Flash Drive

by Jacqueline DeGroot

  Curious, she took off her sweatshirt and bra, and put the cupless wonder on. Oh my. It had a purpose. It definitely did. While no part of her nipple was covered, in fact, most of both breasts were bare, there was enough material underneath to hike her up and jut her out. She helped the bra along by running her fingers around the inner edges and pulling the fleshy parts of her breasts forward through each opening. The effect was as if she had gripped each breast at her chest wall with both hands and hefted them up. Wow, what a difference. Everything was front and center, pushed together and just asking for trouble. She kind of liked it.

  She went to her closet and got out the blue paisley camisole Tessa had mentioned. She slipped it on. Gadzooks, she couldn’t wear this . . . like that! She turned this way and then that way, looking at herself in the full length-mirror. Well . . . maybe . . . hmmm. Maybe not. Hmmmm. The fabric constantly grazing her nipples shrunk them into hard, tight buds, making them clear little points, poking their way out, like tiny spotlights. While it appeared she was braless under her flimsy top, she knew that only a Barbie doll jutted out like this. Not even a twenty-year-old was perky enough to defy gravity like this—not without some silicon enhancement. She smiled and posed in front of the mirror. She couldn’t get over the difference. She looked like she could pose for Playboy. She knew she had nice breasts, just not quite this nice. Still . . .

  She pranced around the house admiring herself in every shiny surface, and enjoyed the exposed feeling the bra gave her, despite being technically covered up. She was decent except for those steely bullets out front. She walked over to the box the bra had come in and reread the note. Could she do this? Hell the worst part would be Roman. He would know. He would stare. He would smirk. He would chide her all night. She would be hot and bothered, agitated. And Garrett would get wind of it. God, Roman sure knew his way around this arousal stuff. She was already randy. She liked how she looked in this get up. She picked up the box and took it into the kitchen to throw out.

  Scrunching up the tissue she discovered something lumpy in the paper. She dug it out. It was a little cellophane package advertising 500 Polybands in bold primary colors. What the hell? She turned the small package over in her hand. On the back was a tiny post-it.

  In the event you’re not ready to poke someone’s eye out, you can use these bands around the tips to get you started. But don’t leave them on for too long, twenty-thirty minutes tops. Tess.

  P.S. I’ve got money riding on this, too. Garrett must succumb before the 4th date!

  These guys were crazy! Where did they come up with these ideas? Of course, Philip, the former porn star of the group, knew all the insider tricks. To have been a fly on the wall at their dinner tonight . . . while they were discussing her. And Garrett. And apparently her boobies.

  She looked down at her matched set. No, she had no need for the bands. At least not tonight. She threw the package in her whatnot drawer. She kept the card from Tess and threw away the box. Then she walked back to the den and hit the button to take the TV off pause. As she watched the movie, she idly stroked her pebbled tips. The problem was going to be keeping herself from wanting to do this while at the concert, sitting next to Garrett.

  She didn’t know if she should be pitting Roman and Tess against Philip and Viv in this contest involving Garrett’s willpower, especially if it caused her to lose all of hers.

  The things idle minds found to bet on.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Garrett put his professor’s hat on and answered some emails, clarified assignments for those too lazy to read the syllabus, and fended off a coed, who with her flagrant double entendres was being more than obvious. She included a picture of herself in a bikini that was no larger than two slash lines as her signature attachment.

  But this was one bailiwick he was never going to fall into, as he had always felt that parents didn’t save money for twenty years to provide him with fodder for his loins. Now . . . a master’s level student, who wasn’t one of his, or one who wasn’t on daddy’s tab, might be a whole other matter, but since going strictly online, the issue hardly ever came up anymore. That last thought caused him to chuckle. He came up plenty, just not for his desperate students.

  He responded to Miss Barely-there-bikini:

  Unfortunately, Ms. Greene, the “issue” has never come up where students are concerned. And as I am rarely able to do the deed with pictures alone, and you are 1800 miles away, I would suggest you read the material. You could use your talents to secure a tutor. But isn’t the purpose of you going to college and getting a degree, so you won’t have to rely on bartering your body and self esteem for an income?

  He reread what he’d written and decided he’d been too harsh. Then as he was in the process of deleting it, line by line, he changed his mind and hit the undo button. Nah, this wasn’t her first overture, time to flay her open a little and make her think. He wasn’t doing her any favors otherwise. If nothing else maybe he could teach her that some men appreciated a woman’s mind.

  He read several papers, correcting and editing in the Track Changes mode until midnight, then put everything away to go collapse on his bed.

  Never one to dream lightly, his body tensed and reacted to what his mind saw, and now as he drifted into a deep sleep, he saw himself climbing a ladder, getting up on a roof and installing a series of motion-detecting cameras.

  He saw himself mumbling as he worked, and defining the word stalker in his mind—someone who watches with the intent of owning, possessing, or capturing someone or their image. He hears a door open and sees Laurel come out of her house. He watches as she walks around to the side deck on her house. Now she is fifteen feet away and almost straight down from where he’s crouched. In one swift move, she takes off an oversized shirt and is suddenly topless, wearing only a tiny bikini bottom!

