3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Derek-Four years later
T here's no such thing as ghosts. At least, that's what I thought before Chelsea died. Now, every corner of this house feels like a haunted place, filled with echoes of her laughter, the warmth of her smile, and the promises we made. I'm now confident, with painful clarity, that people can still haunt you and linger in your heart and mind, whether you believe in ghosts or not. Her presence is everywhere and nowhere, a constant reminder of the life we were supposed to have together. The emptiness she left behind is palpable, more real than any ghost story, and it consumes me, making me question everything I once believed.
Every once in a while, my mind plays tricks on me. I find myself chasing images of her everywhere. The grocery store, at the gym, at work. No place is off limits when I catch the sight of a woman with long blonde hair and a curvy frame. It's my brain's desperate attempt to bring her back from the dead.
But it's the dreams that are the hardest.
"We've got to get out of bed," she giggles when I wrap my arms around her, pressing her back against my chest while I throw the warm blanket over our naked bodies, locking us in the comfort of a rainy Sunday morning.
"It's the weekend. We can stay in bed all day if we want to," I say as I snuggle my nose into the crook of her neck, the smell of vanilla and spice lingering from her perfume.
"Yes, but there's food downstairs, and after what we did last night," she says, turning towards me with her perfect sleepy smile.
"Are you saying I've left you famished?" I grin.
"I would, but I'm afraid it would only add to your ego," she squints.
"Hmm, five more minutes."
"Here we go," she rolls her eyes.
"What?"
"You always insist on just five more minutes in bed, and I always agree. But then five minutes comes along, and you ask for another five, or you do something that makes it very hard for me to say no to you, and we end up in bed all morning," she explains.
"What kind of things do I do? I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," I say, playing dumb.
"You know exactly what," she smirks.
"Did you mean something like this?" I ask, gently pressing my lips against her while my hands ever so lightly graze up and down her spine, sending goosebumps in their wake.
"Derek…" she sighs.
"Or are you talking about this?" I dip my hand down her chest, caressing her hard nipples in my fingers while dragging my lips down her neck, tracing a path along her collarbone. Sliding my eager hands to thoroughly squeeze their breasts while my lips linger on her buds and submerge them into my mouth, where my tongue eagerly awaits to twirly them around. Knowing that very action will have her legs wide open hungerly guiding one of my hands down to inch my way into her, teasing between her legs, making her body tremble. Those settle moves have her almost soaking the sheets. She's practically dripping at just the simple pressure point, circling her cunt, dipping my middle finger into her liquid hole. The moans escaping her mouth are getting louder.
"You're evil," she moans.
"That's funny. You didn't think I was so evil last night."
Her smiley eyes were saddened, and I knew what was coming.
"When are you going to love again?" she asks me.
"I keep telling you there's no one else I could love the way I loved you," I reply. "I can't love anyone else. It wouldn't feel right." Climbing on top of her, I thrust into her, her back arching. I can feel her walls tighten around my hard dick. Slamming into her, hearing our bodies slap together, that sound hardens me a little more with each thrust. But still, Chelsea continues to remind me...
"I don't want you alone and miserable," she says, her warm touch running her fingers through my hair. "I know you can love again, and you should. Stop pushing it away."
"I can't," I admit, but her eyes are full of just as much hurt as I still feel knowing what's coming next.
She gives me a final kiss. "You have to wake up soon."
"What are you talking about?"
Ring! Ring! Ring!
I reach over to my nightstand and slam my hand over my blaring alarm clock that sounds off just before the jackhammers outside my window do. I'm tempted to throw the damn thing through the window, but then again, I don't feel like shopping for a new one.
Like I do after every dream of Chelsea, I reach over to what used to be her side of the bed, with part of me carrying a sliver of doubt that she'll be there waiting for me. But that hope is quickly diminished when my hand meets the cold bed sheets, and I'm reminded it's another Monday, another start to the week on my own.
It's been years, but I'm still not used to waking up alone. I'm not used to coming home to an empty house, especially one that was bought with Chelsea in mind. This was supposed to be our dream home, filled with love and laughter, echoing with the joy of the family we were meant to build. Each room was envisioned with a future in mind—our children's footsteps, their laughter ringing through the halls, our shared moments of quiet joy and bustling chaos. Instead, I'm greeted by a profound emptiness, a deafening silence that could swallow me whole. The absence of her presence is a constant reminder of what was lost, and yet, I have somehow learned to coexist with this overwhelming void, this oppressive quiet. It's a painful adaptation, one that I never imagined I'd have to make, living in a space that was meant to be a sanctuary for us but now feels like a monument to dreams that never came to be.
