The Decision (Siren Publishing Classic)

by Allyson Young

  Stephanie accepted the fact Dace had a “protégé” contracted for a show in a few weeks, but her professionalism would hold him at bay. She felt better with that thought and went to clean her brushes and set her painting to dry. She didn’t look at her work. The subject matter was too close to the cause of her angst.

  Chapter Five

  Stephanie keyed in the alarm, shut the gallery door behind her, and tested it to ensure it was sealed. She hefted her purse and reached up to pull her coat’s collar more snugly around her throat. Peering glumly into the gray late afternoon, she considered the distance to the bus stop. It had begun to rain midmorning, torrents and sheets to soak the landscape and clean the streets. Her hair would curl into a halo of snarls and waves, and her favorite navy pumps would get soaked. There was no help for it, so Stephanie sucked in a fortifying breath and made her way down the steps to the sidewalk, wishing she had her umbrella.

  Frank materialized from somewhere, and she realized whose limo stood at the curb. Her footsteps faltered and her heart pounded. She stared at the darkened rear window. It had been five days since Frank stopped by with the basket of goodies, and Stephanie had immersed herself in her job, managing not to allot any of her precious thinking time to his boss. Not that she’d been counting. She’d become quite adept at curtailing any stray thoughts, packaging them up and staying on task. It got harder when she was alone, especially when in her apartment, but she managed. The avoidance kind of tired her out, and every time the phone rang or the gallery door opened, she would startle, wondering if Dace Reynolds was the reason for those inanimate objects interrupting her work.

  “Mr. Reynolds sent me to drive you home, Miss Stephanie.” Frank opened the back door of the car, and she could see the empty interior.

  “I’m not going home, Frank.” Stephanie heard the lie trip convincingly off her tongue. “I have a date, and I doubt he’d take kindly to me pulling up in a limo.”

  Frank froze in place, bent like a big, black apostrophe over the open door in his dark uniform, water dripping from the brim of his hat. She smiled at his surprised face, working the pretence for all it was worth as she hustled past him and down the street, wishing the other pedestrians were more numerous so she could blend in. Finally, a little group of women, wrapped from chin to knees in colorful trench coats, tall boots flashing with their long strides, umbrellas forming a canopy of shelter, clogged the sidewalk. Stephanie slipped in amongst them, feeling like a sparrow among a flock of finches, and walked the extra block to the next bus stop. She didn’t look back.

  Huddling with a few other unlucky folk at the stop, miserable in the cold and damp, decrying the non waterproof fabric of her so-called raincoat, Stephanie decried her lot. She was soaked to the skin, and her shoes would indeed never be the same, although perhaps if she wadded up some newspaper and packed them inside… It was no use. Dace Reynolds infiltrated her thoughts with the stealth of a panther, with his oh so thoughtful action of sending his car. What was he playing at? She’d felt watched all week, if not stalked.

  An inordinate number of people had been in and out of the gallery all week, many with no real apparent interest in art. Her assistant, Gemma, confided that she thought a couple of the men were cops. Gemma’s younger brothers apparently weren’t leading an exemplary life, and she and her mom had lots of contact with police. Stephanie assumed the worst. She suspected Dace Reynolds was having her investigated and those men were keeping an eye out for her sister or for any lead to her. One of them had actually asked her out on a date after Gemma came to find her, advising that the gentleman required someone with more knowledge about a particular art form than she possessed. Her assistant’s face was crimson, and she was muttering under her breath about pricks and jerks.

  The art form in question was a triptych, displaying as if in slow, flowing motion the beautiful sex of a lovely young woman who reclined and spread her slender thighs to reveal herself to view. The subject matter didn’t offend Stephanie. The man perusing the photograph did, and she dispatched him from the gallery with a glacial response to his request for a date and pointed remarks about cost and payment. He had actually offered cash under the table for a discount, trying to coax her to break protocol.

