Game of Fear

by Kabongo, Glede Browne

  “No freaking way,” I say, barely believing my eyes.

  He grins from ear to ear. “Anything for my girl.”

  Christian explains that Hanscom is much less of a hassle than Logan Airport for private jet travelers. Then it dawns on me. He told Callie and France about this plan. That’s what they meant when they said I wouldn’t need an airline ticket.

  “A Gulfstream?” I ask. A tall, barrel-chested man in a gray suit takes the luggage out of the trunk and into the airplane.

  “The 650. It’s faster and can fly higher than commercial jets.”

  “Your dad must really be in the holiday spirit to let you do this.”

  “He surprised me. I was going to ask, but he suggested it on his own before I had the chance.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Mary-Ann, the flight attendant, welcomes us aboard and fawns all over us. Christian chit chats with the pilot, Ron. The interior of the jet is luxurious, elegant gold and white sofas and chairs in a living room-style configuration. A table is already set up with fresh fruit and other yummy snacks. We take our seats in preparation for takeoff. Christian promises to give me the grand tour, which includes meeting rooms, a full-service kitchen, and sleeping quarters. All I want to do is curl up next to him for the duration of the one-hour flight.

  We land at Dulles, where a limousine is already waiting. Forty-five minutes later, we’re in Langley Forest, a posh neighborhood in McLean, Virginia. Each house we pass is bigger and more luxurious than the one before it. Fifteen minutes afterward, we pull up to the iron gates of an estate. A security guard in the booth opens the gate, and we drive down a long pathway toward the house.

  When the driver opens the doors for us, and we exit the car, I take in the splendor of the place—a massive, three-story, Georgian-style mansion built of intricate stonework. Large white columns run from the top of the balcony down to the front entrance. A uniformed butler appears and takes my luggage from the trunk of the car into the house.

  We enter the foyer that boasts two elegant staircases. Christian’s mom is there to greet us. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wheeler,” I say, extending my hand.

  “Call me Katherine. I want you to be comfortable during your stay with us. We’re delighted to have you.”

  There’s a glamorous yet understated air about her. With long, flowing locks the color of midnight, she’s a dead ringer for actress Catherine Zeta-Jones.

  “You both must be starving,” she adds. “I’ll let you get settled in, then you can join me for a late lunch.”

  When I arrive in the suite I’ll be occupying for the next four days, my luggage has already been unpacked and put away. The room is opulent, warm, and welcoming, in pastel blue-and-white accents, plush carpeting, matching armchairs with a table at the center, and a fireplace. I look toward the double doors leading to a balcony. I make a quick call to my mother to let her know we arrived safely, and she shouldn’t worry. There’s a knock at the door, and I answer it. Christian strolls in.

  “Do you like the room? We can change it if you don’t.”

  “It’s a great room and fine the way it is.”

  “My mom is right. You should feel at home here.”

  “I do. Your mom is much different than I expected. She’s normal. I mean that in a respectful way.”

  “You were expecting a blonde, Barbie doll, social-climbing trophy wife, weren’t you? And then when you arrived, you thought she would fly in on a broomstick, act snobbish, and bark orders at the staff.”

  “No, I wasn’t. That’s so cliché. Okay, maybe I was. A little.”

  Katherine McClellan graduated top of her class from the University of Virginia Law School and clerked for Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. According to Christian, one night at a cocktail party in Georgetown, Alan Wheeler saw her across the room, and that was that.

  “It’s okay. My dad likes smart, normal women. I inherited that trait from him,” he says, winking at me.

  He comes closer and presses his forehead against mine. “Will you let me kiss you now? You wouldn’t on the plane. I was sad all the way down here.”

  I step away from him. “Hmm. I don’t know. You don’t seem that sad to me. You’re going to have to convince me. Show me your sad face.”

  He puckers his lips and gives me a droopy-eyed look. “That’s the worst sad face ever.”

  “Okay, how about this,” he says, letting his chin drop into hands, his eyes blinking rapidly.

