Chapter 7 – Amanda
There was a pounding somewhere in the distance. I tore through the swell of unconsciousness while oblivion tried to push me down. My lids peeled off my eyes, and I gazed blankly into the gloom of my bedroom.
My phone was dead on the charging pad. The damn thing came unplugged again, something I hadn’t noticed when I set the phone down.
I forced myself out of the covers, pausing only to grab a sweatshirt. Bits and pieces of a dream flitted through my mind. It wasn’t until I faced the front door that my heart skipped.
Did last night really happen? I ran my hands over my body.
It didn’t feel satisfied, which made sense since I’d been denied the release in the dream.
I thought I remembered taking care of the itch with the purple bunny ear toy, but that was also the same time I took the sleeping pills, so who could say?
The only evidence was the smell of the pool.
I definitely went swimming and didn’t bother to shower. That was the only thing I could say with certainty.
An angry fist thumped on the door.
Something told me it wasn’t him. No…he wouldn’t bother knocking.
“He would have found a way in.” My whisper came out as a hollow rasp.
Clearing my throat, I inched forward and pressed my face against the wood. On the other side of the peephole was a platinum blonde with big tits and a wriggling puffball in her arms.
Great.
Running my fingers through my hair, I gave the sticky, chlorinated mess a fluff. There weren’t enough beauty aids in the world to make me presentable for the demon spawn waiting on the other side.
“Carole! Good morning, what a pleasant surprise!” I smiled widely as I pulled the door open.
Brown eyes raked over me. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, and you’re still not dressed?”
Crap, there went my Saturday morning. Stupid pills.
And now my stepmom had caught me.
Just freaking great.
With a stifled sigh, I stepped aside and let the child of Satan enter my sanctuary.
A man, who was as tall as me with a groovy handlebar mustache, ambled behind her.
I hadn’t noticed him, but what was another witness to this disaster?
Carole seeing me made it ten times as bad.
The man gave me a friendly smile, but I caught the grimace he shared with Queen Barbie as I locked the door.
“We have our work cut out for us,” Carole said flatly.
Ignoring the jab, I made a beeline for my espresso machine. “Can I offer either of you a coffee?”
“Ooh, a Cafspress 800! I have the 700 model. I would love to see what kind of joe the upgrade makes,” the man said in a heavy accent that I couldn’t place.
I gave him a short nod. “It’s worth every penny. Carole?”
“No…thanks.” The sniff was implied. “Is there volcanic spring water? Chandler is thirsty. Aren’t you, precious?”
The puffball sneezed.
“Ack, do you have perfume or a Scentsy pot? You know Chandler’s allergies are sensitive to inorganic scents!” Carole whipped her plastic face around, searching for the source of the dog’s sneezes.
“I have an air plug.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “Didn’t know you were coming, or I would have smudged the place.”
The strange man hid his laugh by trying to seem busy.
“Here you go. I’m Amanda, by the way.” I handed the cup of coffee to the guest.
“Bill.”
That was not what I was expecting him to say. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep a straight face.
“Bill Rutin.” He stuck out his other hand to shake mine. It looked like a dead fish—not that I ever had touched one. The firm, unyielding grip was a surprise. Rough with callouses, his hand felt like it could do damage.
“Hi…Bill.” I arched a brow between him and the devil in pink. “Welcome to my home.”
“Enough, enough,” Carole sighed dramatically. “We have the wedding of the century to plan. My darling girl is marrying British royalty!”
Bill cheered. “Right-o, she is!”
The wedding planner. Yup. That explained it. When I emailed my dad’s secretary’s assistant to just set me up an appointment, I didn’t think Emery would include my stepmother in the invitation.
I sank onto a barstool. “So nice that you make house calls.”
“She hasn’t given us proper notice to plan,” Carole pouted. “How are we supposed to book Saint Mark’s in such a short amount of time?”
I blew on my coffee. If I was any bit religious, this was the time to offer up a prayer for patience. Pulling myself up straight, I held up a hand.
“Let me stop you right there. It will be a small, intimate ceremony. We will get married in Boston, not…wherever you just said. And I don’t want flowers.”
Carole gasped and slapped a hand over her heart. The puffball wriggled, desperate to get away from the heaving chest.
Bill frowned. “I was told Venice.”
“As in Italy?” Oh, that was too cruel.
Once, a long time ago, I dreamed of eloping to embrace the man I loved under the warm Tuscan sun. Not Venice, but outside Florence.
But that was another life. One where fairy tales existed.
