Chailali’s Curse

by Anna Leigh Keaton

  “What kind of suspense? Spy thrillers or scary stuff?”

  He frowned in her direction then drank down his milk in a few long swallows. “A bit of both,” he said as he set his glass down. He went back to concentrating on his meal.

  Christy tried not to let his lack of communication get her down, but it was difficult. Dinners at Beth’s house were always lively. With Roger and Beth and their eight-year-old daughter, there wasn’t much silence. Conversation circulated about the adults’ workdays and the kid’s school activities.

  God, she missed it.

  “If you want to read one of my books,” Mike said, surprising her by breaking the silence, “there’s boxes of them in the living room. Take your pick. But don’t expect any mushy, happy endings.” He picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth, then grabbed his cane from where it hung over the back of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t do happy endings.” With that, he walked out of the kitchen.

  Christy slumped in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, keeping the urge to throw his empty milk glass at his head firmly in check. Why did the man have to be such a jackass? Would one little, friendly conversation kill him? Then she sighed and reminded herself that the guy had lived alone for ten years. He wasn’t used to having someone else in his house. Any social skills he may have once possessed he’d obviously forgotten.

  She picked up the plates and took them to the sink.

  At least you tried...

  Christy rolled her eyes. “Lotta good that did, now didn’t it?”

  The voice was silent for a few minutes as she rinsed the dinner dishes and stuck them in the dishwasher. She thought maybe it was gone, until it said, You should read one of his books. It might help you understand him better.

  Maybe I don’t want to understand him better. She didn’t need to understand him. She just worked for him. That was all. She saw him for less than an hour a day. He kept himself tucked away at the computer from morning till dinner, coming out for coffee and meals, which he prepared for himself at his insistence. Now that dinner was done, he’d head into his bedroom where she could usually hear the television or radio when she passed by his door.

  Do it, the voice urged. Read one of his books.

  With a sigh, Christy wiped her damp hands on the towel hanging from the oven door and headed into the living room. She’d tidied and dusted the room, but hadn’t moved the stack of boxes against the one wall. She pulled down the first box and used her fingernail to cut the tape across the top. Hawk’s Shame, the cover read. Shiny and black, with a shadowy figure of a half-man-half-bird face on the front.

  She shrugged, tucked it under her arm, and headed up to her room. What else did she have to do except more scrubbing, which could wait until tomorrow?

  * * * * *

  Bang.

  Christy awoke with a scream trapped in her throat and sweat prickling her brow.

  The nightmare bled into reality. She whimpered and shivered in the dark, gripping the blanket to her neck. A metallic taste coated her mouth.

  “No,” she whispered to herself. “Not real. Not now.”

  A bright flash blinded her, then the roar of another gunshot growled through the room. She was back in the bank, the masked gunman standing in front of her.

  Bang.

  “No!” she screamed and dove off the bed.

  * * * * *

  “Wake up! Wake up, Michael!” Chailali shouted, but Mike didn’t respond. He slept heavy and peaceful, unaware of the storm outside or the fact that Christy was having a traumatic emotional meltdown.

  She tried to slip into his mind, but her own thoughts were in too much turmoil, and the electrical currents zipping around due to the lightening distorted what little power she had.

  “Mike! Christy needs you!”

  Chailali heard another terror-filled scream from the third floor, proceeding another crash of thunder. She’d tried to calm Christy herself, but the woman was beyond listening to disembodied voices. Christy had clamped her hands over her ears and sobbed as she huddled in the corner of her bedroom.

  Mike slept on.

  Chailali reached for the clock on the nightstand and let her hand float over the plastic piece of electronics. The talking clock called out the time.

  Mike mumbled but didn’t so much as move.

  “Come on, Mike, hear me. Christy needs you.” She swiped her hand over the clock again, and it repeated the time.

  Mike rolled over and reached for the clock just as Chailali forced it to repeat the time.

