Creature of Habit (Creature of Habit #1)

by Angel Lawson

  "You know, I couldn't help but think about what The Boy Wonder would look like in a cape?" he asked.

  I grinned mischievously. "I already have. And he's hot."

  I turned back to my dresser and began rummaging through my clothes, looking for something to wear that would cover all my wounds. The injuries were a horrible reminder that Sasha was still on the loose, and I shuddered at the thought of her finding me. I really was lucky Mr. Palmer had found me in time. The alternative was too disturbing to think about. Superman or Boy Wonder, I wasn't sure, but last night, in the dark alley, he was definitely my guardian angel.

  ~*~

  I walked up the steps, standing under the protective covering near the office door, nervously deciding if I should do this. ’This’ involved me going back to work, sucking up my pride, ignoring my instincts to turn around and walk away forever. I’d left my key with my resignation letter when I walked out on Friday so someone had to let me in. I pressed my finger to the buzzer and shockingly, Grant Palmer opened the door. I figured he would’ve found that robot already.

  He stood in the doorway, hair in disarray, wearing a gray V-neck sweater and his standard crisp black pants. His violet eyes looked brighter than before and his complexion had a healthier hue. He had the appearance of a man who had a refreshing, well-rested weekend.

  At least one of us had.

  I knew I was staring, mouth agape, partially from the shock of seeing him in the doorway, partly from his overwhelming hotness. Gray was definitely his color. Okay, anything was his color but gray took things to another level. I tried to close my mouth and appear nonchalant, like my appearance today had been expected.

  Mr. Palmer widened the door and gestured me inside. "Good morning, Ms. Chase. Please come in."

  "Thank you," I responded, relieved that he was welcoming and hadn't changed his mind about asking me back to work.

  I shrugged out of my raincoat and hung it on the rack in the foyer. Mr. Palmer disappeared around the corner so I walked back to my desk as though everything was normal, as though I hadn't walked out of here in his dirty, ruined shirt, leaving my resignation letter on the desk in a fit of self-justification.

  The desk was clear, the letter gone, yet my key was sitting on top, next to the credit card and phone I'd left on Friday, along with a new list of daily instructions.

  I felt rather than heard him standing in the doorway. I peeked at him from the corner of my eye. He awkwardly leaned against the door frame, legs crossed at the ankle, hands shoved in his pockets. He appeared causal, informal, yet his posture was stiff and forced. Mr. Palmer looked like the type of person who dined at the Ritz but at the moment forced himself to stay at the Days Inn, like he was uncomfortable in his own skin. I got the feeling he would rather be anywhere else than right here.

  I didn't blame him. The situation over the weekend was probably disturbing to him and possibly made him question my ability to make good judgments. What kind of girl gets herself into that kind of trouble? I prided myself on making good, strong decisions. He probably thought I was an idiot for wandering off with a strange person like Sasha anyway. The more I thought about it the more irritated with myself I became. For Christ’s sake, there was a serial-animal-attack-killer out there.

  His eyes were still on me, waiting for me to turn and acknowledge him, but I pretended I didn't notice and sat at the desk, reviewing my duties for the day.

  "Ms. Chase," he said quietly.

  I turned slightly, acting surprised at his presence. "Oh, Mr. Palmer. Can I help you with something? I was about to tackle this list." When I faced him, he was standing in the exact same pose as before. He hadn't moved a muscle.

  "Yes. Well, I noticed you parked on the street. And after Friday evening, I wondered if you would prefer to park in my garage." Was that a hint of concern in his eyes? If I had to guess I would say that it was and I had no idea how to handle such a completely unexpected gesture. I thought for a moment of my dingy little car, mingling with the beautiful machines Mr. Palmer possessed. I wasn't comfortable with this idea at all.

  I smiled appreciatively, "Thank you for the offer. It's really thoughtful, but that's okay. I don't think anyone will bother my car. It's a total hunk of junk."

  His eyes clouded and he opened his mouth slightly. I waited expectantly for him to speak but the words appeared stuck in his throat.