I can feel what I know is coming when I step outside into the icy air that's just turned seemingly overnight. Alcohol is going to taste like water as the days grow shorter. It's going to get more challenging to get out of bed and get ready for the day when showers start to hurt while my phone fills with unanswered messages of holiday plans that I just don't have the energy to deal with.
It's even more difficult this time of year when I have to go to work as personal protection for the woman whose son killed my Chelsea.
Happy fucking holidays to me.
***
My co-worker and former marine, Wally, is the only thing keeping me from losing it this time of year. It is the odd in-between of the time after Thanksgiving and before Christmas when I'm trying to figure out what to do with myself.
"Thought you might need this," Wally says as he hands me a large cup of coffee from the local cafe. The decorative cup clashes with his dusty blonde hair and rugged expression as he sips away at his brew at the bottom of our client's driveway.
"Thanks, man," I say, taking a long, hot swing, hoping it brings me back to life.
"You look like shit," he says plainly.
"Funny, I feel like shit," I reply. "Why point it out?"
"Because it's getting closer to that time of year," he says, aware of the anniversary of Chelsea's death and the hell I've been through since then. "Your fuse gets shorter, you look like you haven't slept in days, and you hide yourself away from the rest of the world when you're not obligated to be somewhere."
"Your point?"
"You need to forgive the guy already," he says. "Not doing it is taking a toll on you."
"Yeah? And how does that work?"
It won't bring her back, so what's the point?"
"Denying someone forgiveness is like you drinking poison and expecting the other person to die," he says. "Forgiveness is something you do for you, not the other person."
"How's Mrs. Sampson today?" I ask, attempting a subject change. He rolls his eyes and plays along.
"Snooty as ever this time of year, but then again, the rich and influential usually are," he says gravelly. Mrs. Sampson happens to be married to a councilman, and because of that, she acts as if she has all the power that the queen of England would have.
"Please tell me she wants to avoid the cold weather and stay home," I say as we walk up her quarter-mile driveway, which leads to an estate that some would speculate was a small castle at one point. The growing ivy over the stone walls does add a nice touch.
"Oh, no," he chuckles. "She's planning a whole day of shopping."
"Great," I groan. "At least she's always got a plan with her outings."
"That's the one nice thing about the woman," he says as we trudge up the driveway and ring the doorbell. The large solid oak doors are dawned with Christmas wreaths and are always answered by Lucas, the butler.
"Good morning, gentleman," he says, stepping aside to let us in. "Mrs. Sampson is in the den."
To the left of the front door lies a den from an old 1950s film, complete with a library of old editions of classic books, a fireplace, and furniture that costs more than my car.
"Yes, I'm aware," she says when we find her talking on the phone. "No cameras. I'll have the protection boys pick him up behind the building. Okay. Thank you."
Wally clears his throat, his polite way of letting the boss know we're here. When she stands to greet us, her serious expression turns to one of pleasantry and poise.
"Good morning," she smiles. "I'm not sure how much you heard from that call, but I have a special task planned for you two tomorrow."
"And what might that be?" Wally asks.
"I must emphasize the importance of discretion first," she says in a hushed voice, just in case her other employees are listening. You'll be picking up a family member, my son, Gregory, from prison."
In that instant, I feel my blood turn ice cold. I'm not sure how I've been able to hide the fact that I know her son all too well and that if I could, I'd wring his neck and make sure his body was never found. Wally knew this the second he and I were assigned to the Sampson family shortly after the protection company changed leadership. I couldn't bring myself to explain the conflict of interest, so I left it to Wally to make sure I kept my head on straight.
Up until now, work was just that—work. It didn't matter how long I had to follow Mrs. Sampson and her friends during the day. I could be pleasant to her and the guests she invited for whatever events she hosted. I found myself thriving on the routine, not thinking of how it would eventually change—not until now.
Very little is stopping me from driving my fist through the wall.
"Uh, ma'am, I'm sure I can handle the pick-up myself," Wally chimes in when he sees me trying to hide the anger brewing under the surface.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. We'll take the Mercedes with the tinted windows, and he'll ride in the back seat where he can't be seen," Wally explains like it's as simple as picking up her dry cleaning. Even if there are reporters, they won't have a clue when we drive away."
"Well, I trust your expertise," she says. "In that case, Derek, you'll be with me tomorrow. I want to go to the grocery store to pick up some of Gregory's favorite treats."
"That won't be a problem, ma'am," I nod politely.
"Alright, at least that's settled," she says as she throws on her white coat and gloves. "I hope you brought your walking shoes because I have quite a day of Christmas shopping planned.
"Then let's get on the road," Wally smiles as he lets Mrs. Sampson lead the way to the garage, where we load up and pretend like her son, the murderer, isn't walking free in less than twenty-four hours.
It's going to be a long day.