  A flash of lightening sparked through the room, thunder roared, and then Christy screamed.

  Mike sat up in a rush.

  “That’s it,” Chailali said. “Go help Christy. Go. Go. Go!”

  Mike’s heart thudded loud in his ears. Was that Christy who screamed? Or the remnants of a dream? He fumbled at the end of the bed for his pair of sweatpants and pulled them on. Rain or sleet pelted at the window. Flashes of lightening disorientated him for a moment. He felt for his cane hanging over the footboard of the bed, then pushed to his feet and headed for the stairs to Christy’s room.

  Another scream rent through the air, spurring him into a jog up the narrow stairs, gripping the handrail, pulling his bum leg along as fast as he could move.

  The only room on the third floor was the old master bedroom. He hadn’t stepped foot inside since Caryn died. Another round of thunder shook the house, and Christy wailed, the sound so filled with terror it ripped something inside him. He shoved the door open.

  Another scream. Lightening flashed through the window, the intense white light spearing through his head. “Christy? Where are you?”

  In the small space between rumbles of thunder, he heard whimpers and heavy breathing from the far side of the room. Using his cane and an outstretched hand to check for obstacles, he headed in the direction of the sounds of her distress. He bumped into the corner of the bed, his fingers jamming into the thick post. “Fuck,” he mumbled. “Christy, honey, where are you?”

  Another flash of lightening. A crash of thunder. A terrifying scream that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. She was close.

  He went down on his hands and knees and felt his way to her. When his hand connected with cool flesh, she screamed again and tried scrambling away. He grabbed her flailing arms and pinned them to her sides as he brought his weight down over her.

  “Christy. It’s me. Mike. Shh.”

  She screamed and wriggled and fought. Her teeth clamped down on his shoulder at one point, making him grunt.

  “Christy! Stop this now! Stop it!” He straddled her middle and pinned her hands above her head. He knew this wasn’t the best way to calm a woman, but shit, she was going to disable him if he didn’t get her still. He clamped her jaw in his hand and lowered his face to touch his cheek with hers. “Christy. Sweetheart. Shh. It’s me, Mike. You’re safe.”

  That seemed to help a bit. She stopped struggling, but her soul-deep sobs tore at his heart.

  “Make it stop,” she whispered. “God, please, make it go away.”

  “Shh,” he soothed. “You’re okay, Christy.” He eased his grip on her wrists and was shocked at how cold her skin was. “Come on, honey. You need to get back into bed and get warm.” From what he could tell, she wore nothing but a thin T-shirt.

  He moved off of her and was about to push to his feet when another flash of lightening pierced through the room, something banged against the roof—probably a loose shingle—and Christy launched herself against his chest, nearly strangling him with the way she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “Don’t leave me,” she cried, pressing her cool face against his neck.

  Chapter Three

  Mike was able to maneuver Christy to the bed, but she wouldn’t let him tuck her in as he wanted. She dragged him down beside her and wrapped her very curvy, very soft, very scantily-clad body around him. Her sobbing had ceased, but her body still shook with violent shudders every
time the thunder clapped or the loose shingle overhead slapped against the roof.

  With her face pressed against his neck and her body half laying over him, he had little choice but to pull the covers up over them both, hold her, and try to warm her.

  He whispered soothing sounds and ran his hand down her back, which did nothing to help ease the painful reaction his body had to her. His cock hardened enough to pound nails. She had the sweetest scent, and damn, she was soft.

  Scared of a storm. The woman was terrified of a little thunder. This would be one long-ass winter if she stayed. He couldn’t come to her rescue every time this happened. He refused to. Distance kept between them was imperative for his well-being.

  Christy’s leg moved up, her knee bumping his dick, and he bit his tongue to hold in the groan. Distance. Lots of distance. “Christy. Stop this now. Nothing is going to hurt you. It’s a goddamn storm. That’s all.” He tried prying her fingers from his shoulder, but she had one hell of a grip.

