Nine Deadly Lives Page 17
I hurried through the entrance and turned to face her. “I hope everything is alright.”
“Ha, his mother,” she complained. “The last emergency was her lost dog. She thought an alligator had eaten the pup. Turned out, the local shelter picked up the mongrel.” The short blonde lady shook her head. “That woman cares more about that dog than she does her son’s work.”
I blinked a couple of times, nodded, and tried not to smirk.
“I’m Gina Gunner. People in the building call me GG.” The chain connected to her glasses skirted the edges of her face as she lifted the spectacles to her head. “I don’t work in this office. I work for Tom Sanders down the hall. Mark asked me to meet you and give you this week’s assignment.”
I peered down at the top novel in my hands. The half-naked, American Indian indicated a romance novel. “I’m not sure—”
“You have three days to read those. When Mark returns, he’ll expect you to give a full report on which book you would recommend to Cinema Show producers.”
“Cinema Show?” I asked.
“You know—” She opened her palms and stuck out her chin. “The movie people. You’re in Hollywood, dear.”
Had the cuckoo hit the clock in that woman’s brains? “Miss…GG, I can’t pick one of these for a movie. It’s my first day.”
“It’s Mrs., and of course not.” She used a finger to push down on my hand full of novels. “You recommend one of these books to Mark. He’s the one who will choose which story to format for a screenplay. You’re just a muse to an end.” On her way out, she dropped a set of keys on top of my books. “Don’t forget, a fully typed report due by the end of the day, Thursday. I hope you’re a fast reader.”
“What about Friday? Don’t I have all week?
“He’ll be here to discuss your choice on Friday.”
“But GG, I can’t—”
The door closed. I swallowed and beheld the large workspace around me. “What kind of report?”
I followed GG’s trail, but the woman moved fast. The book she was reading had disappeared, and so had she.
That can’t be how this works. I looked down at the male model on the cover. Books are recommended in accordance with their sales and distributors. Not by a new secretary dripping water all over the floor. “Good grief in gravy.” I removed my rain coat. What was I supposed to do? Just read—here? By myself?
The place smelled of lemon polish and needed a makeover. The wooden floorboards creaked as I stepped to a small desk across from me. Books and paper littered the larger desk. I presumed that workspace belonged to my runaway boss.
The weight of the romance novels grew heavy in my arms, and I cleared a spot on the small writing table to stack them. A rip in the cream-colored roll chair pinched my leg as I sat down.
Well. I guess this was it. Not quite the modern California office I expected. I looked at the yellowing walls covered in framed posters of the TV series Criminal Red. Across from me, a large portrait of an elderly gentleman stared with a look of disapproval. It was one of those portraits, the ones where the eyes seem to follow you. I turned my head slowly to the right. He stared. Slowly to the left. He stared.
Goosebumps crept up my spine. The plaque at the bottom read, Mark Randle. So, this is my new boss. His distinguished look came from his lifted chin and the touch of silver in his beard. I shrugged. His personality seemed nice enough—over the internet.
I fanned through the pages of the first novel on the stack and returned to the cover. The paper binding reflected the light. The Untamed Savage. Book one. Blood Lust. It’s 2015. They don’t make Indian romance movies anymore. Did they ever? I shivered and stood up. That’s enough. Uncle has played a terrible joke on me. I scurried to the office door. I should call my mother and tell her—tell her what? I freaked out the first day on the job? California was too much for me?
No way. I locked the office door and returned to my rickety seat. I’d show her and Uncle Chris. I was going to rock at this job. I began to read.
o0o
Two hours later, I sobbed. Is there a tissue in this office? The poor woman in the book had lost her parents in a bogus Indian raid. I spotted a box and wiped the tears from my eyes. She was all alone on the prairie. The town sheriff and his sidekick villains were the true culprits. She merely escaped his evil grasp and fled on her white mustang, Cotton. Sniff, sniff. How will she survive on her own?
