by Ann Macela
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Silence. They stared at each other.
As she looked at Clay, right into his eyes where his pupils had darkened to leave only a rim of silver, Francie felt like the earth had just tilted on its axis. She had sat there, listening to him talk about magic, about people called practitioners, about using spells to do your job, and finally about soul mates, but not just ordinary soul mates. Oh, no, these soul mates were destined for each other, preordained by some mystical, magical “imperative” that left them no choice—no choice but what? To have sex?
He actually thought she would swallow this tale—hook, line, and sinker?
Magic? Practitioners? Soul mates? Some mysterious force called the “ imperative”?
Did he take her for a fool? This was the biggest bunch of hooey she’d ever heard. All this buildup to what? Fantasy land? What was he trying to pull? She didn’t get angry very often, but when she did . . . She felt her temper blow sky high.
She stood up abruptly, forcing him back on his heels, and snatched her hands out of his before he could tighten his grip. She whirled around behind the chair to create a barrier between them. The increased space did nothing to calm her down.
“Magic? Spells? Soul mates? You honestly expect me to believe all this?” She had to struggle to keep the shrillness out of her voice. “I have never heard of such a thing. Magic? Get real! Witches and warlocks? Puh-lease! Where’s your magic wand and your wizard robe? Who do you think you are? Harry Potter? Gandalf ?”
She glared and tried for a more reasonable tone, but her next words came out sounding like disdainful ridicule to her. “Clay, you’ve been playing too many Dungeons and Dragons or computer games.”
After this response, he sat back on his heels and looked at her like she was crazy. Well, what did he expect of her?
She waved a hand at the whole idea. “Magic, spells, and all that, does not exist in the real world. Oh, it’s fun to pretend, but what you’re telling me isn’t true!”
She gripped the tall back of the chair to ground herself and took a deep breath. She had to apply reason to this fantastic tale. “I’ve always prided myself on having a clear view of reality, of how the world works. Now you tell me there are people who cast spells to do their work? You honestly expect me to believe that? Spells to cook? To do accounting? To make toilets flush? You truly believe you cast spells on your computer? This is the most bizarre thing I’ve ever heard.”
Clay rose to his feet and spoke slowly and distinctly. “Magic does exist. It’s not make-believe. It’s true.” He stretched a hand toward the stairs. “Come upstairs to the computer, and let me show you.”
He was talking to her like she was a child or mentally deficient, and she didn’t like it. What had happened to his treating her like an equal?
“No,” she answered. “I don’t want any demonstrations. I know your programming capabilities. You could have rigged that computer to do anything you wanted it to do.”
“All right,” he answered, still in his infuriatingly reasonable tone, “we’ll go to your place.”
“No, not at my place, either. You’ve been on my machine. Who knows what you might have done there or uploaded from Brazos when you were tracking Kevin?” She leaned over the back of the chair toward him. “Why are you doing this, Clay? How can you claim with a straight face you can do magic?”
He put his hands on his hips and gave her a determined look. “Because you’re my soul mate.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but he held up a hand. “As to the magic . . .” He snapped his fingers.
A glowing ball of light appeared right in front of her nose. It was blue, and it crackled faintly.
Francie jumped and felt her eyes cross as she looked at the object. Rearing back, she swatted at the globe. It moved out of her reach before she could touch it, and when Clay snapped his fingers again, it vanished.
She glared at him. “You can’t fool me with some old illusion. You’re just an ordinary magician, that’s all, no different from Blackstone or David Copperfield or one of those guys who plays Vegas. For all I know, you’ve got some lasers rigged for a hologram.” She swiftly searched the corners of the room, but saw nothing to back up her accusation. Well, no matter.
She crossed her arms in front of her. “Magic. Puh-lease.” Then her brain latched onto something else he had said. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that in our first meeting your sister put a spell on me to see if I was telling the truth?”
Clay waved both hands in the negating gesture he had. “No, that isn’t what I said. Daria can’t put one on you, just on herself, and then you see her as she wants you to.” He put his hands back on his hips. “Because of her, we knew you were telling the truth, you weren’t part of Brenner’s scheme. Sure, we would have found it out eventually, but this way we cut right to the crux of the situation.”
“Didn’t Herb at least trust me?” A sharp iciness ran down her spine as she realized that if her boss hadn’t believed she was innocent, then Kevin might have truly succeeded in framing her.
“Yeah, he did. I was the skeptical one. Lay it on me if you’re looking for someone to blame. But I didn’t know you then. I do now.”
Francie almost slumped in relief, but his next words stiffened her backbone.
“Look, you can’t have it both ways, first magic doesn’t exist, then Daria cast a spell on you. Now which is it?” His expression was changing from earnestness to triumph.
She wasn’t ready to concede anything at this point. She knew she wasn’t being exactly rational, and she couldn’t seem to get her mind to stop whirling and start concentrating in a straight line. Her stomach aching again didn’t help, either. Her thoughts veered off on another tangent, and rather than answer his question, she went with them.