  “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously. I’m heading downstairs and taking my lips with me. Can’t say for sure when we’ll be back.”

  I pretend I’m about to head out the door.

  He pulls me back. “What if—?”

  “Just shut up and kiss me.”

  I wrap my arms around his neck and press into his body. He pushes me backward until I collapse on the bed with him on top of me. He moves my sweater up past my bra, and when I feel his lips on the naked skin of my stomach, I gasp with pleasure. I feel his fingers fumbling with the button on my jeans. I hear the ripping sound of a zipper being opened, and I shudder. His hands grab the waistband of my jeans, and he tugs. My brain switches gears, and the word stop is loud in my consciousness. I grab his hand and hold it still.

  We sit at the edge of the bed, our breathing now under control.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be a tease. I got swept up in the moment, and it felt—”

  “I know. Me too.”

  “Your mother is downstairs, and it wouldn’t be right.” I walk away from him, and lean against the dresser while I straighten my sweater. “I mean, I really want to, boy do I want to. It’s just that it’s a big deal to me, and I can’t take it back if—”

  “Abbie, it’s okay if you’re not sure. Don’t stress about it. Come here,” he commands.

  I walk over to the bed and sit beside him. “You don’t have to defend your decision to me,” he says, stroking my arm. “I’m fine with whatever you want. I hope I didn’t make you feel any pressure. I’m just happy to spend time with you.”

  I look at him, through narrowed eyes. “How come?”

  “How come what?”

  “How come you’re so calm and understanding about this?”

  “I know my so-called reputation freaked you out at firs. But I don’t want to ruin what we have. You actually see me, Abbie. Do you know how special that is?”

  I rest my head on his shoulder and loop my arm around his. “Yes, I know how special that is.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Alan Wheeler is anything but the stern, stuffy CEO I expected when we sit down to a steak dinner. The swanky dining room has dark wood paneling, a fireplace with expensive paintings above it, and lush Persian rugs. He’s a man with a towering presence, a wicked sense of humor, and eyes that miss nothing. His son takes after him in looks and temperament.

  “Christian tells me you want to save the world,” he says to me.

  “He exaggerates.”

  Katherine pipes up. “Don’t understate your ambition. Dedicating your life to the service of others is something to be admired and celebrated. What made you want to become a surgeon?”

  “I found an old copy of Time Magazine in my Dad’s study when I was twelve. The cover story was titled Heroes of Medicine. There was an African-American doctor on the cover. I’d never seen anything like that before. I was in awe. When I read about the incredible work some of the doctors featured in the article were doing around the world, I knew I wanted to be part of that one day.

  “Then I got to the story on Dr. Keith Black, the man on the cover. He’s a neurosurgeon and the article talked about how he would often take on the most difficult cases, cases other doctors had given up on. I was intrigued. He explained how he would sneak in while the brain was asleep and get out before it woke up. That was it for me.”

  Silence. Christian leans over and whispers in my ear, “I’m so attracted to you right now.”

  I try to keep a straight
face. I won’t look at him.

  “That deserves a toast, young lady,” Mr. Wheeler says. “If there’s anything I can do to help you achieve your goals, just say the word. And tell your father he has nothing to worry about.”

  I thank him for his generous offer and apologize for my dad, who just about threatened him. He brushes it off and says, as a parent, he understands why my dad is neurotic.

  After dinner, Christian and I watch a movie in the home theater. We spend more time trying to keep our hands off each other than watching the movie. By the time the final credits roll, we both need to be hosed down with ice water. He promises to give me a tour of the property tomorrow, which could take forever. There’s a lot to get through: ten bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, tennis court, basketball court, an Olympic-sized, indoor swimming pool, a bowling alley, a wine cellar, a ten-car garage, and a helipad on the roof, plus all the outdoor attractions of the property. I’m most excited about him showing me his art, though.