My boss continued to stare at me from the picture across the room. This time, I ignored him and returned to the book. I never knew a romance novel could be so fulfilling. The characters had worse problems than I did. Once more, lost in the pages, a tap sounded at the door.
I opened the door a crack, and then wider, when I saw GG.
“How did you enjoy your first day?” she asked.
“The book is good.” I waved the novel that felt glued to my hand and spoke with pride, “I’ve read twelve chapters.”
“In your first book?” She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “You’ll have to read faster than that if you want to finish your report on time.”
I stood firm, my chin above her. “I can do it. I’m good with search engines and fast on the keyboard, too.”
“Hmm…well, the only thing you’ll be searching for is employment if you don’t get through these books.” GG strolled over to the larger desk. “Maybe you should take a speed reading class and reapply?” She tapped on the computer until it came to life.
If this wasn’t her office, why was she touching my boss’s computer? I glanced at his picture on the wall. His grumbled expression now gawked at her.
“I think I’ll manage just fine, thank you.” I tossed the book in my bag and moved to stand behind her.
“You have an e-mail here from Mr. Randle.” She wiggled the mouse and pointed to a picture of an envelope with my name attached.
“Thank you. I’ve got it.” I covered her hand.
She stood back and rolled her eyes.
The keys to the office were in my reach. They jingled as I held them in front of the snoop. I had been here one day, but this job was mine. My rickety chair. My creaky floorboards. These keys meant the man on the wall trusted me.
“Like you said, GG, no worries. I’ll lock up and be back first thing in the morning.” I stood by the door with at least fifty questions on my mind, but if Mr. Randle had sent an e-mail, I could send one back. I would find the answers that way. Not from the woman who thought today should be my last day at work.
GG scanned the room before she walked past me. She glanced at my purse. “You can’t take anything home.”
“I’m not a thief. I assure you, I’ll bring the book back tomorrow.” Like I wanted something from this old office.
She glared for a moment with her pointed nose in the air. “Very well, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She entered the reception area, and the door closed. I set the keys down and hurried to the computer.
The e-mail contained a simple hello and an apology for his absence. No help at all. I read the end of his letter, sent a quick reply and locked up the office.
The Indian romance novel would have to be finished by the morning if I were to stay on GG’s schedule. Full knowledge of all three books would be impressive to my new boss when he returned. Besides, the novel had me holding my breath between chapters. The pages were hard to stop reading long enough to take notes.
The tall male Indian, the writer described, had me flashing back to the hot cover. A muscular lean body. Dark skin from his Indian mother and deep blue eyes from a white father. Dancing Fire found Sally by a stream and pulled a thorn from her creamy pale heel. He washed her injured feet in the clear waters of a Kentucky stream. Her heart pounded with fright as he lifted her onto his steed. He had to be taking her and Cotton to his village. I couldn’t wait to get home and find out.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Randle.” The eyes on the portrait followed me out the door.
Chapter Two
Indian Love
I jotted down the word “unpredictable”, as Dancing Fire took Sally to a nearby cave instead of his village. He left her alone long enough to gather wood for a fire and berries to eat. The seductive scene pulled at more than my heart-strings as he fed her the sweet fruit, one berry at a time.
As I turned the page, Weaver, my fat domestic cat, jumped on the couch and walked across the book. “Weaver, don’t you like hot Indians? I never knew I did until now.” I giggled. “Here you go, Weave.” I tossed a tiny, plastic ball across the floor.
Weaver pounced. The ball bell jingled as he batted the toy around the room.
The lease on my apartment read, “Small Pets Only,” and since a protective Doberman was out of the question, I found my little black-eared Weaver at the local shelter the day after I moved. The cat made the apartment seem less lonely, but I didn’t pick him. He picked me. The shelter cats played in a large glass-fronted room, but when I came near, Weaver jumped on a stand in front of the window. His glowing green eyes seemed to speak to me. “Take me home,” they said. I didn’t name him. He came with a little collar that read, Dream Weaver.
