by Dawn Steele
“Rachel.”
Even though she is expecting it, a coin drops in the pit of her belly. A splinter shatters in her chest, causing a visceral pain to starburst. She turns her face away from him so that he cannot see her expression.
She hears him sigh.
“Abby . . . it’s not like we haven’t been through this before. They don’t mean anything to me.” He sits by the bed and puts his hand on her shoulder. “Abby? Let’s not fight about this every time.”
She can’t reply him. There would be a crack in her voice. She thought she would be over this too, but she isn’t. Not by a long shot.
Not when it concerns her boss.
But you knew . . . you knew, her conscience slams into her accusingly.
Knowing is one thing, she reckons, but actually going through it –
She wonders now how many times in the past month he has been with Rachel. Sometimes there are marks, but sometimes there aren’t.
“I have to go,” he says gently. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning, OK?”
All she can see is her boss’s blonde hair spilled like a fan across the pillow as Devon fucks her. And an inexplicable anger like no other builds within her as tears begin to fall down her cheeks.
SESSION
Devon enters the apartment building in Soho. The familiar apprehension churns within his gut, giving rise to a temporary wave of nausea. But it soon passes, as it always does.
Horsch is nowhere to be seen at the reception.
Devon waits patiently. In all the months he has been coming to this place, Horsch has never failed to make an appearance. It is as though the man doesn’t take his vacation or sick leave. Or maybe he only takes vacations when Devon is not around in a karmic attempt to taunt him.
After about five minutes, Horsch makes an appearance from a room behind the reception desk. Upon seeing Devon, he scowls.
“Bet you be wanting to see Ms. Krieg. Well, the elevator card is missing, and I have to dial the security company for the override code. They’re not replying so far and I left a message, so you’ll just have to wait.”
“How long do I have to wait?” Devon knows that Rachel is expecting him, and she is extremely punctual by nature. He prefers to let Horsch buzz him in, but he can always call Rachel on her cell to come down to get him. But he reckons she prefers him not to.
Horsch shoots him a glare.
Just then, the telephone rings. Horsch picks it up.
“Yes? Yes? It’s about time.” He searches for something on his desk and grabs a notepad. “Just hang on. Let me get my pen.”
Another protracted search ensues. Devon glances at the elevator. One of the cars is stopped at Floor 22.
“Got it,” says Horsch, scribbling something on the notepad. He puts down the phone and glares at Devon again. Then he punches another number.
“Ms. Krieg? Your visitor is here.” Pause. Devon can hear a tinny voice on the other side. “That’s the one.”
Horsch moves towards the elevators without beckoning Devon to follow. But Devon does anyway.
“Turn around,” Horsch hisses. “Won’t have you spying on the code now, you hear?”
Devon sighs and turns his back on Horsch and the elevator console. He hears a series of numbers being punched in. After a while, the soft swish of elevator doors being opened emits behind him.
“Well, am I going to stand here all night waiting for you to get in?” Horsch snarls, almost comical in his dislike.
Without ceremony, Devon goes into the waiting cab. The doors glide shut on Horsch’s thunderous face.
MORNING
Abby wakes up to see a shadowy figure creep into bed beside her. She can smell the sex on him and see the outline of his mussed hair.
“Devon?” she says sleepily.
“Hi.”
His warm body sidles next to her under the sheets.
“What time is it?”
“About one,” he says.
“You’re home early.”
“Well, yeah, she sent me home early.”
“How come?”
“Don’t know. Maybe she has unfinished business.”
At this time of night? Abby’s mind is too sleep-infested to wonder any further, so she snuggles into the warmth of Devon’s arms and goes to sleep.
*
The next day is a Sunday, a day Abby is not required to go into work. So they both sleep in and wake up to shower.
The first thing she notices is the red splotches on his ass cheeks.
“This Rachel whipped you?” she asks nonchalantly, trying not to wince as she soaps him.
“It’s nothing,” he replies. “Just a paddle.”
Just a paddle! She shudders at his insouciance. She has suspected that it had been Rachel who had marked him, and she is right.
She notices something else. “Where’s your bracelet?”
He holds up his left wrist, frowning. He never takes off that cowrie shell bracelet.
“I don’t know. It must have fallen off. I’ll retrieve it next time, don’t worry.”
Something in her expression must have showed her unhappiness, because he gently takes her chin in his hand.
“Hey,” he says in a low voice, “don’t worry about it, OK? It’s what I do. Don’t let it bug you.”
But what if it does? She bites her lip, trembling.
