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The Last Scar

 

 

 

Two

 

The nightmare threw Chelsea into wakefulness early on Saturday morning and left her too terrified of a repeat performance to even try to sleep again.

She wondered why the awful dream had come back when she stood poised in the foyer of her second chance at life. In fact, she wondered why it had come back at all. She'd hoped, prayed, and promised herself, the nightmare would remain buried along with the rest of her ugly past.

As she eased the red VW convertible into a parking space in front of Brentwood Apartments, her mind's eye caught a glimpse of the hideously cruel smile that had recently visited her dreams.

Stubbornly, Chelsea concentrated on the view in front of her--instead of the vileness of her sleep.

Beneath a clear and bright blue sky, the early afternoon sun glinted across everything it touched. The buildings were stuccoed two stories. The grounds were landscaped in what she'd come to understand was the usual west California style; attractive and well kept lawns, rock gardens stuffed with cacti and yucca and other shrubs she didn't yet recognize. Optimism soon replaced the worry that had plagued her since awakening so abruptly. Really, things were going her way.

On Tuesday she'd start a new job with the national accounting firm of Lancaster and Jacobson.

Even though it had been heart-wrenching to leave her hometown, and her dearest friend, for Los Angeles, she hadn't been able to pass up the opportunity. Her life desperately needed a change. Lancaster and Jacobson offered her an exciting position, a decent salary, and numerous benefits--including the fun, new car she sat in.

So, a week earlier she packed up her meager belongings and headed for the west coast.

She enjoyed the time alone on the road with her secret hopes and enormous plans for the future. After sinking as low as a person could, falling into the lonely, quiet hell she'd resided in, she'd been blessed with another chance to have a meaningful life. She vowed to milk her second chance for all it was worth. She'd make only the best decisions and rely on only herself. She would once again be proud. Strong. Independent.

She still had obstacles to overcome. She'd sold nearly all her worldly possessions to help offset her staggering debts. Her recently mended soul faced a strange, new environment where she didn't have even one friend. But, material possessions weren't necessary to sustain life and she could make friends--if she was extremely careful with her choices, of course.

Still admiring the pleasantness of the complex, Chelsea felt certain she'd made the right housing decision. The personnel rep of L & J had sent her literature on several apartment complexes. Brentwood jumped out at her and grabbed her by the throat--so to speak.

The complex was protected by an imposing, wrought iron fence. A security code was needed to open the gate after ten p.m. Each apartment had its own outdoor entrance, which pleased Chelsea. She despised, and feared, the usually dark and foul-smelling hallways of apartment buildings.

Even though the trip to the office would take a little longer from other options, she chose Brentwood. The rent was cheaper than other complexes and she had a good, although undefinable, feeling about the place.

The excitement she felt at beginning her new life outweighed her concern over the return of the horrifying nightmare. With a bounce in her step, she carried a small box of carefully packed toiletries up the planked stairs.

A cedar railing lined the walkway in front of the apartments on the second floor. The view from her door was of an identical building and the parking lot between them. Recent, and not so recent, repairs to the asphalt created a patchwork of various shades of black. The once white lines of the parking spaces had been sun-baked into a cracked gray irregularity.

Her hand trembled with anticipation as she unlocked, then opened, the door to apartment Two-twenty-two. Standing in the entrance, she beamed a radiant smile at her new domain.

To her right was the dining room, blessed with double windows that spilled the California sunshine across tan carpeting. L & J had rented furniture for her and an off-white, rectangular table and four modern, tubular chairs nearly filled the small space.

To her left was the living room, complete with a rented sofa and love seat of beige crepe, three cheap wooden tables, a pair of slender, burgundy lamps, and a painfully empty entertainment center--which held only a twenty-three inch television. Two more windows brightened the room and were dressed with the same off-white drapes as the pair in the dining room. A fireplace framed by dark brown stone filled the far corner and cozied up the room.

Straight ahead of her was a short hall. The tiny kitchen was on the right--on the other side of a half wall that separated it from the dining room. The counter tops were beige, as were the ceramic tiles on the floor.

The bathroom was also on the right side of the hall. The fixtures were stark white and crammed into the closet-like space. The floor was tiled like the kitchen, the walls painted something like eggshell.