  She is softly tanned, her fair skin glowing golden . . . everywhere. Her perfect tight little breasts are lightly tanned too. He flattens against the roofline so as not to be seen.

  Then she’s watering the flowers on her inner patio using a Mary-Mary-Quite-Contrary watering can with painted flowers all over it. She looks cute, innocent and so sexy at the same time that he is completely bowled over, so much so that he’s worried he’s going to tumble off the roof. His erection is jutting into a ridge created by the shingles he’s resting on, and because of it, he realizes his breathing is harsh, it’s loud to his ears. He’s afraid she might hear him and look up. He bites back a groan and wills his body to be still and to stop humping the roof.

  As he watches her watering the plants, he realizes that he is a stalker, and that she’s definitely something he wants to own, to possess. When a tiny yellow butterfly flutters to the crest of her breast and lands there, she lets out a delightful laugh. The look on her face is so sensual, so enchanting, that she takes his breath away.

  He envisions himself standing behind her, cupping her breasts, drawing in her essence as he presses his face into her hair and nuzzles the back of her neck. He imagines that he’s nudging his cock between the globes of her ass and that his penis expands to fill the space, plus some. In his mind, he pulls the elastic of her bottom down to just below her cheeks and slides himself between her thighs, strokes her lovingly, then bends her over the low brick wall and plunges inside. It is all he can do to keep from leaping off the roof on top of her.

  She goes back inside to refill the can, and he inches back to the ladder and quickly climbs down. He stows the ladder under the neighbor’s deck and leaves. His mission accomplished. Now he can view her whenever he wants.

  The next day, he watches her from his laptop as she comes out onto her deck dressed in jean shorts, a fluorescent bright yellow T-shirt, and tennis shoes. On the back of her T-shirt are the words Sunset Cyclists. Minutes later, from the webcam angled at her garage, he watches as she loads the bike onto a bike rack on he
r SUV. As the garage door closes he Googles the bike club’s website and discovers that they’re spending the day at Bald Head, riding over on the ferry, and then biking around the island before having lunch at Ebb and Flo’s.

  This could be the perfect time to meet her face-to-face without her suspecting anything. And what a wonderful way to test their chemistry. He can’t wait to get close enough to smell her and to drink in the scent of her. He scrambles to get ready and sees himself riding the ferry and spending the afternoon at the bar at Ebb and Flo’s. She is nowhere to be found. She must have changed her mind.

  He sees her on her patio reading mail. She opens a letter and stares, her eyes wide. He sees her stifle a scream before she starts sobbing. Curious, he investigates when she goes out. He’s good with electronics; he’s bypassed her alarm and used a scanner to duplicate her garage sequence on the remote he’s fabricated. Searching her drawers, he finds a handful of letters from a stalker. Who the hell is this? She’s his! He discovers she has a gun in her nightstand drawer and he murmurs, “Good girl.” He reads her certificate for completing the course for carrying a concealed weapon. “A very good girl.”

  He takes his time looking around, noting everything in her room. Smelling her essence, touching her things—her lamp, her light switch, her window, her door . . . her pillow. He checks the Caller I.D. log on her phone. He already has her number.

  Then he’s back home, sitting at his dining room table, using his laptop, when there’s a distinctive ding notifying him that one of the cameras has been activated. He looks over at the clock, 1:23 in the morning—a bit late for her to be up and outside.

  He switches screens and sees a man, dressed all in black using a glasscutter to break into the French door leading into her kitchen. He grabs his cell phone and scrolls to her name, selects her number, preset with #67 inserted to block her Caller I.D., and hits the green button.

  “C’mon! C’mon, pick up!” he says as he hears the phone ringing through both his phone and his laptop. Finally, he hears a groggy, “Hello?”

  “Laurel! Don’t ask questions, just listen. A man just broke into your house; he’s on his way to your bedroom from the kitchen. Get your gun out and get your hand ready to use the touch lamp, but wait until he opens the door before turning on the light. You don’t want him to see you first, and don’t turn it all the way on; you don’t want the sudden brightness to blind you. Do you hear him? He’s in the house now.”

  “Yes, I hear someone. Who is this?”

  “Never mind that now, the important thing is that you’re ready when he opens that door. Is the safety off?”

  “Yes.” God love her, he could picture her shivering just from the timbre of her voice.

  “Point it midway in the door frame. As soon as he steps inside, shoot. Don’t hesitate.”

  “He’s getting closer!” She was keeping her voice low, but there was no doubting the panic in it.

  “Take a deep breath. Remember you’ve trained for this. You can do it. Double tap, chest first to be sure you hit him, then a little higher for the head. Don’t let yourself get excited, stay calm and use all the bullets if he makes it into the room.”

  “He’s coming. He’s here!” The last was a low desperate whisper, “Oh God.”

  He heard the phone clatter and then two loud pops followed by a scream. Thankfully, hers.

  “Laurel? Laurel? Laurel! Are you alright?”

  An eternity later he heard her mumble, “Yeah.”

  “Where is he?”

  “On the floor.”

