Seducing Abby Rhodes

by J. D. Mason

  She looked as if she were going to ask him to leave, and leaving was the last thing he wanted to do.

  “I’ve been driving for more than two hours, all the way from Dallas,” he said quickly. “If nothing else, I’d just like to look around.”

  He wasn’t asking, because Jordan wasn’t accustomed to asking for permission to do anything, but it was as close as he could bring himself to begging.

  Another woman appeared at the door. She was lovely, too. Taller, full figured, lighter skin, with breathtaking light brown eyes and long hair. The woman outside glanced uneasily over her shoulder at her friend, who ignored her in silent protest. “Might as well come on in,” the one inside the door said, smiling at him.

  Jordan trailed behind the darker woman as she followed her friend inside. As soon as he stepped into the living room, a wave of nausea hit him like a fist to the gut. Jordan resisted the urge to show how uncomfortable he actually was. He swallowed. How in the world could a larger-than-life man like Julian Gatewood ever fit inside a place so small? Jordan was six three, and if he’d been a few inches taller, his head would’ve scraped the ceiling. The whole house had a claustrophobic feel, stifling and dark. The entire living room wasn’t much bigger than the shower in his penthouse.

  He turned in a slow circle, examining dated wallpaper, broken windows, stained carpet, and yellowed, peeling linoleum floors in the kitchen just off to the side. Jordan stopped when he faced the woman who’d met him outside and again caught her gaze and held it for a few moments before she managed to peel hers away from him.

  “It’s not much to look at now,” the woman with the braids offered. “But Abby here could build a house from the ground up with a nail file and some rubber bands.” She laughed.

  Abby. The other woman’s name was Abby. And she built houses. Interesting.

  He continued surveying the space, recalling an old memory that he’d forgotten he’d had of a photo, a crime scene photo he’d seen of Julian lying facedown on brown carpet. Jordan focused to get his bearings until he’d pinpointed the location on the living room floor where Julian’s body lay. Jordan stared at it, realizing that in that spot where his father lay dying was precisely the moment when the baton of their lives exchanged hands between Julian and Jordan. He looked up at the narrow hallway leading to the rest of the house. Floors creaked with every step he took down the narrow corridor, and he stopped briefly at what was probably a bedroom. Across from that was a bathroom. Jordan walked the rest of the way to the end of the hallway and pushed open the door.

  “Did you close that door?” he heard one of the women whisper.

  “No. I thought you did.”

  This room was slightly larger than the other one that he’d just passed down the hall. Instinctively, he knew that Julian had slept in this room with Ida. Jordan doubted that it could fit anything bigger than a full-size bed in here, which again left him wondering how his father could’ve been remotely comfortable in this house. Jordan was just about to turn away when a piercing and dizzying pain shot through his temple.

  Don’t. A woman’s voice. He glanced back at the two women, standing there, staring at him. Stop. A woman was speaking. At least he thought …

  Jordan faced the bedroom again.

  The hairs on his forearms stood up. Jordan didn’t understand. He didn’t like this feeling. Jordan looked down the hallway at the two women huddled together, talking to each other, and for a moment, he felt a sense of familiarity, like he’d been here before or he’d seen this before. A foreboding feeling washed over him. All of a sudden, he felt uncomfortable being here, and it was time for him to leave.

  You Will See

  “WHY IN THE WORLD DID you invite him inside?” Abby whispered to Marlowe as that Tunson guy walked through her house.

  “Better to face your destiny than run from it,” Marlowe said, sounding crazy.

  “What?”

  “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Marlowe gazed admiringly at him.

  There was no word for what he was. He towered at least a foot over Abby, who stood five two.

  “Yeah, well … beautiful or not, I think he’s possessed by one of these ghosts.” Abby folded her arms across her chest and shuddered as he stopped at the smaller of the two bedrooms and stared into it.

  “Why would you think that?” Marlowe asked.

  “Shouldn’t you be the one telling me that?” Abby shot back indignantly. “You’re the psychic.”

  “The spirits here are all kinds of happy, Abby.” Marlowe’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning.

  “Why?” Abby whispered back.

  Marlowe shrugged. “Don’t know, but he’s welcome here, too. Maybe even more than you are.”

  Abby thought about that for a minute, watching him stop and study the other two rooms. She doubted seriously that he’d wanted to buy this place. It just didn’t seem like someone like him would be interested in a house like this, unless he was a flipper, which could’ve been the case, but he didn’t look like the type.

  Physically, there was absolutely nothing wrong with the man. He was the inspiration behind the words tall, dark, and handsome. He was a lot lighter than Abby, but he was a brooding kind of handsome, like if you told him that he was good looking, he’d probably just look at you like he already knew that. His shoulders were so wide that he had to turn sort of sideways to walk down the hall to keep them from rubbing up against the walls. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, though. His eyes were so dark that they looked black, and piercing, too piercing. He stared too hard at her, like he was looking for something.

  If these ghosts liked him better than her, then Abby needed to consider her options. She leaned in close to Marlowe. “Maybe I should see if he wants to buy it from me,” she suggested.