The only bedroom was at the end of the hall, on the left, just past a pitiful excuse for a coat closet. Again, rented furniture was already in place; a double bed and a boxy, veneer covered night stand and dresser. Chelsea was delighted to discover the windows there offered a view of a charming courtyard with a water fountain and a few stone benches scattered beneath an assortment of trees. A round flower bed bursting with red and white petunias surrounded the fountain.

Although the apartment wasn't fancy, it was home. At least she hoped it soon would be.

Before going after more of her belongings, she checked the windows in the front of the apartment to make sure they were locked, then tested their strength. They seemed to be very secure, which of course pleased her.

After several trips up and down the stairs, physical exertion trampled her excitement. It upset her to realize she still hadn't regained her strength. Choosing to concentrate on positive things, she reminded herself she'd gained back nearly all the weight she'd lost. A little more patience, and attention to her diet and exercise, and she should lay claim to a healthy body once more.

She shut the trunk of the car and frowned at the back seat, which was filled with more meticulously packed boxes.

 

Slam! Thud, thud, thud.

After a violent roll-over, Nick Ramsey scrunched back into the sofa and buried his face in a throw pillow. In the ensuing silence, he began that sweet and gentle drift back into sleep's hold.

Thud, thud, thud.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Nick reminded himself of how tired he was. He was going to sleep until evening, damn it.

Slam!

On a hiss, he sat up and used bleary eyes to glare at the living room windows. He wondered if he was still asleep, and dreaming, because the woman who walked by his windows seemed to be an angel. He drug his hands down his unshaven face, then rolled his head side to side. His neck cracked loudly.

Thud, thud, thud.

Nick moved closer to the windows. "Well, I'll be a happy Sonofabitch."

Slam!

He dashed down the hall, took a swig of Listerine and attacked his too long hair with the same brush he'd used in high school. After shoving shoes on and snatching his sunglasses from their home beneath the phone on the kitchen wall, he left his apartment and followed the latest series of thuds down the stairs.

He paused on the sidewalk while the woman who'd awaken him, and then caught his interest, scowled at the back seat of her car. He hadn't dreamed her. She really was there. And she was unusually fine. He looked over the top of his sunglasses to make sure his view was untainted. Her hair, which was pulled into a ponytail, was light brown. And gold. And kind of red, too. She had a small oval face and soft features. She also had one hell of a body.

Grinning over his good fortune, Nick sauntered toward her.

 

"Need some help?"

Startled, Chelsea looked up to find a man standing near the front of her car. His clothes were shocking; bright blue shorts that hung past his knees, a loud Hawaiian-style shirt of purple, yellow and orange, and a pair of untied, red, high top tennis shoes. Was he color-blind? Or was it possible he'd put that outfit together on purpose?

"Nick Ramsey. We're neighbors. I'm in Two-twenty, and I'm glad to meet you."

"Chelsea McGovern." She shook his hand when he offered it. "Glad to meet you, too."

"Well, Chelsea McGovern, it wouldn't be neighborly of me to let you move this stuff by yourself. Not to mention how ungentlemanly it would be."

She leaned against the car door and considered him. He reminded her of a puppy who'd just reached dog-hood, but hadn't filled out yet; very tall and very thin, despite having wide shoulders and huge paws. His dark hair was in need of a cut and seemed to attract the breeze.

Nick slid his blue, tear drop sunglasses off and grinned at her.

His face was as thin as the rest of him. He had light brown eyes, a small cleft in the middle of his chin, and an attractive smile. All in all, his face was easy to look at.

"You don't really want to finish movin' that stuff by yourself, do you?"

She scowled at the boxes in the back seat. "Maybe I'll just lock the car and leave the rest for later."

"Wouldn't it make you mad to have your things stolen?"

"But if the car was locked, . . ."

He threw one long hand into the air and interrupted her. "You're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. This is LA. Locked cars are simply not a deterrent." He stepped around her and hoisted a box out of the car. "I'll move the rest and you can start unpacking. Deal?"

Not at all certain she wanted the stranger's help, she hesitated for four, maybe five, heartbeats. After all, she had to be prudent with each decision she made in her new life.

