by Meg Ripley
“Damn straight,” I said. “Besides, at Houston’s we couldn’t combine dessert and sex.”
“You are not putting an Oreo in my pussy, just so we’re clear,” Allie said. I snorted and almost had Oreo crumbs in my nose.
“Not what I was thinking, but I’ll keep that in mind,” I told her. I kissed her again. “Have another strawberry and then let’s get back down to it--we have lost time to make up for.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I stubbed out my cigarette in the almost full ashtray and looked around the green room back behind the festival main stage. Nick and Olivia had wandered off, and Mary still wasn’t letting Alex stray too far from her side, but things felt mostly pretty good. We were going to be playing the headline spot for the second night--not the biggest honor, which would go to The Strokes the next night, but it was a pretty good billing for Molly Riot, especially considering we’d nearly self-destructed less than a year before.
I spotted Allie, chatting with one of the members of Hop Along with her camera around her neck on its strap, just hanging there for the moment. It was early days yet for our promotion stint for the new album, but when Mary had insisted that she should come on the road with us for Alex’s sake--to keep him on the straight and narrow--I’d pulled rank and gotten Allie included. The only Molly Riot girlfriends who hadn’t come along were Fran and Sophie; Fran because she had her own band to worry about and Sophie because she couldn’t--and didn’t want to--justify taking time off of work.
There had been grumbles about that, but in the end, we’d all sort of concluded that girlfriends on the tour bus weren’t as bad as we used to think, especially considering the fact that Nick and Olivia and Fran and Jules had originally hooked up on previous tours. It meant more money out of pocket, but the album was already selling well enough to make that less of a concern, especially since we weren’t doing anything particularly expensive with the lighting effects onstage.
Allie had sort of become the unofficial band chronicler, working with Olivia; they got along so well on their first project that Nick and I had joked that they were going to leave us for each other eventually. Olivia had gotten Allie some more work in journalism, and of course Allie was getting one quarter of Alex’s shares of the album sales.
“Yo!” I looked around, shaken out of my thoughts by the sound of Jules’ voice. “We’re supposed to talk about the set list soon--don’t forget.” I nodded. One of the things that had come out of the near-breakup of Molly Riot was that every member of the band had a particular thing that they were in charge of. We’d decided not to leave so much up to Ron or the label anymore--that had been a big thing that had sneaked up on us, that had made us all dissatisfied. So, Jules was in charge of managing shit at tour dates, Nick handled press, Dan worked on the website, I did merchandise, and Alex was the chosen representative to deal with the label--it was what he did best, anyway.
Allie caught sight of me and finished up her conversation, smiling at whoever it was and waving as she turned and walked towards me. She lifted her camera up as she came closer, and before I could even think about posing in any way, she’d snapped a quick, candid picture of me. “It really isn’t fair how naturally photogenic you are,” she told me, coming to sit down next to me on the raised part of the concrete floor; it had probably been a ramp at one point, I’d decided, but it didn’t seem to lead anywhere anymore.
“I think it’s all your talent in picking the exact right moment,” I told her, shaking my head. “I’ve taken plenty of awkward-ass pictures of myself.”
“I’ve already managed to get enough shots of different people hanging around backstage to make a few thousand,” Allie told me, stretching just enough to lift the hem of her tee shirt up. “The rest of today I can just hang out and drink and have a good time.”
“Funny how your day ends before mine even begins,” I said, reaching over to tweak one of Allie’s braids.
“Well, I mean, if it makes you feel better I can keep working the rest of the day into tonight, make some more money,” Allie pointed out tartly.
“Come with me to our green room, at least,” I suggested. “Get a few snaps of us debating tonight’s set list.” Things were not entirely tension free between Allie and Alex, but with Mary playing chaperone, they’d started to relax a bit.
All in all, it looked like we’d finally come out of the rough patch we’d put ourselves into. I lit another cigarette and hopped down from the former ramp, and gave Allie a quick kiss. I couldn’t have imagined, at the beginning of recording the album, that everything would fall into place as perfectly as it had: I had a woman I loved, I had an open invitation to work with Bent Bridges whenever I had the free time, and Molly Riot were better, bigger, and stronger than ever. I held Allie’s hand all the way to the green room, and thought to myself that--sappy as it sounded--I was probably one of the happiest fucking guys at the entire festival.
THE END
Desire On The Run
My mother always told me not to talk to strangers...but this time, how could I possibly resist?
“Chelsea Davies, good morning. You are in a great deal of danger. I strongly advise you to call into work sick today. In fact, it would be best if you remained exactly where you are in your apartment for the next thirty minutes.”
Pfft...and you thought your Monday was bad? Imagine waking up to a call like this?
“Someone wants to kill you. They think you know something that they’d rather keep hidden.”
And why should I believe a word you're saying?
"It doesn’t matter at the end of the day whether you know it or not—the person after you thinks that you do, because you have the information.”
Within no time, there's a man at my door here to whisk me away to safety...and he's drop dead gorgeous.
Do I trust him, grab my stuff and run?
Or is he as much of a threat as the people that he claims are after me?