“What about this soul-mate rigmarole? Ancient force, imperative?” she asked. “Are you making up all this fantasy just to get me in bed? That’s laughable! What is it with good-looking men? You seem to think women will believe everything you tell them. I thought I’d learned my lesson with Walt.”
Clay looked thoroughly perplexed by her change of subject. “Walt?” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “Hell, who’s he? What’s he got to do with us? The soul-mate imperative is not ‘rigmarole.’ It’s very real. I know you’ve been itching and hurting. Can’t you feel it, Francie? Can’t you feel the attraction between us?” He held out his hands and took a step toward her.
She countered with a step to keep the chair between them. “Such a thing doesn’t exist, either,” she answered. “This is all just a ploy to have sex. Sure, I’m attracted to you. That’s just hormones. I haven’t been with anyone in years—”
“Years!”
“—and it’s just my body complaining or my biological clock or something.” She shook her head. “And for me to be thinking just this morning I was coming to like you, we were getting along so well, you were all right, we might have a future. Then you pull this, this ‘tale’ out of thin air. God, I can’t believe what a fool I’ve been.”
She pointed her finger at him. “You’ve got sex on the brain, Clay. And when I told you this phony, fictitious ‘relationship’ was just business, all I did was arouse your predatory instincts, didn’t I? Activated the hunt. You want something you couldn’t have, me, so you make up this convenient, cockamamie story about how we’re ‘fated’ to be together because of some magic-practitioner nonsense, just to get me in bed. Expect me to fall into your arms. Have you used this line much in the past? Does this story really work for you?”
He opened his mouth to reply, but she kept talking. She was on a roll and couldn’t seem to stop her thoughts and fears from tumbling out. At least she was too angry to cry. Cry, hah! She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “And what will happen after that? You’ll betray me or leave me. I’ll be stuck again picking up the pieces. It’s all just a game with you, isn’t it? Well, I for one am not going to play it, not this time.
&n
bsp; “I’m leaving. Don’t call me, don’t come around. You got what you want. You have Kevin in your sights. You don’t need me anymore. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret. I wouldn’t want it to get around that Brazos had hired a crazy consultant.”
She whipped around the couch, grabbed her purse, and ran out the door.
Clay stood there stunned for a couple of seconds. What had just happened? What was wrong with the woman? Where had she gone? Oh, shit! She had walked out on him! He practically vaulted over the furniture and shot out the door she had left open in her haste. “Francie!”
She had climbed into her car and was starting the engine. He ran to the passenger door and pulled the handle, but it was locked. “Francie!” he yelled again as he beat on the window.
She paid no attention to him, just put the car into gear and hit the gas before he could get a grip on the handle or the outside mirror. He watched her drive off and turn at the corner.
“Damn!” Clay ran back into the house, closed and locked the front door, and headed out the back for his own car. She had to be going home. When he reached her apartment complex, the first thing he did was check her parking slot. Her car was there. He ran up to her door and rang the bell.
Nothing happened. Not a peep issued from the interior.
“Francie!” He rang the bell again and pounded on the door. “I know you’re in there. We’re not finished. We need to talk this through.” He pounded some more. “Francie, answer me!”
The door swung open. Francie stood in the entrance with her hands braced, one on the door, the other on the jamb. Clearly, if he wanted in, he’d have to move her out of the way physically.
“Francie, we have to talk,” he said in as reasonable a tone as he could muster, while he fought to keep himself from throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off to bed.
“No, we don’t,” she said, shaking her head. “Go away!”
“But you’re my soul mate,” he said. “How can you say that? You can’t reject me!”
“Just watch me. And furthermore, you’re crazy. Nobody can cast magic spells. Magic doesn’t exist!” She slammed the door in his face.
“Francie!” he roared and pounded on the door again.
“Hey, buddy!” An older man stuck his head out of the apartment to the left. “What’s the matter? What’s all the racket?”
Clay stopped pounding. “Nothing. I just need to talk to the woman inside, that’s all.”
“Well, it sure doesn’t look like she wants to talk to you, does it, if she won’t answer the door. Now cut out all this noise. I have to work the late shift tonight, and I need to get some sleep.”
Clay stared at the man for a moment, then looked back at Francie’s closed door. The guy had a point. It wouldn’t do any good to break the thing down. It would only make her madder. All he could do was leave before her neighbor—or she—called the cops.
“Francie, I’ll be home if you want to talk,” he said loudly. “And we do have to talk. You know it as well as I do.” He looked at the neighbor. “Sorry for the disturbance.”
“No problem,” the man answered and shut his door.
Clay thought about leaving a note, but he didn’t have a card or pen on him, and he wasn’t sure it would do any good anyway. So he stalked down the stairs and back to his car.
What was wrong with the woman? Why didn’t she believe him? He climbed into the vehicle and headed home. He couldn’t believe her reaction. It was the last thing he would ever have expected.
His gut was hurting, probably from all the stomach acid the argument had churned up, but his magic center was quiet, as though it was waiting for something.
They were soul mates, weren’t they?
Weren’t they?