“Of course, Venice,” my stepmom sniffed. “It’s where everyone goes. Stop being so childish.”
Billionaires, sure. Celebrities, naturally.
But even though we had money, we weren’t on either of those levels. Pointing that out would only make me seem petulant in her eyes, so I didn’t poke the sore spot.
“I refuse to go to Italy,” I said flatly. “Plus, I don’t think I can take the time off work.”
“You’re such an ungrateful daughter,” Carole faux sobbed. “See what I have to put up with?”
Bill nodded solemnly.
I wanted to scream.
“And as far as work, your father will handle that.” Carole waved her hand.
Like hell I was letting that happen. Not with the promotion up for grabs. I could barely afford to lose today, let alone time to travel internationally.
“How about England?” Bill insisted. “That way the groom’s family and friends can attend.”
“No!” I protested, while at the same time, Carole squeaked, “How lovely! I didn’t even think of Westminster Abbey. We could put it on the television.”
I put two fingers on either side of my temples and rubbed hard. “Boston. The groom said Boston.”
“He doesn’t matter,” Carole snapped. “This is your wedding.”
By which she meant her chance to shine.
The puffball sneezed again. “Will you kindly take out that air plug!”
I hopped off the barstool, already knowing this was a losing battle.
But I wasn’t easily bullied. Bill played his role of mediator well, and I wondered if he’d ever been trained in mock trial.
Eventually, after I dug my heels in and declared I would rather go to the courthouse, Carole relented.
No Europe. Which meant I had to cave to the suggestion of Martha’s Vineyard.
“He’s peeing on my sofa,” I groaned, watching the pencil stick leg lift and a tiny stream of yellow stained the edge of the couch. “Carole! The furniture.”
“Oh, nonsense, he’s fine,” she snapped and turned her attention back to designer gowns.
I glared at Chandler, promising to feed him to a hawk, while his mommy whined that none of the red-carpet brands had openings for her mother-of-the-bride dress. Again, Bill worked his magic, offering her an appointment at an exclusive, highly sought-after couture brand with whom he had a favor.
“I’ll use it to have your daughter fitted tomorrow morning,” he promised.
They didn’t leave until after seven. And that was only because Carole had dinner plans with a tycoon’s third wife. I locked the door and sagged against the barrier.
“I need five minutes,” I protested.
My inner competitive driver didn’t argue.
Trudging to the sofa, with the drying pee stain on the front side, I nearly stepped on a brown, smelly present the puffball left on the floor. I let out an angry groan and jumped over the mess, falling into the cushions.
Maybe I would take up fishing. Chandler would make great bait for some big ocean monster.
Closing my eyes, I started box breathing to clear my mind. I wasn’t a cruel person. I liked animals. I wished I had a furry companion of my own! But the yippy, spindly-legged rat barely counted as living. There were robotic dogs that had more sense than him.
When my blood pressure lowered, I risked a peep at my phone. There were no new messages.
There was the thread with my sister. Correspondence with coworkers. The group chat of gal-pals was bubbling out of control since it was Saturday, but the one text thread that I needed to send to the cops?
It was still gone.
“Well, you aren’t getting off that easily, mister,” I hissed.
I opened a search tab to find out how to restore deleted messages. But I stopped myself after reading the first line.
“What if….”
I couldn’t bring myself to say it. If the messages had never been there in the first place, did I want to prove that to myself?
At least if I thought they existed, I wouldn’t have to face the reality that my workload was too much, my personal life too complicated, and it was all adding up into a slow, torturous mental decline.
It was easier to believe there had been text messages, even if that was just the result of stress mixing fiction with reality.
Except that dream had been hot. Dangerous. Forbidden. And I’d most definitely gone swimming. Hell, I could have sleepwalked into the pool.
A shudder rolled down my spine.
Exiting out of the internet tab, I pulled up the most active group chat. These friends didn’t have regular jobs. They lived and breathed on being popular. If I hadn’t gone to the same Ivy League as half of them and pledged to the same sorority, they wouldn’t have given me the time of day.
“What’s up, bitches!” I said the words I typed out loud. “Where are we partying tonight?”
Megan: She exists!
Leah: She’s alive!
Denver: Get that fine ass over here, and let’s pregame!
I responded with some choice emojis and closed the phone. Letting my head fall back, I drew in some deep breaths. Normalcy. No work. Forget about the marriage contract. Don’t mention the stalker.
Just one night of good, drama-filled girly fun. That was exactly what I needed.