  I wake up disoriented, my breathing loud and rapid. I sit up and rub my eyes, then fumble in the dark for my cell phone on the nightstand. I turn it on and see it’s 1:43 a.m. A horrible dream woke me up. A giant clock was chasing me, just like that famous boulder scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark. The ticking got louder and louder as it gained speed. I stumbled and fell, and when the clock was about to devour me, I woke up.

  I’m determined to go back to sleep but end up entangled in the comforter from tossing around so much. Eventually, exhaustion takes over, and I fall into a deep sleep.

  The crowd erupts with loud cheering when the ball enters the net with a big swoosh. The Washington Wizards take the lead. I snack on popcorn and enjoy the action on the hardwood floor from our courtside seats. Christian grins up at me and then pulls me into a kiss. The crowd let out a collective, aww. We separate to see what the commotion is all about. We look up and see our image on every Jumbotron in the arena. I cover my face in embarrassment. Christian just laughs.

  Stillness falls over the arena. I remove my hands from my face. I gasp at the new image on the Jumbotron. Everyone stares at me and shakes their heads. They are angry, accusing. Christian gets up and walks away.

  On a 160-foot wide TV screen in high definition for the entire country to see is the photo The Avenger sent in the mail. It shows on every screen. I can’t escape it. I look for Christian, and he’s nowhere to be found. Fans leave their seats in droves. Families with children give me the death stare. The players and the court disappear. I call out for Christian, but he doesn’t answer, doesn’t come back for me, even though I tell him how sorry I am. The arena is empty now, and I’m alone. I hear mocking laughter. When I follow the direction of the sound, I see Sidney. A tree grows out of her head. She is dressed in an all-black costume, a gown with sculpted shoulders and long bell sleeves.

  “I told you hypocrites always get caught by their own lies. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. Now, everyone knows you’re a phony, and you’ve lost Christian forever. He’s not coming back, Abbie. He’s done with you and wants you to disappear.” She extends her hand. “Come with me. I can make you disappear.”

  Then she laughs and laughs, a self-satisfied triumphant laugh that goes on for eons.

  “Stop it, stop it. Please, stop.”

  I hit the floor with a thud then feel my way through the darkness toward the lamp on the nightstand. Once the room is illuminated, I climb into bed but don’t get under the covers. Instead, I turn into a blubbering mess. I reach for my cell phone to call Christian, and there’s a nasty surprise waiting for me—a text message, a photo of mom during an appearance on Wake Up America.

  BLOCKED NUMBER

  What do u think the headline should be?

  BLOCKED NUMBER

  Daughter of Cooking Network Star Busted for Drugs

  BLOCKER NUMBER

  It’s perfect, don’t u agree?

  How naïve of me to think I can control the outcome of this game before it impacts my family. I can barely handle the personal attacks, but now, she wants to involve my mother, who could be forced to resign from her job on The Cooking Network if this photo gets out. Sales of Mom’s cookbooks could tank. Her reputation could be ruined. She worked so hard to carve out this niche for herself after she gave up her career in the scientific field. This can’t be taken from her too.

  The hiccups won’t stop. If I try to go back to sleep, I’ll go out of my mind, so I text Christian.

  Minutes later, I answer the knock on the door and let him in. He’s half-asleep, his hair sticking up all over his head.

  “I keep having nightmares, and I’m afraid if I go back to sleep alone, they’ll return. Sorry, I dragged you out of bed. Having a needy girlfriend moment, yet I don’t feel bad about it.”

  “It’s okay, babe. You shouldn’t feel bad. I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

  When I open my eyes, the room is bathed in sunlight. Christian lies next to me on the bed, making adorable snoring sounds. My first thought is getting him back to his room before someone sees him leaving mine.

  I nudge him. “Christian, it’s morning. Wake up.”

  He just grunts and then rolls over. Then I hear Katherine’s voice from outside the door.

  “Abbie, are you in there?”

  I break out in a cold sweat. Mrs. Wheeler can’t find her son in my bed. There’s just no way to explain that and make it sound innocent, even if it is.