  “Turn the light on all the way and see what he’s doing. But keep your gun ready.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “You can do this, honey. Get up slowly, lean over the bed. See if he’s still alive. If he is, shoot him again.”

  Another eternity.

  “He looks dead.”

  “You need to be sure. Hold the gun on him, check his pulse, grab his hand or foot.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then shoot him in the head again.”

  “No, I’ll check his pulse.” Followed by a loud sob.

  “He’s dead?”

  “Mmmm.” Huge wracking sobs.

  “Honey, listen to me and do exactly as I say. I want you to hang up the phone, and then dial 911. Tell them you shot an intruder. Then call the gate; they can have someone there in just a few minutes. Go open the front door and wait outside. Got that?”

  “Yes. Hang up, dial 911, then call the gate,” she repeated.

  “Do it now.”

  “Who are you, how did you know . . .”

  “Let’s just say I’m your protector. I can’t tell you who I am just yet. But I care for you, very, very much. Now do what I say. You were a good girl, a very good girl. I’m so proud of you.”

  “I want to know who this is! And who is this man I just killed. Tell me!”

  At a time like this he didn’t know how he could develop such frissons of heat from those soft-spoken, yet commanding words. But develop them he did as his heart bloomed with his love for her.

  “Who are you?”

  “Do as I say, and do it now.” He hung up. Mentally, it was the hardest thing he’d ever done, leaving her alone at a time like this.

  He’d blocked the call from her Caller I.D. but even so, the police might still be able to retrieve it. And after she told her story, they would certainly make every effort to do just that. He had to get away, just in case. His cell phone was in the name of one of his many LLCs, so they probably couldn’t trace it to him personally until morning, but no sense waiting.

  The screen on his laptop had put itself to sleep while he was on the phone with her. He touched the space bar and woke it. Clicked through the series of cameras, he’d installed. He saw the French door, wide open and the circle of glass on top of a shrub. He closed his eyes and took in several deep breaths. He clicked on the one hidden in her bedroom light fixture—the scrolly art deco one he’d scraped his hand on while installing. He saw her bed, empty except for the blood that spattered the tousled cream-colored sheets. He used the controls on the screen to pan the room and saw the body lying at the foot of the bed. He zoomed in and saw his own face staring back at him.

  Garrett jolted up out of the first truly terrifying nightmare he’d had as an adult. He’d killed the stalker and the stalker was he.

  He shook his head and looked around trying to get his bearings. He was safe. He was alive. He was an idiot. And he wanted to call Laurel just to hear her voice. He looked at the clock. It was 4:20. He was pretty damned sure she wouldn’t appreciate his call right now.

  What the hell did that dream mean, he thought, as he got up to pee and to hang his head under some running water to stop the pounding.

  He wasn’t a stalker. He wasn’t. He just couldn’t tell her how he knew her. It would take away any chance he had of wooing her with prescient carnal knowledge and guaranteeing his suit. If he told her now, he would gain nothing and probably lose the chance to even continue seeing her. Guilt weighed on his conscience as he replayed their day on Bald Head and their date the evening after. No, he couldn’t let on. Not yet. But he would. Hopefully, before he had another dream like that last one.

  It was ten minutes later, as he was pouring a cup of coffee from the pot he’d made, when he recognized the Sting song that was going through his head. “O can’t you see, you belong to me . . . Every breath you take . . . Every move you make . . . Every bond you break . . . Every step you take . . . I’ll be watching you.” Great, the stalker song—his subconscious had picked this as the tune to play over and over in his head. He leaned forward and banged his head against the custom cabinet door.

  Chapter Forty-six

  On Wednesday he called and left a message on Laurel’s voice mail
asking if there was anything he could bring to the concert Friday night. He missed her return call and listened to her message saying not to bother bringing anything, that she was making sandwiches and bringing brownies and lemonade. She ended with, “Can’t wait to see you . . . you’ve been on my mind . . . a lot.” He replayed the message at least ten times.

  By Thursday morning he just had to see her—or her house, her bike, her car . . . something to connect her to him, if just for a moment. He needed to be assured this was all real, that she really was in his life now. It smacked of stalker, but he didn’t care. He was like a junkie on withdrawal. He had to see her.

  He called the pro shop for Panther’s Run and arranged to take a lesson from one of the pros while playing the course. They played the back nine first, so they didn’t get to Laurel’s house until after two. As they got closer, he was beginning to have trouble concentrating on his game.

  After they had both hit from the tee and returned to the cart to approach the fairway, the pro leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “The lady in that house,” he said as he nodded with his chin toward Laurel’s back deck, “she is the cutest little thing, and once, my cousin got a real show.”

  Garrett’s body tensed on the seat. An image of Laurel in full stripper mode, with twirling boa flashed and hung suspended in front of his eyes. He blinked and managed to say, “Pardon?”

  “She tans on her deck topless sometimes. My cousin, Jeremy, is the bug guy for the house next door. From the upstairs attic storage room there’s a window that looks down on her deck, right where she sunbathes. He says she’s luscious. He just got a new cell phone with a camera, says he’s gonna get a picture next time. Oh look, she’s in her backyard now. Take a gander—she’s mighty fine, don’t cha think?”