  Another individual took an inordinate interest in the security system, peering at the discreet cameras, pausing to gaze at the small placards denoting the necessity to avoid touching any of the art because of the pressure plates they rested on. She watched him leave, and he hovered by the security panel at the door. Stephanie promptly called the security company, who agreed to review the tapes and make a copy in the event anything untoward occurred. They also sent a young man, complete with the proper identification, to check the system.

  The feeling that made the hair lift on the nape of her neck usually happened when she was walking up to her apartment building. She would fold her hand around the small can of hairspray tucked into her fist and prepare to defend herself, but no one showed themselves. Once she was in her space and the door locked and dead bolted, Stephanie could relax and be herself, away from prying eyes and her suspicions. She doubted there was anything she could do about it, if Dace Reynolds was determined to discover some imagined nefarious purpose she might have. All she could do was her job, and do it well. If he decided to put pressure on Reginald to fire her, there was nothing she could do about that either. Stephanie knew her place. Not that it was easy to accept, and not that she didn’t long to hurt the man in some undefined manner, but she couldn’t afford to expend any more emotional energy on him.

  The bus drew up with a hiss of air brakes, and the doors folded back to admit her and her fellow weary travellers. A seat near the front allowed Stephanie to sink into it with a wince at her sodden clothing. She leaned back gingerly and tucked her purse tightly beside her, away from the other passengers. It was a long ride, and one that was rarely comfortable, but particularly uncomfortable today, considering the state of her clothes. Water dripped from her hair and slid down the back of her neck, making her shiver. Stephanie surveyed the toes of her shoes ruefully. Probably not even wads of newspaper would rescue them. She settled back to inhale the scent of wet fabric and newspapers, of unwashed bodies and general dirt, staring at the advertisements that marched their way around the bus, right above the windows. The light grew dimmer as evening approached, and the rain displayed no signs of stopping. There would probably be no light to paint by tomorrow either. Stephanie sighed. The only bright spot was that her landlord agreed to a trial stay for Jake.

  The older man grudgingly acknowledged that he wanted his building, thirty-two units only, to be filled by respectable, working-class people, and not allow certain elements to encroach from the blocks to the east. Stephanie had painstakingly canvassed the building and determined all of the tenants but three were single working women. The other exceptions consisted of a young couple, a man on disability, and the landlord himself, now widowed. All of them were leery about the proximity of the other neighborhood, and some were already looking for alternate housing. The ones looking had the means to move, and Mr. McTavish didn’t want the hassle of finding new tenants or having to screen them. Stephanie hinted that she, too, might need to leave if she didn’t feel safe, upping the ante.

  She offered to install dead bolts on all the apartments, given Mr. McTavish’s gnarled arthritic hands and parsimonious nature. The other tenants were happy to purchase them, and her landlord began to see which way the tide was turning. Stephanie experienced some odd enthusiastic feeling that she was leading a revolution of sorts. Mr. M consequently wasn’t as loathe to consider Jake, especially when he considered the company an animal might offer him during the day. His garden suite boasted a little yard, and he allowed how a dog could use the area for his needs, especially if Stephanie cleaned up after him. It was the best news she’d had in a very long time, and they agreed on a test period.

  The bus creaked to a stop, and Stephanie alighted into the street, nodding to the driver who waited, as
he had of late, for her to cross the street and move into the light cast by her building. Despite its unprepossessing appearance, most every window boasted lamplight of some sort, and Mr. McTavish had installed good lighting over the entrance at some time in the recent past. Stephanie hurried up the walk and was inside the door without a sense of being watched. The rain probably kept even avid stalkers inside. And Dace Reynolds probably realized her sister was like a cat and despised getting wet, so it was unlikely she would be anywhere near.

  “Hey, Stephanie!” The sweet face of Anne Stewart, apartment three oh eight, beamed at her from where the older woman stood by the mailboxes. “You got caught in our winter rain, I see.”