  I open the door just enough and put on my brightest smile. I didn’t even have a minute to brush my hair and look presentable.

  “Good morning. Sorry, it took me so long to answer; I’m just waking up.”

  “That’s alright, hon. Have you seen Christian?”

  “Christian?” I repeat like a parrot. “Is he missing?”

  “He’s not in his room, and he hasn’t made it downstairs yet. He has a trip planned with his father today. He needs to get ready.”

  “Have you checked his studio? Maybe he decided to paint early.”

  Her eyes light up. “Ah. You might be right. Thanks, Abbie.”

  I tickle him until he starts moving. “Christian, wake up. If you don’t, I’ll pour cold water on you.”

  “You’re a mean girlfriend,” he mumbles.

  “You love that about me. It’s the secret sauce of our relationship. You have to leave now. Your mother was here looking for you, something about a trip with your dad. If she asks, you were in your studio, painting.”

  He sits up and yawns. “The trip with my dad is off. You and I can spend all day together.”

  “Great. Now, leave before someone sees you.”

  “No good morning kiss?” he teases.

  “No time. Come on,” I say, tugging at his arm.

  “Fine. I know when I’m not wanted.” He pretends to pout.

  “I don’t want your mother to think badly of me.”

  “Impossible. She loves you.”

  “She just met me yesterday.”

  “No, she didn’t. I’ve been telling her all about you and sent her pictures.”

  “You what? Okay, we can talk about it later, but right now, she’s looking for you.”

  He drags himself off the bed and heads for the door. I’m right behind him like some overbearing, helicopter parent. When he opens the door, his mother is standing there, her hand in mid-air about to knock. Way awkward.

  “Hi, Mom,” Christian says. “Dad canceled the trip, so no worries.”

  Mrs. Wheeler has a look that confuses me. I can’t tell if she’s amused or upset, so I ramble. “Nothing happened. I was afraid of the nightmares, and Christian, he tried to help. What I mean is, he helped me fall asleep. No, that’s not right. The nightmare didn’t come back after he showed up.”

  She’s definitely not amused. I have no choice but to tell the truth.

  “I’m sorry I lied earlier. I knew it would look bad if you discovered he was in the room with me, and I didn’t want you to think badly of me.”

  “If you
say nothing happened, I’ll take your word for it.”

  “She’s telling the truth, Mom,” Christian says in my defense. “She called me at three o’clock this morning because she was having nightmares and couldn’t sleep.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Abbie,” she says, her voice softening. “I hope you’ll get a better night’s sleep tonight.”

  “Thanks for having my back,” I say to Christian after his mother leaves.

  “I was just confirming the truth.”

  His studio is neat and organized, with multiple windows to let in natural light. A vintage French chair sits against the wall. Paint brushes and paints in various types of containers rest in a large cubby. A table with a computer is at the center of the room. His work is displayed on several easels and on the walls. He stands behind me as I observe the work.

  “You like movement and energy.” I point to a painting depicting a polo match in progress, and another with men working at a construction site.

  “Life is always moving and changing. It’s one big energy flow, and I feed off that energy when I paint.”

  I’m drawn to a painting across the room on an easel in its own little space. I move closer to get a better look. A little boy, about four or five years old, chases after a dog in the park. His smiling mother takes chase, too, her black hair flapping in the wind.

  “Is this your favorite?”

  “How can you tell?” he asks, looking over my shoulders.

  “It’s you and your mother. You remember that day?”

  “Yeah. It’s one of my happiest childhood memories.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It was just me and Mom that day. No pawning me off on the nanny.”

  I turn my attention away from the painting and touch his face. “She has regrets. She thinks she won’t have a chance to rebuild her relationship with you once you leave for college. She told me so at lunch. It must be bugging her for her to say that to a stranger.”

  “She should have thought of that before.”

  “She’s thinking about it now. You could share some of your work with her. Show her that painting.”