He bends his head down to kiss her deeply. She opens her mouth to respond to his kiss, and he immediately darts his tongue in to explore her mouth. She closes her hand on his cock, which grows hard without her even having to stroke it.
Which of course leads to hot sex under hard pellets of water. She can never get enough of his glorious body and his rock solid cock, even if her mind is in turmoil. Because of him, she is becoming a voracious sex addict. But only with him. Always only with him.
She’s uproariously hungry, and her stomach rumbles, causing him to laugh as he shakes the droplets out of his fine hair.
“Want me to fry you some eggs?” he says.
“Some hash browns would be nice.”
He snatches the towel off the rack. “OK. Let me get dressed first and see what we have in the fridge.”
She knows she has stocked it well. She is having a cozy time, keeping house, and she has never been happier. If only she could let the little matter of his night job out of her mind. She will work on him. Soon, she promises herself. Soon they will have a normal life.
She is toweling herself dry when the doorbell rings. She lets Devon, who is partially dressed in a pair of ripped blue jeans, answer the door.
She hears a man’s voice, and then two. Raised voices. Devon’s voice, shouting back. Alarmed, she throws on a bathrobe and unlocks the bathroom door. Stepping out, she is greeted by the sight of Devon being seized by two police officers. Two other officers block the doorway, looking grim and dangerous.
“What’s happening?” she cries, rushing forward. “What are you doing to him?”
“Abby!” Devon struggles in the vise grip of the officers. “Don’t let them take me.”
One of the officers takes out a pair of handcuffs. He twists Devon’s arms behind him so that he can cuff his wrists.
“Please, sir.” Her eyes are wide with terror. “Why are you arresting him? What has he done? He was with me all night, I swear it.”
She’s babbling incoherently, because the officers are looking at her strangely.
“He’s being arrested for murder,” an officer says. He is a dark-haired Hispanic looking man.
The word is like a sliver of ice in Abby’s heart.
“Who has he murdered?” she whispers.
“I didn’t do anything!” Devon pleads.
She believes him.
“Miss,” the officer says, “he is wanted for the murder of Rachel Krieg.”
EXPOSED
“When? When did this happen?” Abby stammers as the officer reads Devon his Miranda rights.
“I’m sorry, Miss, I will be unable to give
you that information. You can come down to the police station. But we will not be releasing him any time soon without a courthouse order for bail.”
“Abby!” Devon struggles against his captors as they lead him out of the door. “I didn’t do anything . . . please believe me.”
Tears spring into Abby’s eyes as she watches them disappear down the stairs, those very stairs Devon carried her up in his arms not too long ago when she was frail and shivering and in need. Now he is the one in need.
“Do you have a lawyer?” she calls after him.
“No,” comes the strangled admission from down the stairs.
Of course he wouldn’t. Why should he? He is just a kid trying to make it in New York. And so is she.
The neighbors have started to come out of their apartments to see what the commotion is about. Abby has never seen so many heads peeking out of their doors in her entire time here.
Murder. That usually means no bail. Or a large bail. Murder is not something to be trifled with lightly.
Abby runs down the stairs to the pavement outside, where the officers were shoving Devon into a squad car while protecting his head. The weather outside is perfect with a breeze skittering the leaves on the ground – not too hot and not too cold. It would ironically be a perfect Sunday where they would have gone out to a diner, caught a movie, and made out in the movie theatre to a film they will only half watch.
“Devon,” she calls, “don’t say anything to anyone! I’ll get you a lawyer.”
He can only gaze listlessly at her as the door is slammed in his face.
*
A lawyer. Now where the hell is she going to get one?
Lawyers require money. So do bails. Especially murder bails. She may not know much about the legal system, but that she knows.
Abby returns to the apartment. The neighbors have not left off their ogling. As she traipses up, her mind in turbulence, they mutter and exchange remarks.
“What happened, doll?” A corpulent woman from the apartment across theirs calls out to her.
“I don’t know,” Abby replies truthfully and closes her own apartment door behind her.
She sits there on the couch, thinking for a long time. The shadows move across the room, denoting the passage of time. She feels guilty for not being there at the police station, but she knows they won’t allow her to see Devon anyway. The best thing she can do is plan.
But doing the best thing right now for Devon may involve something that she is unwilling to give up.
Her identity.
She sits for a while longer, staring into space, staring out of the window and staring at the portrait of herself that he titled ‘Innocence’.
*
Monday.