I grew warm under the blanket as Sally and her Indian rescuer bedded down for the night. The story returned to the bad sheriff, and my eyes grew weary. I fell asleep to the sound of Weave’s purr as he curled beside me.
“Sally, wake up. Men on horseback.”
“What? Huh?”
“Get up. We hurry.”
“Oh, I feel like I slept on a rock. What time is it?” I wiggled down into the blanket but freed my arm. “Can you hand me my phone?”
“What is ‘phone’?”
A man’s voice? I opened my eyes. “Holy moly.” I sat up and looked into the eyes of a bare-chested man with a feather in his hair. My scream echoed.
“Sally, no.” He covered my mouth. “They will find us.”
Find who? Where was I? My eyes took in the dim-lit cave. The smell of ash and horseflesh assaulted my nose. This can’t be happening. I’ve been abducted in the night.
He loosened his grip over my mouth. “If you make noise,” he said. “Sheriff will hear.”
The sheriff? That’s what I needed. The sheriff. I nodded, and he removed his big hand.
“I’m here,” I yelled.
The Indian circled his strong arm under my breast and lifted me.
“Stop.” I pounded my fist on his biceps as he carried me behind a rock, near the entrance.
“Be quiet, woman. If the sheriff finds you, he will kill us both.”
“Bad Sheriff—” I looked down at my long, torn dress. My feet were bare and bruised. “Dancing Fire?”
He ran his fingers through my hair and peered into my eyes. “Have you hurt your head? Do you not remember?”
“I remember.” I swallowed. “My name is not Sally. I’m Mary—”
“Shhh. They come.” The sound of horses echoed off the cave walls. “Take knife.” He held up a large sharp blade. “Kill white man who comes near you.” He grabbed his bow and stepped closer to the entrance.
Murder someone? He wants me to kill. I can’t go to jail, my mother would kill me.
He took a stance and pulled back on the bow as a man approached the mouth of our cave. His leather-fringed pants gripped tight around his muscles. His body was firm and brown. I’d never seen such a man, and yet…something was familiar.
The arrow sailed through the air with a whisper, and the white man fell to his knees. Dancing Fire fought bravely until all three men no longer threatened our survival.
He held me in his arms. “You are mine now. I will take you with me. Away from the white man’s town. You will be wife to Dancing Fire. Live with me at Cherokee village.”
“Okay.” My heart pounded. This man is not real. I reached out and pinched him.
“Ugh.” He spanned his fingers across my hips and pulled me forward. His demanding eyes burned into my soul. Familiar blue eyes. Deep blue-green eyes. No. Iridescent green eyes.
“Weaver.” The cat stood on my chest with an intense stare. A dream. Yes, only a dream. An amazing dream. The glow of my clock said 3:00 a.m. I lowered Weaver to my side and curled around him.
o0o
The morning came with memories of a night filled with Indian adventure. A western tale that ended with a promise of commitment and abiding love. Never had I experienced such a vivid dream where I wanted nothing more than to remain in slumber.
Get up, girl. I sighed and stretched. My new job awaited, and I had at least twenty chapters to finish before I could start the second book. My cell battery died sometime during the night, and I walked like a zombie toward the kitchen.
“Meow.”
“I hear what you’re saying. ‘Don’t forget my breakfast, lady.’” I grabbed the bag of kitty chow from the counter and shook the cereal into his dish. Kitty food overfilled the container and piled on the floor. “Sorry, Weave. Clean that up, will ya?” He seemed to care less for my apologies and dug into the crunchy morsels.
The box by my feet had a sign that read, KITCHEN STUFF. I opened the lid and dug out the clock. “Oh, no.” I had a half-hour to shower, dress and find a cab.
On my run to the bedroom, I tripped over a box of unpacked clothes. “Ouch.” I rushed into the bathroom. Squish. “Oh, no.” I forgot the cat box was in here. “Yuck.” Cat moistened granules clung to the bottom of my toes.
I hopped around on one foot until I found the bathroom light. Two bounces back to the toilet to drag the trash over and brush away the mess from my foot. Tick Tock. I couldn’t be late my second day. No time for a shower. I twisted my plain brown hair into a clip and did the minimum to get out the door.
