by Shayne Ford
I gasp and take a step back, hitting the fridge.
“What the fuck?” I mutter.
Shaking my head, I try to stop the image of his face from flashing in front of my eyes.
I rub my temples gently, hoping to regain my focus and my calm.
Swallowing hard, I shift my gaze to the coffeemaker.
The kitchen fills with the aroma of coffee. I fill a tall mug, add a dash of cream, stir, and take a sip.
“This is much better,” I mutter to myself as the hot drink rolls down my throat.
It’s only a brief moment before my mind swings back to him, busy to recreate his enigmatic face.
Cup in hand, I shuffle across the foyer and enter my office.
I take another sip and set the cup on the table before I make the trip back, bring the vase filled with camellias to my office and lay it on my desk.
I grab my laptop from the coffee table and put it on my desk, and then I sink into my chair. My gaze flies to the window.
The morning light licks the misty glass, streaming a white-gray scenery.
My eyes move to the screen again. Reluctantly, I play that clip.
A soft hum rolls in my ears as the image fills the screen. I turn the volume up. Moans and mellow music waft through the air. The room is hardly lit, a thick shadow swallowing the light displaying in the background. They lie on a bed dressed in white sheets. The camera captures them from above and also from the side, giving me a full view of their naked bodies, but not their faces.
Mesmerized, I watch the slow movement of the man, entering her over and over again. His muscles shift beneath his skin, his backside hardening as he arches his spine and rolls his hips.
Her legs are wide open, locked around his waist, her body jolting every time he thrusts. Her hands run up and down his back as he gives her what she needs.
What she needs.
The words float in my head as my eyes soak everything in. My senses get all riled up as well.
She does a little flick of her head as he plunges deep into her, allowing me to get a glimpse of her hair. It’s dark and waving.
No. He didn’t just send me that.
I zoom in on the image, replaying the ending of the recording several times, watching it unable to draw a breath.
Although I don’t need to see it that many times.
I already know that it’s her.
His wife.
Jacqueline Rockford.
I fall back into my chair, a gasp rolling from my lips.
That means...
A knife twists slowly in my heart. My lips begin to tremble as my hands curl up into little fists.
Is that him?
Torn and questioning my doubts, I lean forward again, staring at the video closer, learning every inch of him. My mind removes her from the clip, my eyes drowning in him.
Slowly, I run a hungry gaze over his muscular back and the curvature of his backside. Propped on he muscular arms, he hovers above the woman. His muscular neck tenses as he fills her up.
I clench my jaw, my teeth grinding.
The more I see him moving, the more turned on I get, and the more frustrated I become. Jealousy poisons my blood, like a bad spill.
She seems to drown in the pleasure that he gives her while I am sucked into a dark madness.
“Fuck you,” I growl. “Fuck you!” I shout this time, slapping the lid down.
I jerk up and growl a curse again, looking around for something to snatch and sling at this elusive him.
My eyes set on the flowers and although I grab the vase and swing my arm back ready to pulverize it against the wall, the last minute thought saves them from the disaster.
I toss the vase on my desk and dash out of my office, cursing and feeling as if my heart was carved out.
2
TESS
A Week Later
“Mmm... The food is delicious,” my mom says, her gaze sweeping the dinner table.
Bright light tumbles down from the chandelier, making the cutlery and the golden-trimmed, porcelain plates sparkle. A floral centerpiece steals the show along with the white candles.
Seated at the other end of the table, Allan gives my mom a warm smile. The guests praise the food and the wine, music playing in the background.
So far, the Thanksgiving dinner party was a success.
Everybody’s here.
Maggie, Viola. Anna and Danny. Even George and his little fellow who now plays with Luna. Lisa and Fred, and two other couples have joined us for the celebration––friends and coworkers of Allan.
“Ready for the desert?” I ask, pulling out of my chair.
My words spur excitement.
Viola follows me in the kitchen.
“My, my... Things have turned out quite well,” she mutters, helping me to cut slices of pies and set them on the plates.
“Yes, they have,” I say, smiling.
“How are things with Allan?”
I toss her a side glance as I sink the knife into the pecan pie.
“So-so,” I mutter, no longer smiling.
“Well, he’s here.”
“Yes, he is.”
“What happened with the mysterious stranger?”
I flick my hand up.
“He went poof. No sign from him.”
“Perhaps he’s on a break.”
I breathe out a soft chuckle.
“A break from messing with me?”
She laughs as well.
“Mmm-hmm. Perhaps he realized that he needs to take care of his wife.”
Her lips purse.
“Oh, his wife... I forgot about her,” I say, a dash of sarcasm flashing in my voice.
She ponders for a moment.
“I’m sure he can take care of both of you,” she says jokingly.
I shake my head, grinning.
“Sorry. Not my style. He can take care of her as much as he wants as long as he doesn’t bother me.”
I set the plates on the table and start cutting the apple pie.
“He fucked with me big time,” I say, voicing a pestering thought.