Devon has spent an entire night in jail, and there’s nothing she can do about it. She has gone down to the police station yesterday, but as suspected, they refused to let her go in to see him. The station was filled with the usual traffic of officers and perps and victims, all of who pay her no heed, so caught up were they in their own private tasks and worries.
“Are you an attorney?” the hefty officer at the desk said with a smirk. He had to be two hundred and fifty pounds at least. No wonder he got a desk job. “Only his attorney is allowed.”
She gritted her teeth. “You know I’m not an attorney. I’m his girlfriend.”
“Then too bad.”
She bit back a nasty retort. She might need this jerk’s help later.
“Please can you tell me what he’s in for?” she begged, trying to assume as helpless and humble a face as possible.
“You were told the rap, kid. Murder.”
“Please, officer.” She used her beseeching eyes on him.
He sighed. “Your boyfriend is the main suspect in a murder case which happened last night. A rich broad called Rachel Krieg was murdered in her own apartment.”
The truth slammed into her only now. Before that, it had a different gravity because of Devon’s predicament.
Rachel was dead.
Rachel, her boss – who was a good, decent human being to her employees – was dead. The sensation suddenly drained out of her body, leaving her numb.
“Why do you suspect Devon?” Her voice trembled.
“Doorman said he was the only one up there last night. There was no one else.”
Try as she could, Abby could not get more out of the officer.
“Get an attorney for your boyfriend, kid. That’s the best you can do for him at the moment. Call his folks.”
Abby doesn’t even know Devon’s relatives. He has certainly never mentioned them, and she has avoided asking him about that for fear that he might expect reciprocation from her about her own family.
And now it is Monday morning, and she still has no attorney for the man she loves, who is sitting in a jail cell, accused of a murder he did not commit. She is as sure of that as she is sure of the air she is breathing now.
Devon cannot and will not kill anyone. He is the gentlest, kindest soul she knows.
The digital clock on the dresser shows nine a.m. She has a plan now, and she is about to execute it.
She picks up Devon’s cellphone, which he has not brought with him when he was arrested, and dials a number she has searched for earlier through the Internet.
She gets the reception desk.
“May I speak with Helmut Dresschler, please?” Pause. “Yes, I understand he is in a meeting, but tell him this is Abigail Holt. That’s right. H-O-L-T. He will want to speak to me.”
She waits for a while longer.
Helmut Dresschler comes onto the line.
“Abigail Holt?” he says hesitantly.
Abby has only met him once or twice. She has been dealing more with their Southern office.
“Hello, Mr. Dresschler. Do you remember me?”
“Yes, of course, Ms. Holt. Where are you now?”
“Where I am doesn’t matter. But I need your help, Mr. Dresschler. I need my money.”
“That would be rather difficult, Ms. Holt, seeing as it is in trust – ”
“I am fully aware of the terms in my trust fund, Mr. Dresschler. I just turned eighteen, and the trust fund stipulates a certain amount to be made available to me upon my eighteenth birthday, followed by twenty-one, and twenty-five, and so on. I have total independence as to the monies in that trust.”
Silence.
Then: “How much do you need?”
“A million. Maybe more.”
Pause. Abby can feel the accountant’s mind churning on the other side.
“You’ll have to come into my office to sign a few papers.”
“Of course. Before you put down the phone, Mr. Dresschler, I know you intend to call my father right after this . . . but I would advise you not to. Right now, you are working for me discreetly, and there is the clause of upholding your client’s interest. Each member of the Holt family has individual and discreet businesses with your firm, and you are required to respect and maintain their individual privacy. My grandfather signed the original contract with you that way.”
Another long pause.
“Of course, Ms. Holt. Are you all right?”
“Yes. I am all right. Thank you for your concern.”
“Your father is very concerned about you, Ms. Holt.”
“Yes, but not for the reasons you may think. I will be coming in today to your office. Please have all the documents ready.”
“Yes, I will. What time will I be expecting you?”
Abby tells him.
She puts down the phone, her heart hammering. She wonders if Helmut Dresschler would betray her, but it is a chance she has to take if she wants to get Devon out of this mess.
Devon.
She will do anything for Devon. She loves him, and he loves her. She is sure of that now.
Abby gathers her new purse, slings on a jacket, and walks out of the front door. She will pick up a newspaper along the way to the accountant’s firm to search for more details, i
f the press has gotten wind of the murder already. But she will do whatever it takes to get Devon off this murder charge, even if it means exposing herself and her family to the world.
BURN VOL. 2 will continue with Abby’s revelations about herself and her family, and her attempts to extricate Devon from his murder charge.