In the next instant she sensed the tall, loudly dressed man truly wanted to help her and posed no threat to her physically, or emotionally. "A deal I can't pass up." She grabbed a small box and headed up the stairs. "By the way, I'm not from Kansas."

"No? I'm close though. You hail from somewhere in the heartland."

She pushed the apartment door open and glanced over her shoulder. "How do you know that?"

"I travel a lot, so I'm fairly good at recognizing accents."

"I have an accent?"

"Is that a bad thing?" Nick set the box he'd carried up on the dining room table and grinned down at her.

"Well, I don't know." Her recently sculpted eyebrows edged toward each other with concentration. "Is it a bad accent?"

"Not even a little bit!" He aligned the boxes on the table into a precise row, then focused on her again. And grinned. "Personally, I find women with accents sexy as h-h, . . . heck."

Her chest clenched. She backed away from him, into the living room.

Nick followed, seemingly unaware of her distressed and hasty retreat. "So, where you from?"

"Uh, Des Moines," she answered out of a reflex to be polite--a trait instilled in her by her mother at a very young age.

"Iowa! I knew I wasn't too far off. I never am."

With her pulse pounding in her ears, she watched Nick move through the doorway. His footsteps echoed on the stairs with his quick descent to the parking lot.

Why did being called sexy make her uncomfortable? It certainly wasn't a bad thing to be. Still, having it said to her, especially in such an open manner, turned her bones to the consistency of pudding.

Nick sailed back into the apartment. "Where do you want this? It's marked 'Bathroom'. Safe to assume that's where it goes?"

Chelsea nodded, then followed him down the hall, clutching a small box of underclothes in her arms.

"Well, how 'bout that! Your bathroom is exactly where mine is. Yours has been redone though. It's way nicer than mine." He surveyed the room again, then made a sound of disgust in his throat. "A lot nicer than mine. I'll have to talk to the landlord about that."

She continued down the hall, to the bedroom. "Is the landlord nice?"

"No, he's not nice. He's tight with his money. But, he's not around very often. The manager takes care of everything, and, God love her, she's a genuine sweetheart."

Chelsea dropped the box onto the foot of the bed and turned to find Nick's rangy frame leaning in the doorway.

Blocking the doorway.

The urge to escape assaulted her. Nick seemed nice enough, and he was doing her a favor by unloading her car, so why did she feel the need to run? With the back of her hand she swiped at the cold sweat beading on her brow.

"I know what we need." Nick shook his long index finger at her. "You can't move without beer! I've got some. You want one?"

Willing to agree to almost anything in order to get out of the bedroom, she said, "Please."

"Be right back."

Chelsea leapt out of the room and charged up the hallway behind him. She dropped into a dining room chair and wondered why she was so shaken-up.

The answer came quickly enough and caused her to suck in a sharp breath. It was because she was alone with a man. Good Lord! She'd developed a fear of men. That had to change. Immediately. She was sick of living in fear and avoiding situations that made her uncomfortable, ultimately avoiding life. In fact, she refused to do it for even one moment longer.

She pushed herself to her feet, vowing to meet her fear head-on.

"You know," Nick said, reentering the apartment with one hand curled around the cardboard handle of a six-pack of Bud Light. "A friend of mine is having a party tonight. It's not a big deal, probably fifty people or so." After aptly opening a bottle, he held it out to her. "I'd consider it a real honor if you'd go with me."

Her heart stumbled. She took the bottle without meeting his eyes, stunned because she'd just been asked out on a date. She hadn't prepared herself for that, hadn't even considered the possibility of such an event. In order to buy time to mull over the unexpected situation, she took a drink of the cold beer--a long drink.

Only a moment earlier she'd decided to quit being afraid of men. What would one little date hurt? In fact, it might be just what she needed to break back into the world of the living. And, it wasn't like Nick Ramsey was asking her to marry him, or even to sleep with him. It was just a date to a party with fifty people to keep her from being alone with him.

Determined to defeat her newly uncovered fear, Chelsea met his tawny eyes as stubbornness tilted her chin toward the ceiling. "I'd love to go." She raised her bottle and sent him a friendly smile. "You're right, no one moves without beer. I don't know what I was thinking."