  Oh no. I'd offended him. He reached out to me and offered me something of his to make me more comfortable and I shot him down. I felt the heat rush up my face as I, once again, managed to screw things up with my boss.

  I managed to keep the polite smile on my face the entire time and finally, he grunted, "It's not your car I'm worried about, Ms. Chase." He turned abruptly on his heel. Astonished, I listened to his feet rapidly ascend the stairs, and the sound of a door clicking sharply.

  He was worried about me.

  I was definitely surprised and admittedly more than a little flattered. I sat for a moment, considering what to do. He was right. It was safer for me to park in the garage, away from the busy street. Away from unstable, creepy-eyed women and their morbid fantasies.

  I decided to take him up on his offer and move my car but I wasn't sure how to go about approaching Mr. Palmer in his home. In the past, he had always just appeared at some point. I had never sought him out.

  I wasn't exactly sure of the protocol. Do I simply go upstairs and knock? Should I call him on his cell phone? Do I leave him a note and run my errands and hope he notices it while I'm gone? I groaned. Why was I waffling over such a simple matter? Everything about this man was complicated. His work, his antiques, his closet, his socks, and now parking—or rather, communication. With a resigned sigh, I decided to take the bull by the horns and just go up there and knock on his door.

  I tentatively climbed the steps and reasoned that he was already annoyed with me so it would make no difference anyway. This would either be the right thing to do or one more notch on my not-so-stellar career with Mr. Grant Palmer.

  At the landing, I hesitated, deciding which door to use. The one from the wardrobe? Or the one from the hallway that entered his private rooms?

  Again I chided myself for over-thinking such a minor detail. It was utterly ridiculous.

  I clenched my fists and walked with determination through the dressing room and went directly to the door on the opposite side of the room. I lifted my hand up and rapped forcefully, hoping he would hear me.

  I waited a moment, holding my breath and counting the seconds, pondering what to do if he didn't respond. Should I knock again or should I just turn around and leave? Ridiculous.

  Fifteen…twenty…twenty-five…my face was undoubtedly turning red due to lack of oxygen. I was going to have to make a decision.

  I raised my arm again, knuckles clenched to knock, but without warning the door swung open and I found myself face to face, or rather, face to chest with Mr. Palmer.

  I dropped my hand to my side and peered up to see the expression on his face. He didn't seem too annoyed or angry so using my most convincing voice, I said, "That was very thoughtful to offer me a spot in your garage and you're right, it is safer." I gave him the smile I used on the barista when I want extra whipped cream. "Does the offer still stand?"

  After a tense moment of scrutiny under his swirling violet eyes, he nodded and dipped his fingers into his pocket and extracted out a small black square.

  "Let me show you how to work this." Again, faster than I could respond, he was gone, back down the stairs, leaving me to follow in his wake. I raced after him to keep up, but only managed to slam my arm against the bannister. A sharp flash of pain traveled up my injured arm.

  "Ugh," I muttered, and rubbed my wrist. It was still sore and tender from Friday night. I had worn a long-sleeved shirt hoping to hide it from view. I glanced up and Mr. Palmer stood in front of me. How did he get back up here so fast?

  “Did something happen?” He looked at my fingers rubbing the red flesh with distaste, his
jaw locked and stiff. In that moment, standing in the hallway, at the bottom of his steps, tired of his judgmental glances, and cold, gruff attitude, I snapped.

  "Mr. Palmer," I said, pulling his attention away from my arm and back to my face. "If I'm going to continue working here, there are a few things we need to discuss.”

  His brow furrowed in concentration as though I was speaking a foreign language but he quietly said, "Proceed."

  “The tension between us? It has to stop. I am an educated, smart, hard-working woman. I'm not sure how old you are Mr. Palmer, but I highly doubt it is much older than me. I will be respectful to you but I will not be treated as though I am less than you," I announced with conviction although even I could hear the shake in my voice.