I glanced around for Prince Charming by the cab line but didn’t see him. As a matter of fact, no one noticed my tardiness. I slipped into the office. “Good morning, Mr. Randle.” His portrait eyes follow me to the computer where I checked the mail for my name.
Nothing yet. I opened my purse, removed a roll of gray tape, and covered the crack in my rickety chair. That’s better. I found the gum wrapper that marked my page. As I read the Indian tale, memories of last night’s dreams resurfaced. I flipped forward a few pages. It can’t be. I turned ahead two chapters. Am I still dreaming?
The book matched my dreams. Some of the words had changed, but the events didn’t waver. I flipped to the ending and read the last page. The emotion, the actions, all there. My chair rolled backward as I stood.
No way. A trick. I wasn’t clairvoyant. I couldn’t talk to the dead or read palms.
I carried the book from the room and left the office doors open. “GG,” I shouted through the hallway. Which office was hers? “This isn’t funny, Mrs. Gunner.”
Tom somebody. She worked for Tom Sanders. Here it is. I started to open the door when GG walked out.
“Are you out here calling my name, child?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know.” I held out the book.
She examined the paper cover front and back. Then opened the story and found my marker. “Hmmm, is this as far as you’ve read? You’re not going to last long at this rate.”
I snagged the book from her grip. “So you’ve said. What’s really going on here, GG?” I looked around. “Where’s the hidden camera?”
She laughed as I glanced at the tall, white cleanings. “I already know what happens in this book,” I told her.
“Oh, so you’ve read this book before. That will give you a head start. Look, Mary, I just wanted to get your butt moving on these.” She pointed at the book. “Believe it or not, I like you and think that you’ll make a fine secretary for Mr. Randle. I keyed you in on what would impress him and nothing more. I’m not trying to trick you so you’ll fail.”
Her sincere look made me take a step back. This woman had no idea. How could she possible know I had dreamt the ending prior to finishing the book? I studied h
er face. How could anyone know?
“Are you okay Mary? You look a bit pale.” She held my arm as we trailed back toward my office. “You don’t have to read so quickly. It’s too much pressure. I apologize—”
“No. I’m fine.” That’s it. That had to be the answer. “I’ve read this book before and just forgot. How silly of me to think you would know this.” We stood in the hall in front of Mr. Randle’s office. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
She tilted her head and stared up at me through the corners of her eyes. “Make sure you take a lunch. Go outside, get some fresh air.”
“I will. Thank you.”
With a nod, she waited for me to go back inside.
In the office, Mr. Randle’s portrait stared with those same blue eyes. Why did it seem like he was laughing? GG had a point. I breathed in stale office air all day.
When I pulled the strings on the blinds, dust circled in the light. I coughed and pushed at the window pane next to Mr. Randle’s desk. Stuck. I pressed hard until the window opened. I needed to read, but instead I took the next hour to dust and to get more acquainted with my surroundings. More office supplies set outside of the cabinets than in. I hurried to straighten what I could and returned to my desk.
A man with a shield and a blade posed in battle, as a woman in a white gown beckoned at his sandaled feet. My Fearless Roman. I filled my lungs with the fresh air from the window and began to read. This time, the tissue box sat on the corner of my desk.
Two hours later, my stomached growled. A reminder of reality, but I couldn’t put the book down. Princess Ra had been mistaken for a slave girl and taken hostage on the streets of Upper Egypt. Shackles twisted the skin of her wrist as a guard yanked her up the temple steps.
“You’ll be a tasty offering to Dionysus.” He laughed.
“No.” She pulled back on her bindings.
The guard drew a blade from its sheath and pointed the tip at her chest. “Come, slave. The priest and his fire awaits. Your sacrifice will bring grapes a-plenty for the master’s wine.”
Ra cried out for mercy, but the—
A knock sounded at the office door. “Don’t interrupt me now,” I whispered. What’s going to happen to the Princess?