Caged
S t e p h i e W a l l s
Copyright © 2015 by Stephie Walls All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and revival systems without prior written permission from the author except where permitted by law.
The characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Contact: [email protected] or www.facebook.com/stephiewalls2014
Copyright © 2015 Stephie Walls
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 10:1508919917
Dedication
To my constant, her smile has saved me more than once, my Little Chicken.
Acknowledgements
I don’t normally write acknowledgements but over the last year I have struggled with the curves life has thrown at me. My writing took a backseat but with the encouragement of my dear friend, Leigh Ann, I was able to find my groove again. She pushed me when I needed it, coddled me when I couldn’t get a grip, and spent hours texting and talking me off the proverbial ledge. Without Leigh Ann, this story and several others never would have penned. I can’t thank her for all she has done for me. If nothing else, her friendship is priceless.
I would also like to thank Jeff for helping me with the male point of view this story is written in. Without his blunt honesty about how the male mind (and body) works, Sasha wouldn’t have been possible.
And finally, my daughter, who is only seven, but has lived a life that most adults never see. I am amazed daily by her courage and her strength. She is, by far, the greatest blessing I have ever known.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I
CHAPTER ONE
1
CHAPTER TWO
6
CHAPTER THREE
15
CHAPTER FOUR
19
CHAPTER FIVE
32
CHAPTER SIX
37
CHAPTER SEVEN
41
CHAPTER EIGHT
45
CHAPTER NINE
51
Chapter One
“Sasha! Wait. You have a showing of the mill at four,” my admin Tonya calls out to me as I’m leaving for the day.
I stop with my hand on the door. “It’s a quarter till. When were you going to tell me?” She can hear the irritation in my voice. That property has been the bane of my existence. Every time I show it something happens. It’s as if the place is cursed. I’ve tried repeatedly to get the owner to list it with another agent but she refuses. The last time I tried she told me it was a very special place and the right buyer would come along. Then she winked at me. Crazy old bat.
“I just hung up the phone. I didn’t know you were leaving early or I would have scheduled it for tomorrow.” She races up to me with the address written down, as if I don’t know where the place is, and a woman’s name and phone number, Claire Weston. “She was adamant about seeing the place today.”
I watch Tonya’s face. There’s something she isn’t telling me about this showing. She’s worked for me for years. She can’t lie or hide anything for shit. “Spill it. I have to leave if I’m going to make it by four.” I shouldn’t be so short with her, it’s not her fault I’m an ass with a chip on my shoulder.
Scrunching her face to the side I can tell she’s searching for a nice way to say whatever she’s thinking. “Just say it, Tonya.”
“She’s a raging bitch,” her face sinks with the last word. She’s sweet as sweet can be and always tries to find the positive in everyone.
“Fuck. Of course she is.” I take the paper from her hand pushing my way out the front door.
I’ve been doing commercial real estate my entire career and in twenty years, I’ve yet to come across a bitch I liked or wanted to work with. I would rather not make the sale than have to pretend to deal with someone else’s shit. I jerk open the door to my Audi A8, tossing my crap inside. I love this car; it’s rolling class and comfort. With a black exterior, sleek lines, gray leather interior; it just screams success. In real estate people need to believe you’re successful, luckily I am, but the visual never hurts.
At forty years old, the success hasn’t gotten me where I thought it would. I have all the material things I could ever want and great friends, but after a nasty divorce where she took me for everything she could, I’m left with a bitter attitude and can’t say that I’m terribly fond of the opposite sex, although I’m not afraid to use them physically. I’m always up front about no commitments but women think they will be the one, the one that breaks the cycle, the one who gets me to commit.
I pull up to the mill right at four. I admit this space is amazing and for the right buyer could be a gold mine. I don’t think it will ever serve an industrial purpose again, but I can see some fantastic lofts being created here. It’s a three-story brick building with high ceilings, exposed beams and air ducts. All inner walls are brick. Surprisingly, the electrical and plumbing are up to code, but someone other than myself has to have the vision. Those who have seen the potential have all been discouraged by one of the many incidents taken place here in the past or have happened while they are here.
When the mill was in operation there was a huge fire that essentially gutted the place and in the process killed eleven workers. The owners never rebuilt, and it sat empty for years. The rumor on the street is the workers who were killed haunt the building. Since then, I have been the only agent listing the property, and every time I step foot in the building something weird happens. During one showing, every time the potential buyer asked something about the fire, the lights would flicker—even those, which weren’t turned on. Another showing, a window in the room where the workers died blew out—not as if something had been thrown at it from the street, but outward. At the last showing, my client and I got stuck in the same room, the interior doors wouldn’t open but there are no locks on any of them; they just swing into other rooms. The lights flickered in the same pattern they had the time before. We could hear footsteps all over the building, but there was no one else there. When the footsteps stopped, the lights returned to a steady glow, and the doors opened as if they had never been jammed. If it was just one incident I may have been able to put a spin on it with my formidable marketing skills. Unfortunately, it keeps happening, and now I just feel screwed.