  Marlowe immediately shook her head. “Not going to help.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Abby was starting to panic.

  “I don’t even know,” was all Marlowe would say about it.

  Abby had been feeling sick to her stomach ever since he’d walked into the place. Then all of a sudden, her head started pounding as soon as he turned around and looked at her.

  “He needs to go,” she muttered to Marlowe.

  “You gonna tell him?” Marlowe asked, smirking.

  Abby rolled her eyes and shook her head. Why’d he have to look like that? And why’d she have to like looking at him so much that it embarrassed the hell out of her? It had to have been those ghosts. Marlowe had said that there was male and female energy in this house, and since Abby and Jordan Tunson were welcome, she could only surmise that somehow those ghosts were using both of them to maybe manifest themselves. That had to be it.

  He sauntered, not walked, but sauntered back down the hall toward them. Every smooth step he took mesmerized Abby. Her knees weakened and palms started sweating. When he stopped and stared at her again, she licked her lips, but didn’t realize that she was doing it until it was too late, and she caught the expression of amusement on his face. Abby looked away.

  “Thank you for indulging me,” he said graciously, more at her than at Marlowe, even though Marlowe had been the one who’d invited him inside.

  Who talked like that? He was big city all over.

  Abby cleared her throat, shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and nodded. “Sure,” she forced herself to say. “No problem.”

  This house was too damn small, forcing him to stand too close. She could feel him, smell him, and he smelled so good.

  He just stood there. Leave already! she wanted to tell him. “In case you’re interested, there’s an old farmhouse for sale off Paris Road,” she offered for some asinine reason, daring to make eye contact. “It’s, um, been on the market for a while. Got about twenty acres. Needs work, though. More than this.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll have to consider taking a look at it.”

  His voice was deep, resonating, seeping through her pores down to the nuclei of her bl
ood cells. She hadn’t even noticed the beard before. How’d she miss that? It was cut close, but it was a beard all right, framing some nice lips, hugging a strong, square jaw. How’d she miss all that? And he looked expensive. Casual, but like he’d never set foot inside of Target.

  Abby looked around expecting to see Marlowe and to have her say something to rescue Abby from this awkward experience, only to find that the woman was standing outside on the porch. Abby rushed out to her.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Why’d you leave?”

  Of course, he was right on her heels. “Thank you again, ladies.”

  Abby stepped aside to let him pass.

  “It was no problem,” Marlowe offered, nudging Abby in the arm with her elbow. “Was it, Abby?”

  “Not at all,” she awkwardly responded, “and you’re welcome.”

  “Have a good afternoon,” he said, finally leaving.

  Abby took a much-needed deep breath as she and Marlowe watched him climb his big, handsome self into that old pickup truck, start the engine, and finally drive away.

  “What was that?” Abby hastily asked, turning to Marlowe. “What just happened?”

  “How should I know?” Marlowe said, frowning.

  “You’re the psychic.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you that’s not what I am, Abby?” Marlowe argued.

  “You said that this house exhaled when he came here. What’d you mean by that?”

  “I said the spirits in this house exhaled. It seemed like they felt at ease when he walked in.”

  “Why’d he make them feel like that?” Abby was nearly hysterical.

  “Look, it was a feeling, Abby. I can’t explain it any other way.”

  “Did you feel what I felt?”

  “What’d you feel?”

  Abby froze. How could she put into words what she felt when she didn’t even know?

  Marlowe must’ve seen the confusion on Abby’s face. “What do you think you felt?”

  She searched inside herself for answers. “Weird.” It was the first word to come to mind.

  Marlowe waited. “In a bad way?”

  Abby nodded, and then she shrugged. “I guess. I didn’t like the way he looked at me,” she hurriedly added.

  “And how’d he look at you?”

  She thought for a moment. “Hard. Too hard. And too intense.”

  Obviously, from the look on her face, Marlowe didn’t get it.

  “I think he was possessed,” Abby continued. “Can that happen like that? Can a person walk into a haunted house and get possessed as soon as he does?”

  “I don’t know, Abby. He didn’t seem possessed to me.”

  “How would you know, though?” Abby challenged.

  “How’d you know?”

  “I don’t. I’m just guessing.”

  “Because he looked at you too hard and too intense?” Her sarcasm wasn’t wasted on Abby.

  Abby paused and thought about it. “Yes.”

  “He smelled good.”

  Abby shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Great body.”

  “It was, but none of that matters if he was possessed.”

  “I see,” Marlowe said introspectively.

  “Do you think he’ll be back? I mean, you said this house wanted him. Do you think it’s enough to compel him to come back to it?”

  “Didn’t it compel you?” she asked. “You said you bought it because you were drawn to it.”

  She shook her head. “Nah.”

  How many times had Abby driven past this place through the years? How many times had she imagined how she’d renovate it if she had the chance? She’d stood out in the front yard numerous times, staring at it, feeling like she belonged in it, and every time she’d walked away from it, she’d missed it.

  “Nah, that wasn’t it,” she lied. “Not really compelled. It was a business decision.”

  Marlowe gave her the side eye, curled her lips, and nodded her head. “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

  Abby sighed. “That’s it. And yes.”

  Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.

  —Joan Crawford

  Every Story Has Its Scars

  FIGHTING WAS WHAT HE DID. Being a fighter was what he was. A black man with balls big enough to jump into a white man’s game, and they hated him for it. But he was a fighter. Dammit to hell to anybody who tried to tell him what he could or couldn’t be, what he could or couldn’t have.

  How long had he been marching? That cold, slate-gray sky pressed down on him the same way it always did. The road under his feet, muddied and thick, tried to pull him under like quicksand, but he wasn’t having it. He’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, which sometimes happened, but never enough to derail him for good. Nah. Up ahead. There it was. Home. Small and unimpressive on the outside, but inside was his life. He kept coming back only to find it empty, but it didn’t matter. Everything he needed was inside that place. His next breath was inside that tiny house, and he’d keep on coming back until he caught it.

  All he could ever remember was reaching for the handle on the door, but he could never recall pushing it open. He just appeared, like magic inside that house. Everything about it was familiar, but the contradiction that this was his first time here was never far away from his thoughts. Those damn voices floated around him like clouds, distracting voices and shadows that brushed past him like smoke frustrated him.

  Don’t turn away, he ordered himself, staring down the narrow hallway to the open doorway at the end of it. That’s where she’d be, waiting for him. But if he moved too soon, he’d lose her. If he blinked, she’d disappear as quickly as she’d appeared.

  “… something ain’t finished here.”

  “Hush!” he said to those voices. “Shut the hell up!”

  He took a step toward the hallway. An anxious feeling ballooned in his gut. What if she … what if she didn’t come back? What if she was gone for good this time?

  “I’m here, baby,” he called out. “Ida?”

  The dark-skinned beauty slowly emerged from the back room and stood just inside the doorway. She hadn’t left him. His love was still here.

  “I-I’m home, baby,” he said, filled with so much relief at finally seeing her. “I’m here.”

  She greeted him with a soft smile, and that was everything. He sighed and took a pensive step toward her. He had to be careful, so careful, because the space between them was fragile, weak. He didn’t know how else to explain it, but Ida was like a dream that he never wanted to wake up from, but if he stirred too much, if he moved the wrong way, she’d fade away.

  He held out his hand to her. “Meet me halfway, Ida,” he said, taking slow steps down the hallway. “Just halfway. Please.”

  Her smile began to fade, and tears filled her dramatic, dark eyes. “She knows ’bout me.” She nodded. “You can’t be selfish.”

  Who knew? She was his secret. Who could possibly know that she was here? His wife?

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, she doesn’t know.”

  Some things were sacred. Ida was sacred. This house was sacred. The man he was when he came here was sacred.

  “No, she doesn’t know, Ida.”

  “Buried deep.”

  He shook his head in confusion. What she was saying wasn’t making any sense.

  “You can’t be selfish.”

  Ida slowly began backing up into the darkness.

  “No, baby!” he yelled, hurrying to her. “Don’t go! Don’t leave me, Ida.”

  But by the time he got to the doorway, she was gone, and he was a broken man all over again. He dropped to his knees, lowered his head, and gave in to the emptiness in the hollow of his heart.

  Selfish. She’d called him selfish. And she was right. He was the most selfish man that ever was, selfish for wanting her when he was married to another. Selfish for wanting to be here in
this small house with her more than anyplace else in the world. He’d always been a fighter, and until now, he’d always won. He’d prided himself on his determination and drive. So many doors had been closed in his face, but he’d always find a new way in or build his own door. He’d never wanted anything the way he’d wanted her, though. Desire had driven him back here, time and time again, but it had come at a cost.

  “I’d just like to look around.”

  He raised his head to see who was speaking. Familiar. A man’s voice that sounded familiar, reminiscent of his own. He looked down the hallway into the living room, shrouded with darkness. Heavy footsteps resonated as they came closer, and for a moment, he was scared. And then there was nothing. No more voices. No footsteps, but something else lingered, alighting on him like a mist. He couldn’t name it, but somehow he knew that circumstances had changed. The spirit of renewed determination revitalized him, and he stood up.

  She wasn’t gone from this house or from him. This was their home together, and it always would be if he had anything to say about it. Ida needed to accept that, and she needed to come to him. She needed to cling to him. To be close. Close.

  Finally Seen the Light

  A GUN FIRED. And then it fired again. He sank to his knees and then lowered his hands to the floor, gasping for breath. He struggled to raise his head and, for a moment, looked into her eyes.

  “Jordaaaan!” Olivia cried out, reaching for him. “My sonnnnn!” She glanced helplessly at Edgar. “Help him!” she cried. “Do something—Edgar! Please!”

  It isn’t true that your life flashes before your eyes when you’re dying. Disbelief does. Shock. Doubt that this is really going to happen, that your life is over and that you’re powerless, completely and utterly powerless to stop death from coming. Claire, his wife. He thought of her and was reminded of the guilt he felt. Random thoughts flashed in his mind. Jordan thought about the password to his computer and about the meeting across town that he was supposed to attend in the morning. Someone needed to tell his housekeeper that there was no need to have the pool cleaned now.