  He lifted an eyebrow this time and I watched incredulously as his posture relaxed, and he leaned lightly against the wall. I knew my face was red and my eyes were burning, tears betraying my anger. I sucked them back in and heard him say, "Please continue," in an encouraging tone.

  Oh shit. I was starting to panic a little at his change in demeanor. There was no way this was going to end well. Resolved in my self-destruction, I figured I may as well put the final nail in my coffin.

  "Well," I heard my voice crack so I cleared my throat and began again, "If you want me to do something, I will. If you want me to clean your gutters or wash your windows, that's fine. If you want me to sort your ties alphabetically, by color, brand, and location of purchase," I rolled my eyes before continuing, "I will do it. But you give me the common courtesy of a day’s notice so I can be prepared. And from now on, I expect you to say please and thank you when applicable. If there is one thing I'm not, it's your doormat. And if you can't handle these simple requests then I will gladly pack my things, again, and go."

  Finished with my tirade, I now just wanted to disappear. I glanced nervously for an escape. All I had to do was grab my purse and coat on the way out the door.

  Or not.

  Mr. Palmer was still watching me intently but now a slight smile played on his lips. I was entranced by their deep red tint, curving upward, taunting me with their perfection. "And if I do these things you'll stay?"

  I lifted my eyes from his mouth, and stuttered, "Wha...what?”

  The amusement lit his eyes. "If I submit to your requests, you'll stay."

  "Yes. I will stay."

  "Good. Ms. Chase, will you please come with me to the garage so I can so you how to work the garage opener? It is a bit different from a normal system, since it’s linked to the security system."

  I nodded and was shocked at the change in tone. It was still formal but he did say 'please' and he asked nicely. He gestured for me to walk ahead of him so I took the lead, adjusting my ponytail as I passed him and walked toward the back door.

  ~*~

  On my way back to Mr. Palmer's from the post office I stopped at the little coffee shop I had begun frequenting on my lunch breaks. I maneuvered my car through the crowded street looking for a place to park near the building. I typically preferred to walk to the business district, since it was so close to Mr. Palmer's home, but I wasn't comfortable since the attack.

  Things were better at work but still not perfect. Mr. Palmer had stayed true to his word and adjusted his attitude. His treatment toward me was slowly improving. I was showered in ’please’ and ’thank you’, offered compliments on my work and given nothing excessively outrageous to perform.

  The problem was not his effort to treat me with more respect, the problem was him.

  The man truly puzzled me. He was physically so beautiful and graceful. Yesterday I found myself mesmerized by his elegant hands as he pulled a record out of its sleeve, gently cradling the edges of the black disk, careful to never touch the grooves on the surface. I watched as he held it close to his face and inhaled the distinct odor of vinyl. A small smile of contentment crossed his lips.

  Yet, when I asked him what song was playing or more about the musician, his body stiffened for a moment and the natural grin on his face was replaced by a more superficial one. He answered politely, but robotically, before he hastily retreated from the room.

  He was just so freaking weird.

  I found a parking space on the street and walked to the coffee shop. I paused for a moment at the door, noticing a sign plastered in the window. It was a photo of a girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, dark hair, happy blue eyes and a huge smile. She was wearing a gold cross pendant on her neck that hung in the middle of her chest. Over her picture were the words MISSING-HAVE YOU SEEN ME? I felt my stomach turn and I saw a flash of Sasha’s wicked face flitter across my eyes. I saw at the bottom it said the missing girl’s name was Jenna.

  I shook my head, pulled the door open and walked to the counter.

  "Hi." I smiled. "I would like some tea…preferably something calming?" A wave of nausea passed over me and I forced the image of the girl on the poster out of my head.

  "We have a really nice Chamomile, would you like that?"

  “Sounds perfect,” I said, and waited while she prepared my order, drumming my fingers on the counter. "What do you know about that sign in the window? The missing girl?"

  "Her mother came by and put that in the window. Apparently she went missing one night when she was out with some friends at the movies. She left her seat to go get something from the concession stand and never returned. The police think she ran away but her mother is convinced something happened to her."