Needless to say, word of these incidents travels fast and now the mill just sits here, unoccupied. I have tried to talk Elsie, the owner (who has to be one hundred years old if she’s a day), into demolishing the building and selling the land. It’s just outside of downtown and worth a fortune. She refuses every time, reiterating the right person who will restore the building will eventually come along. I think she’s lost her damn mind, but what am I going to tell an old goat to convince her differently? Nothing. Until then, I continue to show the property when someone has an interest, but I do nothing to market it.
I had parked the car and gotten out when a white Mercedes SUV pulls up. Leaning against my Audi, legs crossed at the ankle, I wait to see the bitch get out of the car. While I’m not the nicest guy who ever walked the face of the Earth, I don’t deal well with people who treat Tonya like shit. She’s good as gold, and if you can’t get along with her there’s not much hope for you.
Chapter Two
The first thing I see is her high heel-clad foot hit the pavement. The second one joins it as she stands from the seat. She’s tall and thin with legs that go on for a mile. Sliding my gaze up her stems, I note the smart black skirt perfectly tailored to fit her body, the billowy white blouse that seems to hover ove
r her skin instead of actually touching it, then her long, lean neck. She has on huge sunglasses popular with the ladies these days hiding most of her features, but her nose is slim and straight. Her dark black hair tied back at the base of her neck. She is the picture of perfection, but looks brutal as hell.
Pushing off the car, I walk to her, extending my hand, “Sasha Maxwell.” I introduce myself.
She lifts the glasses from her face with her left hand, extending her right with a snide grin, “Sasha, huh?” She doesn’t wait for a response to the arrogant way she snarled my name, “Claire Weston.”
Times like these I hate my parents for giving me a name like Sasha. As a kid I was the butt of jokes until I reached an age and size that people were afraid of me. My six-foot, two-inch stature holds my two hundred and fifty pounds on my frame and doesn’t leave much room for people to joke about my name anymore. Clearly, this woman is not intimidated by me, nor is she impressed.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Claire.” I look directly into her eyes showing her I’m not overawed by her either and notice the warmth radiating from the green looking back at me. The rest of her is stern and cold but there’s a softness behind the mask. She doesn’t return the sentiment. I drop her hand, “Where would you like to start? Inside or out?”
“Out.” She answers tersely, tucking her shades into her designer bag.
I show her around the property trying to point out property lines, courtyards, and anything else that might be appealing, but not knowing what she’s considering the building for makes it difficult to help her get a vision in her mind of what this could be. My attempts at luring her into conversation fail miserably as she responds with curt, one-word answers. After a few minutes, I quit trying to engage her, and simply point out what I can. It’s a waste of time to exert any more energy on this woman or property. Completing a lap around the building, I take the key out of the box and open the front door ushering her in. The bitch steps on my foot with the heel of her goddamn shoe as she walks past me. I bite my lower lip to keep from shouting the obscenities on the tip of my tongue, and I swear I notice a smirk on her face.
As the door closes behind me she utters the first complete sentence I’ve heard from her mouth, “Wow. It really smells in here.”
“The stench from the fire still hangs in the air. The building has been closed up since the incident. Open windows and doors would clear it out fairly quickly since all of the surfaces are hard.”
“I don’t think all the Febreeze in the world could take this away.” She turns up her chin as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to end up with a migraine before this over.” She’s not talking to me as she voices her opinion. I get the impression she’s used to saying what’s on her mind and people cowering to please her. She’s barking up the wrong tree if she thinks I give a shit what she thinks. Frankly, her snotty attitude and incessant complaining may bring on a headache of my own.
I take her through the open rooms, pointing out the enormous windows almost reaching from floor to ceiling, spanning the length of the outer walls, the architecture of the curved doorways leading from room to room, the high ceilings, and the overall industrial look. The natural light coming in through the windows gives the mill an ethereal glow during the day. Listening to the sounds of her heels clacking across the cement floors makes me want to throw something at her. Even they emit a bitchiness I can’t escape.
When we reach the end of the first floor, I ask if she wants to take the stairs or the elevator, she choses the former. The stairs are on the backside of the building, shaded by trees, during the high of the day the sun shines through the glass, but mid-afternoon they get dark. Afraid she might stumble in her four-inch heels and sue me, I flip on the light switch at the bottom of the stairs.
I start up the stairs ahead of her but don’t hear her shoes on the steps, when I turn she has an odd look on her face. She stares back at me with the only inviting thing about her, for a moment, I see the eyes of a child, then she opens her mouth, “This place is creepy. Did you notice the temperature change from the main space to here?”
“I’m sure it’s the sun the front of the building gets versus the side shaded by trees. The owner isn’t running the air so it’s not surprising.”