Damn right, they were.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Back in her apartment, Francie sat slumped on her bed, staring into space. Clay must have left, she figured, when the pounding on the door stopped and he yelled that stuff about how they had to talk. She gave a big sigh, but it didn’t feel like one of relief. It felt more like one of emptiness.
He wanted to talk. Oh, God, he’d be calling her. She roused herself and pulled the plugs on the phones in the kitchen and her office, leaving only the answering machine hooked up. Returning to the bedroom, she disconnected the phone by her bed, then took off her shoes and resumed her place on the spread.
What good would talk do now? The man was definitely deranged, mentally unsound. Nutty. Off his rocker. He had bugs in his hardware and was many code lines short of a working program. She was better off having nothing to do with him.
Wasn’t she?
Yes, she nodded and, threading her fingers through her hair, rubbed her scalp vigorously. Yes, of course, she was.
What a fantastic tale he had told! Magic—what did he call them—practitioners? Magic practitioners who applied spells to their jobs to do them better. How could he have thought she’d believe him? Sure, there were very smart people or those with an intuitive feel for their work who produced wonderful ideas and products. She knew several of them. Her fellow gamesters, for example.
And Clay? She had to admit he seemed to take computer programming and manipulation to new heights. She frowned at her last thought. What he did couldn’t be magic.
Magic didn’t exist.
And his explanation! He hadn’t given her the chance to process the information about this so-called magic. He hadn’t let her ask a question—he obviously didn’t want her to since he’d asked her to hear him out first. Instead he had gone from magic to talking about “soul mates,” for crying out loud. If that didn’t sound like a line straight out of a bad sitcom, or an even worse singles bar, she had never heard one. Sort of a someday-my-princess-will-come story. Was the idea, the claim they were “fated” to be together, supposed to make a woman fall into a man’s arms? Or rather, his bed?
His bed . . . How enticing it had looked, up there in his bedroom. She sighed again and rubbed the painful itch— the ache had never let up from the time it flared back at Clay’s house. Now a dull throb accompanied the irritation.
“No, no, no!” she said aloud and shook her head until she felt her hair flying about her face. Thinking about his bed was not a good idea.
Back to his soul-mate . . . imperative. Hah! She was supposed to believe that some outside force, an arcane, magical, mystical coercion, was pushing them together? Or was it an internal chemical compulsion? Or just good old-fashioned lust? Didn’t matter which. It came down to the same thing: All he really wanted was to jump her bones.
She rubbed the aching spot between her breasts. This torment was no ancient force, and it certainly wasn’t an alien. She was developing a real-life, non-pretend ulcer, and no wonder with all she’d been through lately.
Mr. Clay Morgan was quite a seducer. First he kissed a woman until she turned to jelly, then he walked out the door as calmly as could be, and he repeated the pattern until she was a quivering mass of frustration.
Then the coup de grâce: Guess what? We’re soul mates. Magical soul mates. Don’t fight it. I want you.
Why on earth he’d thought he needed such an unbelievable story about practitioners and then the soulmate idea to get her into bed was beyond her. At least he hadn’t uttered the horrible ancient cliché, “It’s bigger than both of us.”
In all of his preposterous explanation, he had not said one word about caring about her beyond the physical. Not one word about love. No, be fair, she chided herself. He had used the word once, but in “making love,” not as in “I love you.”
I love you.
Oh, God. Did she want him to say that? Did she want to say those words back to him?
No, she couldn’t be in love with him. Not when all he talked about was sexual attraction and this weird “imperative” to be soul mates.
But, oh, she did like the man. Liked looking at him, talking to him, being with him, touching him, kissing . . . No, don’t go there! She shook her head again and
concentrated on the opposing argument to her reflections.
What she felt was just an infatuation, that’s all. She hadn’t been involved with a man in so long her hormones had finally rebelled and taken over her mind for a while.
She could get over Clay. She would get over him. She simply had to stay away from him. They had nothing left to talk about. There was nothing to “get over.”
The pain in her chest intensified to a true heartache, and she collapsed back on the bed and curled up in a ball. With an immense feeling of loneliness settling in her bones, she fought tears until she fell asleep in the late afternoon.
She opened her eyes Sunday morning feeling like her system had totally crashed, her usual morning grogginess infinitesimal compared to this mega-headache and feeling of immense exhaustion. She looked at the clock: ten in the morning. She had slept, if she could call it that, over fifteen hours. Carefully, she extricated herself from the tangled bedspread, groaning as her stiff body protested.
She stumbled into the bathroom and almost gasped when she saw her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her hair was a tangled mess, her makeup was smudged, and large black circles hung under her swollen eyelids like the curtains on the stage at Jones Hall. She vaguely remembered waking up from time to time to a wet pillow, so she must have been crying in her sleep.
As she removed the clothing she had slept in, memories returned of the dreams that had caused her tears. She and Clay making love, an act so beautiful she had to cry. Clay standing naked before her, looking like Desire Incarnate, holding out his hands to her, but try as she might, she couldn’t move to meet him. Clay saying, “If you won’t believe me, then you can’t have me,” and her wailing, “I want to, but I can’t!” Clay, his face a mask of pain, stating, “You’re my soul mate. Of course, I love you.”
