried to push myself up from the floor, though my muscles were shaking from cold and fear.
I screamed in frustration and pain and heard a banging from somewhere in the distance as someone started banging on my door and yelling. I couldn't make out any words, but the voice was male-probably my downstairs neighbor-and it sounded as though he was throwing himself against my door. There was a tremendous crash followed by yelling and what sounded like a massive fight. I hoped inanely that he wouldn't break my beautiful wood door, with its century-old carvings- the whole building's an antique.
With that thought, I was slapped again by the icicle. It seemed bigger this time, colder, its surface rougher, and it spun me around in a tight, dizzying circle. I felt the sting on my cheek and all I could think was that I hoped I didn't get another scar-and I began to slide back down as my world went black.
TWO
I groaned as I finally awoke, rolling my head against what felt like rough stone as I tried to shove the thick, drugged taste out of my mouth with a tongue that felt strangely fat. My mouth felt dryer than the Sahara, and I could hear the dripping of water echoing through wherever I was. I struggled to open my eyes-they ached and stung, and there was grit in the corners. I attempted to raise my hand to rub it away but found that I couldn't. My wrists were bound with rough, heavy rope. I rolled them experimentally and discovered that it wasn't too tight, but it would undoubtedly get tighter if I continued trying to escape, so I stopped.
I lifted my head away from the stone and looked around, noticing that I'd been semi-propped up like a sack of potatoes in the corner of what looked like the building's cellar. A single lightbulb swung creakily from a beam in the slight draft whistling through from some crack in the old walls. My ankles weren't tied, but I figured even if I were somehow able to shimmy myself up and attempt an escape, the door had probably been bolted. I sighed disparagingly, disgusted with myself for being about to die in the cellar of my own building.
How'd I even get in the cellar? My neighbor had been at the door, and there was no other way out of my loft except out the window. The living room had a picture window that
couldn't be opened, and the one in my bedroom required extensive lockpicking knowledge to even crack it open for some fresh air. Part of the continued settling of the building after nearly two-hundred years, I assumed. Wait-was I stabbed? I risked a glance down at my top but there was no blood. Not even a wrinkle in the cotton. What had happened? How the hell had my intruder gotten me through the halls and down the noisy, rickety stairs?
My extremely cold and angry intruder. My eyes widened as a thought occurred to me.
Was that a ghost in my flat earlier? Could ghosts, like, take people with them through walls or floors? Was this a well-known thing among ghost hunters? I knew that I'd have more questions eventually, but at the moment I was just really freaked out at the idea that I had a ghost experience. I'd lived in that building for nearly three years-what made the ghost decide to kidnap me now?
I heard a whooshing, moaning sound from up the short stairway that led to the door and my freedom. There was a slam, and the ghostly sound of footsteps echoed in the darkness. I fought the urge to roll my eyes at its obvious histrionics. The amount of trouble it was going to in an attempt to frighten me seemed overly dramatic, like a bad actor trying to make himself seem important.
Bad actor, am I? We shall see what you think when I'm done with you.
The voice was deep, masculine, wrathful- and entirely in my head. I drew in a sharp breath, feeling as though I was being watched although I appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be alone.
"Typical," I couldn't keep myself from snarking. "The old invisible terror act. Don't you ghosts have anything new?"
My face was suddenly grabbed, my jaw squeezed tightly in an invisible vise grip and turned to my left. I could see a shimmer in the air that was vaguely human-shaped. It was like looking at a pool of water as a breeze blew across its surface, and I felt dizzy after staring into it.
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