“What makes you say that?”
I flip my gaze up and connect eyes with her, but the flow of information has to stop right here.
I can’t tell her about the video clips, the online messages and the turmoil he spurred in me.
“Everything,” I eventually answer. “The fact that he kept showing up until he got me interested in him, and then he pulled away from me.”
“Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe he can’t talk to you?” she asks as she slides a slice of blueberry pie on a plate.
I straighten my back and still for a few moments.
“Many times. But I still don’t understand why he’s doing what he’s doing. I’ve thought about everything. Trust me. I’ve wasted so much time trying to analyze and decipher his behavior without coming to a solid conclusion, so I’m not willing to do it anymore.”
She pushes back a grin.
One faint smile tickles my lips.
“What?”
She shakes her head.
“He got you good.”
“No, he didn’t. I’m a married woman.”
“That aside...”
She pauses.
I pivot to her, a hand clasped on my hip.
I toss her a questioning look.
She ticks her chin a couple of times in a soft nod, her eyebrow arching slowly.
“Yes, he did... He got your mind in the right gear.”
“What do you mean?”
She makes a sweeping motion with her hand, pointing to my place.
“Your house is in order. Your husband, back home. You look better than ever, and from what I hear you’re at the top of your game in your line of work.”
“Okay…” I say, giving her a soft agreement.
“No more doctor’s visits.”
A smile tugs at my lips.
“That’s true, although I’m still bugged by that o
ne evening that’s still unaccounted for.”
She shifts her eyes to the pies.
“Don’t worry. It will come back to you. If not, so be it. Perhaps it wasn’t that important, to begin with.”
“Hmm. I hope so.”
She gives one last glance to the plates, making sure the slices are equal in size, and then looks at me.
“I mean, really... What could’ve happened that night? The neighbor you ran into said that you were on foot coming from downtown. Where could you have been?”
I shrug.
“I don’t know.”
“Eating out? Shopping?”
“I have no credit card charges that night. I’ve already checked.”
“The art gallery perhaps?”
I ponder for a moment.
“It could be, although I have no recollection of any exhibition opening that night.”
“Maybe you were out for a stroll.”
“That’s most likely...” I say, musing over her words for a moment. “But that removes the possibility of a stress-induced event,” I say.
She looks at me, pondering as well.
“Yes. That’s true. Who knows? Maybe one day, you will get that memory back. I have a feeling that it’s not much. I keep forgetting stuff all the time, and sometimes I can’t even remember whether I had dinner or not,” she says with a lighter tone, and we both start to laugh.
“Are they ready?” my mom asks, entering the kitchen.
“Yes, they are,” I say pivoting to the table.
We take the plates to the table in the dining room and set them in front of the guests. Allan puts on different music, the atmosphere enlivening even more.
The sound of jokes, laughter, and conversations hovers over us. I’m so surprised when I hear the doorbell ringing. And baffled that no one else at the table has picked up on it.
I perk my ears up, unsure whether I’ve heard it right or not.
Slowly, I push back my chair and slide out of my seat. The clamor fades away in the background as I enter the hallway. The narrow glass stretching on either side of the door gives me a glimpse of the street.
The snow looks golden under the beam of the streetlight.
I peer through the peephole first. I see no one. Then I unlock the door and swing it open. A box with a transparent lid sits on the threshold.
I pick it up. The only splash of color on the entire street. Red sleepy camellias lie on the bed of white satin. A small card comes attached to it.
Happy Thanksgiving!
The handwriting is elegant and even. I swing my gaze up and down the street, expecting to find… nothing. Expectation met. Other than the dimly lit windows of the neighbors’ homes, nothing seems to be alive.
I take a step back and hit a human wall. The blood drains from my face as I turn around.
Allan’s gaze slants down.
“What’s that?”
I shift my eyes as well, the words coming quickly from my mouth.
“A client,” I say, lifting my gaze and looking straight into his eyes.
“Client?”
“Yes,” say flipping the card, face down.
“What’s her name?”
“Lisa Rodrigues,” I mutter, the name not entirely made up.
“There’s no name on it.”
“Yeah, I know. She told me she’d send me red camellias. We’ve had a conversation about them and how much I like them.”
I wait for a moment to see if what I just said rings true to him.
No flinch on my face. No suspicion on his.
“Okay,” he says, turning around.
“Give me a moment. I need to put them in a vase. I’ll be there in a second.”
He heads to the dining room, while I dash into the kitchen. I fill a red vase with water, unwrap the flowers, slide them in, and go straight into my office.
I place the vase on the desk and flip open my laptop. A few seconds later, I type a message.
Me: Who are you?
A few moments pass by before a voice comes from behind me.
“Hey?”
“Hey,” I say, swiveling my head and flipping the laptop closed at the same time.
Dany, Anna’s boyfriend, pops his head in.
“Work?” he asks, tipping his chin in the direction of my desk.
I smile, embarrassed.