PART ONE
Chelsea had finally managed to sink into the depths of the sleep she craved after spending an entire night tossing and turning, her mind going over the petty details and stresses of her week at work. Finally, as the sky had already begun to lighten, her mind had succumbed to the bone-deep exhaustion of her body, and given up the task of enumerating all the things she needed to do. She was in the midst of a dream—a sweet, uncomplicated, comforting dream—when the siren-slide sound of Hot Hot Heat’s “Future Breeds” reached into her brain, splitting the air and cutting through the threads of her dream state. Chelsea groaned, the sound almost a sob of frustration, as she reached out and blindly grabbed for her phone where she kept it; not on her bedside table, which she knew from experience would make it easier to turn the alarm off altogether, but on the desk next to her bed. Fumbling, she closed her fingers around the slippery device and by memory thumbed the snooze feature.
Chelsea knew that the nine minutes’ silence would not actually help; it felt as if every joint in her body had been attacked by bat-wielding assailants, as if her eyelids had been replaced with sandpaper. The dull throb at her temples told her readily that nine minutes was simply not a replacement for the hours of sleep she had missed. But for a precious few moments, at least, she could pretend she didn’t have to get up and out of bed, that she didn’t have to go to work. Chelsea let the phone fall onto the blankets, curling in on herself tighter and burying her face against the pillows in denial of the idea that it was already morning.
She began to slip into a doze, her muscles relaxing one by one as the silence stretched out. Maybe—just maybe—she’d get a few minutes of quality sleep. Chelsea’s breathing evened and slowed, and she was on the edge of falling asleep once more when she found herself once more pulled sharply into wakefulness by the sensation of her phone vibrating. Her sleep-fogged brain at first protested that it couldn’t possibly be nine minutes yet; but then, if it had been, she would be hearing her alarm tone—not feeling the buzzing vibration of her phone’s silent “ring.” Someone
was calling her.
“It’s like no one in the entire world wants me to sleep today,” Chelsea muttered to herself, opening her eyes and scrubbing at her face in self-pity. Her phone continued to vibrate, and she ruefully gave up on the idea of getting any more sleep. The only people her exhausted mind could think of who would call her at such an early hour were her coworkers; her friends knew better, and the few members of her family still alive and speaking to her did as well. Chelsea yawned as her hand found the phone where it was buried in the blanket. She picked it up and squinted against the light in the room as she tried to force her dry, sleepy eyes to focus on the number flashing on the screen. It wasn’t a number she recognized. For a moment—a flicker of a thought—she considered throwing the phone across the room, curling up once more, and considering the day a complete failure to launch. But Chelsea realized that she was already fully awake; and if it was a telemarketer, she at least could get the lesser comfort of verbally tearing whoever it was into pieces.
“Who the hell is this?” she asked as soon as she had tapped the “accept” icon on her screen and saw that the call had connected.
“Chelsea Davies, good morning. You are in a great deal of danger, and I strongly advise you to call into work sick today. In fact, it would be best if you remained exactly where you are in your apartment for the next thirty minutes.” Chelsea took the phone away from her ear and stared at the screen for a long moment, confused and irritated.
“What are you talking about? And just how do you know my name?”
“You have plenty of sick time. You should take some of it today, and stay right where you are until you hear a knock like this.” Chelsea’s frowned deepened as she heard a tapping pattern over the phone line: tock-tock-tock-ti-tock. “Did you get that, Chelsea?”
“I’m not going to agree to anything until you give me some answers,” she said irritably.
“We don’t really have time for this; I need to be off the phone in the next thirty seconds. Be a good girl and listen to that knock one more time, and tell me clearly whether or not you understand what I’ve told you.” Once more she heard the tapping pattern. Curiosity overwhelming her irritation at the mystery caller and the interruption of her sleep, Chelsea listened to the pattern carefully.
“Okay, fine, I heard it,” she said sulkily.
“Good girl. You’ll hear it again in about thirty minutes. Call your office and tell them you’ll be sick for a couple of days and stay exactly where you are.” Chelsea opened her mouth to protest the peremptory command when she heard the low-toned beep-beep-beep that signaled that the call was disconnected. She let the phone slip from her fingers and sank down against the pillows, puzzling over the mysterious call and the equally strange caller. Chelsea frowned, her eyelids descending over her eyes as her deep fatigue settled over her once more. He had known that she had plenty of sick time—that much was true; she had banked almost a full week of sick time. You’re not calling in sick because some mystery asshole told you to, Chelsea told herself as she forced her eyes open and reached for her phone once more.
“I’m calling in sick because I am exhausted and I’d be useless at work anyway. It’s a mental health day.” Chelsea opened up her contacts list and found the number to the office, coughing a few times experimentally to roughen her voice. She waited for the automatic prompt to come on—the office didn’t officially open for business for another hour and a half—and put in the number for her manager’s extension. Elise wouldn’t be at her desk either; Chelsea knew that she’d go straight to voicemail, which was for the best. When she heard the tone, she coughed again. “Hey, Elise,” Chelsea said, pitching her voice low and giving into the fatigue she felt in every bone of her body without any pretense. “I’m not going to be able to come in today. I feel like I just got ran over with a Mack truck.” She coughed again for effect and sniffled harshly. “I may check my email just to keep on top of things and send a message to HR, but I’ve gotta stay in bed today. I’ll give you an update later.” She ended the call and let her head fall back against the pillows, yawning again.