  “I need...my pills,” she said against the tender flesh of his neck, sending a streak of tingling heat racing through his blood. Her hot breath added to the thrill, her quick little pants the sweetest thing he’d heard in ages.

  What an asshole he was, getting hotter and hornier than he’d been in ages, all because a woman was having a total meltdown over a stupid little storm. But shit, she felt good. So soft. Her breasts were large and mashed so sweetly against his chest. Her hands were small, delicate, and her short nails were currently digging gouges in his skin. But if he just ran his hand a bit lower...found the edge of her nightshirt— Pills?

  “What pills?” he demanded.

  “Anx...anxiety. Panic attack. Oh, God...I can’t...breathe. Help me.”

  Hot little pants. Fuck! She couldn’t breathe. “Where?” He rolled sideways, pushing her off him and disengaging from her clinging limbs. “Where are they?”

  “Bath—”

  He had to hold both her hands in one of his in order to completely get out of her grasp. When he did, he rolled up off the bed, wincing when his thigh twinged. His erection stood out hard against his sweats, but he tried his damnedest to ignore it as he felt his way to the bathroom without help of his cane. He knocked into the frame with his forehead, but he got the door open.

  What was he doing? How was he supposed to find a pill bottle? He was fucking blind. “Christy! Where?” The thunder had lessened, and he could hear her wheezing. God damn it, he was useless.

  She didn’t answer. He felt along the counter; toothbrush, toothpaste, tissue box. No pill bottle. He opened the mirrored cabinet and went through two of the three compartments, knocking boxes and stuff onto the counter until his fingers closed over what felt like a prescription pill bottle. He could only hope she didn’t have more than one.

  When he got back to the bed, he heard her sniffle. “I have pills, but I don’t know if they’re the right ones.”

  A cold, clammy hand took the bottle from him. He heard the click of a light switch, and then another whimper.

  “No...lights,” she whispered in a shuddery, halting voice.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and reached out his hand for her, finding her shoulder. “Sometimes that happens during a big storm. They’ll be back on by morning.”

  Her body shook violently, her breathing still puffing hard. He heard the bottle being opened and tipped.

  He ran his hand down her arm to her hand and took the bottle from her. “Are you okay? Will you be okay?”

  Silence, except for her staggered breaths and the rain beating against the windows. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the room as it had been ten years earlier. When his wife had shared this bed with him. He could picture the room, but not his wife. He hadn’t been able to see her for years now.

  He dropped his hand from Christy’s shoulder, but then she pressed against him again, her arms going around his neck, gentler this time. She needed him right now. He could push away the haunting memories of a wife he couldn’t see, and a room that had held too many warm moments of pleasure, for just one night. For just this moment. Someone needed him. That hadn’t happened in a very long time.

  He scooted up the bed until his bare back touched the cold wood of the headboard, then he wrapped his arms around Christy and settled her small, soft body on his lap. She tucked her head under his chin and sniffled.

  “You’re okay, honey,” he whispered as he rubbed his hand down her back. For now he could ignore the painful strain of his cock against her hip. For now all that mattered was that Christy was okay. That she had someone to lean on. He could do that for her for a few moments.

  The fact that he found so much pleasure in the simple, innocent touches...well, he was human after all, no matter what anyone thought. And he hadn’t had a woman in his arms in a decade.

  “I’m sorry,” Christy whispered when her breathing had fallen into a more normal cadence. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  A harsh laugh slipped out. “The electrical surges before the blackout woke me up, not you. My damn clock kept telling me it was two-thirty-two a.m.”

  She sucked in a shuddery breath. Within five heartbeats, her body went lax, and her hand fell from his shoulder. She was out. Had she overdosed on her pills? Crap. He laid her down next to him and checked the pulse in her neck. Strong. Even.

  Just to be on the safe side, he probably shouldn’t leave her alone. He scooted down in the bed, pulled the covers up over them both, then pulled her against his chest—so he could keep checking her pulse, feel her chest rise and fall with her breaths.