“Yeah. A client. She sent me flowers. I was thanking her,” I say, lying with an easiness that takes me by surprise.
“I was looking for the bathroom,” he says.
“Oh, sure.”
I push out of my chair and take a few steps toward the door, erasing the space between us.
“Down the hallway, you take a left. It’s the second door on the right.”
“Thank you,” he says, spinning around.
He glances at me one last time as he takes a few steps backward.
“Oh, by the way, the pies are delicious.”
I smile.
“Thank you,” I say before he vanishes around the corner.
I take a step back and quietly close the office door. A moment later, I’m staring at the screen again.
I scroll down when I see his answer.
Random Thoughts: I am the man you belong to. You are mine.
My breath stops flowing.
My fingers can’t get to the keyboard fast enough.
Me: Stop doing this.
Angered, I shut the laptop closed, then I change my mind, flip it open, and power it off, to prevent myself from reading his words again.
I pant for a few minutes before I manage to regain my composure and walk back to the party, brimming with seething fury.
‘In a rare appearance, the heir of Rockford Enterprises, Sebastien Rockford attended the annual Christmas party hosted by Rockford Charity at the Ritz-Carlton hotel.’
I choke on my cereals.
“What?”
Eyes glued to the TV, I run my hand over my mouth.
The phone rings.
I pick it up and answer without tearing my gaze away from the screen.
“Have you seen it?” asks Anna.
Surprise floods her voice.
“Uh-huh,” I gravel.
“Is that him?”
She sounds astonished.
I’m just the same.
“Yes. That’s him.”
The image quickly shifts to a different frame as the reporter gives his account on the Christmas Party.
I replay the clip and give it a stop, freezing the image to see him better. His face makes me sink back into my chair. It also makes me want to check my pulse.
I watch him paralyzed.
His eyes harbor a mysterious smile, his lips barely curved. High cheeks and chiseled jawline give him a dangerous look. His lips could start a war. His eyes as well.
In a trance, I rise to my feet and erase the gap between the TV set and me.
“Are you still there?” Anna asks.
“Yes, I am,” I murmur, studying his face.
His eyes are deep and full of secrets, his mind seems adrift, perhaps disconnected.
“He is hot.”
“Yes, he is,” I say evenly as I take a few steps back.
I examine him one last time, carefully dragging my gaze on his white shirt, and dark tuxedo.
“He looks exactly the way I imagined him...” I mutter.
The last steps make my stumble. I land on the chair, my hand shooting to the remote control. I freeze, having a hard time to let go of him.
“Wait,” I say in my phone. “I have to take a picture of him.”
I position my cell on a straight line with the screen, hold it above my head, and press the shutter a few times.
“He’s gorgeous,” Anna says.
“Yes, he is. And the devil made his home in his head,” I mutter only half jokingly.
Frustrated, I turn the TV off.
“Are you sure it’s him?” Anna asks futilely.
“Yes. He’s the man I’ve be
en seeing around...” I mutter, and then a different thought comes to my mind.
I freeze, terrified by a different possibility.
“Actually, I’m not...” I say with a shaky voice.
I push the bowl of cereal to the side, my appetite lost.
“What makes you say that?”
“I’ve seen this man. Around my house, in the park. He left a bouquet of flowers once. Based on Rebecca’s account I assumed it was him, but she couldn’t remember his face. More flowers followed and I always thought it was him, but I have no proof actually. Even the sightings of him in the park could be nothing more than coincidence. He may live nearby, and in some weird way, I’ve always noticed him. The rest could be nothing but my imagination.”
“Do you really feel that way?”
“Yeah... There’s no way someone like him would be interested in someone like me. He’s married to a beautiful woman who’s as rich as he is. Now that I think about it, I can’t make a valid connection between him and me.”
She stays quiet. I feel the need to elaborate.
“Aside from that, I’ve been communicating with some stranger online, and all this time, I thought it was him, the man I’ve been seeing around.”
I pause for a moment.
“How can I be so stupid?” I mutter to myself. “I’m such an idiot.”
“But you don’t know for sure if what you assume right now is real either.”
“And that is the problem. I let myself tangled into this story, assuming a lot of stuff, relying on my intuition, on my sixth sense if you will. And it all could be a stupid joke, some bored nerd behind a computer screen who doesn’t have anything better to do than fuck with me.”
“Are you talking about the online man?”
“Yeah... If he is, in fact, a man.”
“Do you think a woman would play a joke on you?”
“No. What I think is that the online world is a warped version of the reality. Anyone could be anything. Anyone could say or do things that they wouldn’t do otherwise. I connected these two stories simply because of the coincidence, but this could be so wrong in fact. It wasn’t clear to me all this time, because I’ve never seen him properly. But now, that I know what he looks like and I’ve seen his beautiful wife, something else begs to be inferred from this.”
I pause and let out a long exhale.
“I can be so stupid sometimes.”
“You said you were communicating with this person online. What exactly were you two talking about?”