  “I did so, Anne. I can’t wait to get out of these clothes.”

  “I got the lock you figured would work the best. Whenever you can come by…”

  Stephanie hesitated. Anne was older by maybe thirty years, unmarried, and clearly craving company. She could install the lock tomorrow, but she already had a number of other people she’d promised.

  “I need to change and eat, Anne, but I can come by after eight.”

  “Then come for dinner. No, I insist. Half an hour?”

  Stephanie struggled for a moment with the feeling of entanglements. But she had so few friends, so few connections, although people were usually nice to her. If she was going to live here, then she should be making friends and making a life. “Sure.”

  The other woman smiled wider, her face swallowed by her pleasure, the wrinkles of life and time spraying out from around her brown eyes. Even the carefully permed gray hair bounced with pleasure. Stephanie stopped long enough to check her mail—nothing, not even a bill. Sometimes Sophie sent her a postcard… She waved at Anne and set to the grim task of climbing two flights of stairs in squishy shoes.

  Her apartment door opened quietly under her touch, and Stephanie mused that the tumblers were becoming less difficult with use. Stepping inside, she eased off her shoes in the next move, relying on the ambient lighting from the street and from the one lamp on a timer in the corner to navigate. The roar of the wind and rain against the windows muffled the sound from the street.

  Stephanie set her shoes on the little boot rack and began to peel her clothes off, one layer at a time. She was down to her underwear, noting how the drenched fabric of her bra became nearly transparent, displaying her tight, cold nipples in a very sensual manner, the dark shadow of her pubic hair in stark relief against the material of her panties. It didn’t feel sexy, and she shivered and yanked them off. She gathered up the pile and wadded them together, crossing to the little spin washer combination stored in the corner of her kitchen. Stephanie had to hang her clothes to damp dry but found the unit washed most things delicately, and pressing them dry only enhanced them. Besides, other than her job, she had lots of time on her hands.

  She came to an abrupt halt, cautiously surveying the room. Nothing appeared amiss. But it felt wrong. She thought she heard something over the sound of wind and rain. Holding the pile of wet clothes in front of her like a shield, she turned on her toes, looking, searching. Nothing. Her eyes shot to the open bedroom door, and her heart thundered in her chest. She forced herself to casually walk to the washer and lower the clothes inside so as to give the appearance of thinking nothing amiss. All her blinds were tilted to let the light in during the day but ensure privacy, so she couldn’t use the windows to reflect the room. She felt more than naked, exposed and terrified, so reached out and pulled the biggest knife from the butcher block on the counter. Her choice of covering was a scrap of dishtowel. Her toilet flushed, and with the noise went all of her courage.

  She could make a run for it, head out into the hall au naturel, or confront the person in her house. Or she could get to her purse and find her cell phone, call 911.

  “Never mind, Frank. She’s here.” Dace Reynolds slid his phone into his jacket and leaned against the door frame in a move eerily reminiscent of the way he’d blocked her exit that night at the gallery. His big body was again clad in a beautiful suit, his tousled blond hair freshly cut. His eyes locked with hers and did not drift down her exposed body. It was faint comfort.

  Stephanie was so angry she felt woozy with the emotion. Her head filled, and her rage pounded against her temples. Dace Reynolds was in her fucking apartment. He was standing in her bedroom doorway, in her fucking apartment. She wasn’t installing dead bolts. She wasn’t going to a new friend’s for dinner. She was going to call the cops and file charges against a trespasser, give her notice, and get the hell out of this city.

  “What are you doing in my home?” Her voice resonated in her own ears with the suppressed fury. The knife clattered to the counter so she could hold the dish towel in front of her with both hands, but neither one of them paid any attention to the sound.

  “You lied to Frank, and he couldn’t find you. He’s been driving the bus route. So I came ahead, and your landlord let me in.”