  “Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, buddy, and maybe you’ll start believing it.”

  He breathed in her warm, spiced scent and willed his body to relax. Impossible. But the ache wasn’t unpleasant. It had been too long since he’d felt the weight of a woman against his side. He could indulge just this once. Only once....

  * * * * *

  Christy awoke slowly, her brain fuzzy and her eyes blurry. Oh, God, those damn pills. They made her feel as if she’d gotten drunk last night. She rolled over, snuggled a fluffy pillow against her chest, and sighed. The scent of clean masculinity tickled her nose, and the events of the night before returned with a rush.

  Oh, goodness. Oh, no. She closed her eyes and buried her face against the soft cotton pillowcase, breathing in Mike’s scent. She groaned. Could she have found a way to embarrass herself with any more perfection? Bawling like a baby. Clinging to him like a damn octopus. She groaned again. And he’d been so...sweet.

  And turned on, she reminded herself. She’d tried to ignore the length and heat of his straining penis pressed against her hip as he’d snuggled her on his lap, but even in her anxiety-ridden state, she couldn’t help but notice it.

  Rolling to her back, she scrubbed her hands over her face and blinked the sleep out of her eyes. How the heck was she to face the man today? And what happened? One second she was sitting on his lap, snuggled against that beautiful, hard chest, and then...nothing. Had she passed out?

  “Ugh.” Her head throbbed when she sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed. Those damn pills... The bottle was in the middle of the bed, and she grabbed it and set it on the nightstand. The instructions said she could take one or two as needed during an anxiety attack. She’d downed two last night, figuring one wouldn’t be anywhere near enough to get her heart rate back to normal and ease the tightness in her chest.

  And they’d knocked her clean out. Right there on Mike’s lap.

  Part of her wanted to hide away in this room and never come out again. She didn’t know what to say when she saw him. Between her crying jag, her inability to deal with a little storm, and his hard-on...

  Thank God he was a good guy, or he could have really taken advantage of her last night. In her state of mind, she’d have done him just to keep him nearby. Not that having sex with him would be a bad thing. Lord knew she liked what she’d seen of that beautiful body of his. His chest and abs were to die for. She certainly had neve
r slept with a man with such a great body.

  Yeah, whatever... She staggered to her feet and made it to the bathroom. A cool shower to wake her up, and then some of Mike’s killer strong coffee. Maybe she’d be able to face the day—and him—if she woke up some first.

  She turned on the shower taps and waited until the water was lukewarm before stepping under the stinging spray. She’d simply wait until he came out of his office for one of his coffee breaks, and then she’d apologize and promise it would never happen again.

  Then again, how could she promise that when she wasn’t sure why the attack had come on in the first place? She wasn’t afraid of storms. The dream-turned-nightmare was what had sent her over the edge. Logically, she knew the thunder wasn’t a gunshot, but last night, no matter how many times she repeated that fact to herself, she had no control over the anxiety—the complete panic—that had gripped her.

  A year and a half since the incident, and last night it had felt as real as if it were happening all over again. Right here. When she woke up, hearing that crack of sound—she still didn’t know what had made the noise—she could have sworn a gun was being fired right in the room. And the nightmare started all over again. The smell and taste of gunpowder and blood. The screams—which last night had been her own—echoed in her ears and heart.

  She rinsed the soap from her hair then turned off the water. Feeling a bit more human, she quickly dressed in a fluffy sweat suit and thick tube socks, then headed for the coffee pot in the kitchen Mike kept constantly full of coffee strong enough to eat through metal.

  As she stepped off the stairs on the first floor, she heard Mike’s monotone computer program reading back his book to him. She’d forced herself not to eavesdrop over the past two weeks, feeling that would be a breach of the privacy he demanded from her. But as she passed by the open door and glanced in, her breath caught, and her feet stopped moving.