  "That's really sad. I hope they find her."

  The girl nodded and pushed my cup of tea across the counter. "Did you recently move around here or something? I've noticed you coming in fairly often."

  "No, I don't live around here, but I took a job in the area a couple of weeks ago."

  "Oh really? Where?" she asked as she rang up my purchase on the cash register.

  "I'm working for Mr. Palmer as his personal assistant. I don't know if you know him. He doesn't go out much." I explained and took a sip of my drink.

  "Grant Palmer? Sex hair? Jaw that could cut glass? Wickedly aloof? Man who makes my uterus ache at the sight of him?" she laughed. "That Grant Palmer?"

  She nailed it, although I wasn't sure about the uterus part. "So you do know him."

  "He comes in a couple of times a week, orders the same thing, smiles at me, and heads to his favorite table outside. I've dropped hints a couple of times trying to let him know I was available, but," she sighed wistfully, "he doesn't seem interested."

  I was shocked. I looked at the girl in front of me. She was pretty, with long black hair, smooth brown skin, and legs you could climb. Her eyes were a gorgeous blue and she had a stunning birth mark on her cheek that looked like a tiny bird. If we were in LA or New York I would think she was an actress or model. "Really? He is a little socially awkward, maybe he didn't notice you were flirting."

  "No, I was more than obvious. He is definitely not into me.”

  “I wouldn’t take it personally, he’s not the most sociable person.”

  “Not to sound egotistical, but I've come up with another theory," she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

  "Oh really?" I said, conspiratorially. “What kind of theory.”

  She laughed again and leaned forward as if telling me a secret. "It's quite simple. Any man that good-looking, that rich, and that single who can resist this," and she pointed to her chest, snugly wrapped in a tight black t-shirt with the name of the shop across her ample boobs, "is playing for the other team."

  "You think he's gay?" I asked, incredulously.

  She nodded confidently back, a smirk on her face.

  I had a distinct memory of Mr. Palmer, holding a trash can full of broken furniture, with the tall gorgeous blond behind him on the stairs coming down from his private rooms. I could almost envision the two of them behind closed doors, standing close together, reveling in one another's tall, muscular beauty. I swallowed hard at the thought.

  It made perfect sense.

  All of his odd
behaviors and quirks could be explained by this simple fact. He had a huge secret he was keeping and this could make anyone tense and stressed. Add a high profile life to the scenario and it made things even more complicated. No wonder he seemed lonely. And angry. I felt angry for him. No one should have to hide their true nature.

  “Fucking establishment,” I said. “I can’t imagine what would happen if people found out he’s gay. I mean, we’re in the Bible belt and everything.”

  “You have no idea,” she said. “The town I come from? He’d be tarred and feathered.”

  “People are jerks.”

  I paid for my tea and gave her a final wave, heading back to work with a completely different outlook.

  Chapter 24

  Grant

  "Yes Olivia. She's fine."

  Olivia. She had called me twice a day for the last week, harassing me about Amelia, but with no solid details of her own to share.

  “Is she there?” she asked. “If she isn’t there you can’t be sure.”

  "No, I can't see her at this very moment, but it is sunny and hot outside so I thought it was a safe day to send her to the post office without fear of another attack." I clenched my hand in my hair, trying to remain calm. The phone call was exactly the reason I didn't live at home any longer. I needed my space and people out of my head and my future. I decided to be proactive. "Have you had another vision? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

  “No. I haven’t,” she admitted.

  “Olivia,” I said, pondering something that had been bothering me since the meeting with the coven. “What does Miles really think about Ms. Chase?

  “Have you not discussed it?”

  “No,” I said.

  “That’s unlike you. Normally you two have gone over everything a dozen times.” From literature to religion to medical practices, Miles and I tended to have extended conversations on everything. Olivia was right, I’d been avoiding the subject of Amelia.

  “Well, what do you think he’s thinking?” I asked.