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."
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