“Exactly. It should be cooler in the stairwell and it’s at least ten degrees warmer in here.” Her tone is snotty. She walks past me to climb the stairs before waiting at the door for me to open it for her. I shake my head silently as I reach the platform she’s standing on. I reach for the door to escort her highness in, but it won’t open. The door leads straight to the room where the victims lost their lives.
I groan, mostly to myself, unfortunately, she heard me. “What’s the problem?”
“The door’s stuck,” I pull on it again knowing there’s no lock and wonder what the building has in store for me today. The lights start to flicker in the stair well as dusk falls in the sky.
Pushing me aside, she tugs on the handle with the same result. “Seriously? The door is stuck?”
“Apparently so,” I lean back against the wall and give her a smartass, eat shit grin. She turns on her fancy heels, trotting back down the stairs.
“We can just take the elevator. Come on. I don’t have time for this. I have things to do. I didn’t want to come see this rat trap to begin with.” I don’t move other than to tilt my head back against the wall. “Are you coming?” She says as she pulls on the handle at the bottom of the stairs. “Is this some sort of joke?” She snarls at me like I’ve intentionally locked us in a dark stairwell. This princess is about to have a total meltdown.
“No joke. Just relax and give it a few minutes. The doors will open.” I say nonchalantly like this is an every day occurrence, but the fact is this is normal for this place.
“What the hell are you talking about? Open the fucking doors.” She yells at me, her voice echoing off the walls.
“I don’t have anything to do with the doors, sweetheart. You’re just going to have to chill out.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m stuck in a stairwell with some rank stranger and you want me to chill out?” She pulls out her phone I assume in an effort to call someone to come get her. I wait for the realization to hit her that her phone won’t work. She looks down at her phone, then to me, her face screams anger but her eyes look scared.
The lights flick off, causing her to squeal, but instantly come back on. Under the steady hum of the fixture above, I open the door, gesturing in a motion to invite her in. Stomping up the stairs and onto the second floor in a huff, she stops as soon as she’s in the room. The view from the second floor is magnificent. With the high ceilings, the second floor is almost above the tree line. The city sits on a downward slope offering a quite tranquil scene. Surrounded again by floor-to-ceiling windows, it’s easy to get swept into the surroundings. Other than the view, it’s a carbon copy of the first floor, as is the third. If she thinks what she sees here is impressive, one floor up is like a penthouse where you can see for miles, well beyond the city to the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The angry stomp of her steps has subsided to a dull roar that echoes with each step she takes. I stand still watching her walk the length of the floor wondering how she got roped into being here; what the interest in the building is. I don’t ask. When she reaches the far side of the room, she puts her hand on the brick wall, dragging her fingers down the stones until she is directly in front of the windows. She stands there in thought, “You might want to step back from the window,” I warn.
“What? Are you my keeper now?” I wonder if her father spanked her when she was little. I’m doubting so, my guess is she’s never been told no, by anyone.
I put my hands up in a surrendering motion, “Just trying to warn you.”
“It’s not like I’m going to fall out of the window, Sa-sha.” She breaks my name into two long syllables accentuating the second. I roll my eyes as she turns back to the window.
“Would you like to
go up to the third floor?” I need this to end quickly. This woman is a brat. The sooner I can get rid of her, the better off I’ll be. This is a total waste of my fucking time.
Walking back toward me, I see the hesitation in her eyes. She’s afraid to go back in the stairwell. “Don’t worry, it’s never the same thing twice.” Ignoring my comment we both walk up to the third floor, uneventfully.
She goes directly to the window in an effort to demonstrate her defiance. Like I would give a shit if whatever haunts this place were to blow the window out, taking her with it. I stand back allowing her to move around, taking in what she wants. She spends a lot of time looking at the ceilings and the walls, which I find odd, but keep my mouth shut.
Finding the elevator, she presses the down button, “Are you coming?” she snaps. What I wouldn’t give to be able to snatch her up and tell her what a horrendous horse’s ass she is, and that any ounce of outer beauty she possesses is lost the moment she opens her damn mouth, but I remain silent thinking“I’ll be rid of her as soon as we hit the parking lot.”
Chapter Three
I let out the breath I was holding as the heavy steel doors close. I press the button to take us to the ground floor counting every second that ticks by before I can be free from this wench. Everything about her irritates the shit out of me: the way she walks, the way she holds her head, her voice, the things she says, the noise her fucking shoes make on the concrete. Every. Damn. Thing.
The car comes lurching to a halt tossing me against the wall. I brace myself on the handrail to keep from falling then realize my client hadn’t been so lucky. Spread out on her ass, her skirt had ridden up her legs in the fall and she is holding her ankle. That’s what she gets for wearing those stupid ass shoes to look at a damn mill. Extending my hand to help her up, she backhands my arm, “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.” Ahh, the wounded pride of a woman shining through.
Caged Page 1