Chelsea’s irritation rose as minutes passed; she felt vaguely silly about responding to the call, even if she knew that she was too exhausted to be of use in the office that day anyway. Her bladder gave a spasm, informing her that it was uncomfortably full—and that she should take care of that issue. Her mystery caller had told her to stay exactly where she was; but surely, he just meant in the apartment. Chelsea grappled with the idea before deciding that literal adherence to an order from someone who hadn’t even been courteous enough to introduce himself was ridiculous. It’s not like he’s going to know, anyway.
She picked up her phone absently as she climbed out of bed and padded towards the bathroom, yawning a few more times as she made the short trek. She felt faintly ridiculous that she was waiting in her apartment for the mystery caller—or at least, she assumed that the coded knock would be coming from him—when she had no idea of who he was, what he wanted, why he had called her. Wasn’t there some kind of urban legend with this set up? This is the way that women get abducted, isn’t it? Chelsea washed her hands and splashed water on her face when she finished taking care of her needs, and went back into the bedroom, resenting the intrusion on her sleep, her routine.
****
Chelsea had once more fallen into a doze, with nothing better to do to pass the time waiting—she had told herself that the caller was probably a prank in the first place—when she heard, at her door, the knocking pattern that the man on the phone had performed for her. Opening her eyes, Chelsea groaned, sitting up in her bed. “No one wants me to get any sleep today, that has to be it. The whole world is in on it.” She flung the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, getting to her feet unsteadily. How do you even know you can trust this guy? He’s probably here to abduct you, and you’re playing right into his game plan. Chelsea frowned and grabbed at her phone. She heard her mystery guest repeat the coded knock at her door and stirred herself to pad out of the bedroom.
Considering, she opened up her recent calls and checked for the unfamiliar number; she didn’t know for certain if the caller and the person on her doorstep were the same individual, but it was worth making the phone call anyway, wasn’t it? She hit ‘recall’ and stood, a few yards away from her door, waiting as it rang. “I’m here,” the voice said the moment the call connected.
“I assumed as much from the knock-knock-knocking at my door,” Chelsea said wryly. “What I don’t know is whether I should let you in.”
“You should,” the man said. Now that she was more awake, she could detect a faint accent in the man’s deep, almost rasping voice, though she couldn’t identify where the accent came from. “I promise you, Chelsea, that I’m not here to abduct you. You are actually in some danger right now. If you let me in I can explain it to you.” Chelsea glided her tongue along the front of her teeth, hesitating only a moment longer.
She took the last few steps to the door and unlocked first the deadbolt, then the chain, and finally the twist lock on the knob, before opening the door. For a long moment, Chelsea stared. The man on the other side of the door was more than tall; he dwarfed her, easily a foot taller than she was, over six feet. He had dark blond hair, cut short with razor-precision, parted to the side, and bright blue-green eyes that shone intently as he looked down at her. Chelsea’s gaze took in the slightly darker stubble that roughened the man’s cheeks and jawline, contrasting sharply with the soft look of his Cupid’s bow mouth. He wasn’t just tall; the man filled up the frame of her door: broad shoulders and chest, tapering to a narrow waist and hips, and long legs. He wore fitted jeans, and a black tee shirt that clung to the lines and ridges of his torso, with a dark leather jacket over it. “Are you going to let me in?” He asked her, raising one wheat-colored eyebrow. Chelsea took a step backwards, blinking and shaking off her confusion; she felt disastrously underdressed in her pajamas, next to the man who strode quickly through her do
or, closing and locking it behind him.
“This is the part where you explain what the hell is going on, right?” Chelsea threw herself onto the couch, feeling irritated at her own reaction to the man.
“We have some time now, but not very much,” the mystery guest said, sitting down in the wingback chair nearest to her. Chelsea frowned.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest. She was acutely aware of the effect of the slight chill in the air when her guest had come in, of the fact that underneath the thin fabric of her top and the pajama bottoms she’d managed to pull on before she’d gone to bed the night before, she was bare.
“Someone wants to kill you.” Chelsea stared at the man in disbelief. “They think you know something that they’d rather keep hidden.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Chelsea protested. “I don’t know anything—I can’t even think of something I know that might make someone want me dead.” The man shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter at the end of the day whether you know it or not—the person after you thinks that you do, because you have the information.”
“What are you talking about? I’m nobody. No one’s handed me some mysterious parcel or anything, I haven’t even gotten anything in the mail.” The man’s lips twitched in a smile. “And who the hell are you, anyway?” The man’s smile deepened.
“My name is Johan Lindstrom,” he said. “Tell me, Chelsea; what comes to mind when I say the name Aaron Rosen?” Chelsea stared at the man blankly.
“The CEO of the company?” Chelsea frowned. “What does he have to do with anything?” Johan raised an eyebrow, the smile not quite leaving his lips.