  “On whose authority?” Stephanie was cold, and her anger wasn’t keeping her discomfort about her nudity at bay. But she was damned if she’d cover up further, scuttle and hide herself. He was in her apartment!

  Dace had the grace to look a trifle uncomfortable. His mouth tightened, and his shoulders squared. “I might have intimated that we had a date and you were late. So he let me inside to wait for you.”

  “Get out.”

  “Not until we’ve talked.”

  “Get out. I’m calling the cops and pressing charges. They might look at you more kindly if you left without a fuss.”

  His eyes left hers and dropped down over the length of her body and back up again. The dishtowel hardly covered the necessities. That frosty blue glittered with snow melt, and she shivered. Dace wheeled and disappeared into her bedroom. Stephanie dashed to her purse. She dragged her phone from the damp lining of her bag and managed to flip it open before he was on her, gently pulling from her grasp to close it and set it on the table. The warmth of her flannel robe enveloped her as he worked it over her shoulders and coaxed her arms into the sleeves. Stephanie stood woodenly, the adrenalin dissipating, making her crash. Dace pulled the material closed about her body and tied the sash tightly. She absurdly wanted to cry but pushed away from him and went back to the washer.

  After carefully adding detergent, she turned it on. Then she found her stack of newspapers under the sink, the ones she used for her painting, and painstakingly wadded them up and fit them into her shoes. Stephanie was so aware of him watching her every move, although he retreated to give her space. Her body flushed with the humiliation of his speculative gaze and the way he effectively covered her. Found wanting again, and wasn’t she freaking insane to let that get to her? She concentrated fiercely on stuffing the damn shoes and retreated into her head.

  “Are you warming up?”

  Stephanie started. She’d been pretending so hard he wasn’t in the room he actually surprised her. She was becoming delusional, another thing to blame him for. Warm? Was that why Dace covered her? Because he’d noticed she was cold? She nodded and finished with the shoes.

  “I couldn’t find any slippers.”

  Stephanie didn’t wear slippers. Sophie wore shoes, slippers, boots, anything she could purchase, all to appear taller than she was. But Stephanie was a barefoot gal whenever she could get away with it. “I don’t have any.”

  “You don’t have a lot of anything.”

  She straightened to face him. “None of your business, Mr. Reynolds.”

  “Well, whatever Sophie took, she certainly didn’t share it with you.”

  Any kinder thoughts about him finding her the robe so she wouldn’t be cold fell by the wayside, and she looked at her phone.

  “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. It would be so much easier if I could dispense with my issue over Sophie and it wouldn’t interfere with you and me. Are you certain you have no way of reaching her?”

  The total, freaking arrogance. There was no “you and me.” Asshole.


  Stephanie stalked past him and into her bedroom, choosing a pair of jeans, fresh underwear and some socks from her dresser, and her sage-green shirt from her closet. She went into the bathroom and locked the door, not that it would stop him if he wanted in, but it made her feel better. She let the tears flow while she blotted the worst of the moisture from her hair. Her robe was damp around the collar and the shoulders, so she hung it carefully to dry on the hook behind the door.

  Tugging her clothes on as quickly as she could over her moist skin, Stephanie washed her face and used some eye drops to ease the pinkness of her lids before stroking on some mascara, dabbing on some lip gloss. Her hair was beyond repair, so she gathered it up into a tie and made a messy bun.

  Stephanie didn’t care to examine herself too closely. She wanted the man standing out there in her apartment with a ferocity she wasn’t aware she was capable of, and he apparently felt a similar need, if he wasn’t lying to her. He kept giving her mixed messages, and she still felt he saw her as not measuring up. But he had said, you and me. That probably meant some invigorating sex, or several bouts of invigorating sex. Stephanie wanted that. She deserved more, but she’d always settled, so what the hell? Nothing different. She’d settle for her sister’s leavings and take what she could get. Life was short, right? But not tonight. She wasn’t scratching an itch without giving herself time to change her mind. She opened the bathroom door.