Possessed By You (Overworld Underground Book 1) (10 page)

I stood in the night air feeling cold, confused, and worst of all, alone. It made no sense. How had the evening gone from dinner to dancing to the promise of sex and suddenly to a car chase that left me trembling with fear?

Weak-kneed and dazed, I walked down the side street to the corner and crossed the road to my high-rise. The more I thought about the insanity of the past few minutes, the more I thought about Thomas's driving. He'd managed the tight turns at such a high rate of speed, dodging this way and that, as if it was something he'd done all his life. Could he be a getaway driver for bank robbers? Perhaps those men were his former accomplices and they wanted their money.

And what in the world would I tell Isabel?

I took a moment to arrange myself in the mirror in the lobby, though my face still looked splotchy from crying. I rode up the lift and opened the door to the flat as quietly as possible. Isabel wasn't in the den. I peeked around corners and saw her room was dark as well. She'd left a message on the dry erase board next to the front door.

Out on a date. Can't wait to hear how yours went!

Little hearts surrounded her message, along with a drawing of two stick figures obviously engaged in sexual acts with mine and Thomas's names beneath them. My face flushed, and I erased them, then wiped everything from the board with quick, angry strokes.

I should be having mind-blowing sex right this very moment, or cuddling against Thomas, feeling his electric skin against mine. Instead, I was a complete and utter mess. A hot mess. A little whimper escaped my mouth and fresh tears ran down my cheeks. My clothes felt damp and clingy, probably because I'd broken out into a cold sweat, a hot sweat, and God only knew what else during the terrifying car chase.

I had to get washed. To feel clean. Right now I felt worn out and used. I went into my room and tore off my clothes, threw them into the corner. Got into the shower and turned it nearly scalding hot. I hadn't planned on washing my hair tonight, but did it anyway. My skin was bright pink when I got out and dried. I felt cleaner on the outside, but it didn't make me feel any better on the inside. I found Isabel's stash of ice cream bars and wine, and helped myself to them. I turned on the television and watched it mindlessly in a futile effort to forget the night's events.

My phone dinged. I pulled it from my purse, hoping it was Thomas. Instead, it was from Isabel.

Don't wait up!

My heart dropped to a new low. God, I wanted to talk to her so badly right now. Nothing made sense, and my stomach twisted relentlessly inside me, cramping with pain, confusion, and anger. I drank more wine. Ate more ice cream. Hoped that the teenage mother on the reality telly show I was watching would wise up and get rid of the loser who'd impregnated her. Why were we women so stupid? Why did we put our trust in these assholes who thought with their stupid little pricks, and pranced around like they knew everything?

Why did some of them have to seem so wonderful, and make me feel so good about myself? How could they make me want to give the most intimate part of myself away?

"Stinking bastards. Assholes!"

I gulped down the rest of the wine, which was quite a lot and shouted a curse aimed at the idiot man on television who'd not only knocked up his girlfriend, but apparently her two sisters as well. I decided more wine was necessary if I was going to continue watching this rubbish. I poured another glass, whimpering as Thomas's pained looked flashed into my mind.

My phone sat next to me on the couch. I snatched it up and scrolled down for his number. It only then occurred to me I didn't actually have his number, and he didn't have mine. I felt helpless. How was I supposed to know if he was okay? I didn't even know where he lived. My mind grew more sluggish and my eyelids heavier. Perhaps drinking so much wine hadn't been such a wonderful idea. I slumped to the side and let the pain and the light slip away.

I woke up with a very stiff neck and a terrible ache in my bladder. My head pounded, and my mouth felt painfully dry. Deciding the ache in my bladder couldn't be ignored, I rolled off the couch and staggered to the bathroom, barely managing to sit down before I lost control. After finishing, I groaned and went to bed. As I fell into it, my eye caught sight of the digital clock. It was six thirty.

Six thirty!

Ignoring the terrible pain in my head and neck, I took off my PJs and pulled on my work clothes—a pair of dress slacks, and button-up shirt. By then I realized there was no way I could ignore the pain. I took three ibuprofen and gulped down a glass of water. I had no time to make lunch or my morning tea, and scooted out the door. Just as the door was about to close behind me, I jammed a foot in it just in time, and raced back inside to grab my purse, phone, and most importantly, my keys.

Every bounce hurt my head as I jogged down the sidewalk. I tried to flag down a taxi, but they all seemed to be full. I felt so scatterbrained.

Despite my urgency, I kept my eyes peeled for George Walker. If I ran into him, I planned to make him answer my questions. I had my new stun gun ready and willing to go if he resisted. George didn't make an appearance, so I kept on going.

Breathless, I finally reached the building. My legs felt like rubber, and my feet ached even though I'd worn flats instead of heels for the emergency situation. I didn't even want to look at the time.

A man in the lift pulled out his large phone just as seven o'clock flicked onto the screen. My nerves redoubled their efforts to twist my stomach into unimaginable shapes. It seemed the lift stopped at every floor along the way before finally reaching my office. I fairly flew off, rushed to the kitchen to start the morning coffee. Meanwhile, my mind was finally clearing a bit thanks to the ibuprofen. I wondered if Thomas would show up and what I'd do if he did. I wanted to beat him with a cricket bat. I wanted to kiss him and make sure he was all right. I wanted to throw a steaming cup of tea in his face. I wanted to see his smile and the twinkle in his eyes.

Get it straight, you idiot!

I heated up a cup of water in the microwave and tossed a bag of green tea into it, determined to pump some caffeine into my flustered system. I knew I had to do
something
when I saw Thomas, but what? What if he never showed up? What if he was in jail right this very moment? My stomach went cold with fear. If only I had his number!

It then occurred to me that Sandra had to have his number. She was, after all, the Executive Liaison. It took me all of two minutes to find a sheet of numbers taped to the desk. I ran my finger down the list and found Thomas Jones. Deciding it might be safer to call from the office phone, I picked up the receiver and dialed the number.

I heard a ringing from my left. From the executive hallway.

Chapter 9

I slammed down the receiver. Anger, surprise, pain, and too many more emotions to name roiled in my guts. Was he here already? I marched down the hall to his office. Through his office window, I saw him talking to Burt Jameson with the door closed. I backed up a step before he saw me and tried to hear what they were saying, but I could only pick out bits and pieces from their muffled voices.

He must be confessing his crimes to the boss, I thought. Or trying to talk his way out of the consequences. Most of the negative emotions melted away, leaving only confusion and concern. It made sense he was here early if he somehow escaped his pursuers. Or maybe it made no sense at all. Why not skip town? Why not escape with me and his millions of stolen dollars to an island in the Caribbean?

What in God's name was going on here?

I heard the hubbub of conversation from the front area and went to the reception desk as employees trickled in. Jack stepped off the lift and did a double take.

"Wow, you look tense," he said. "Too much caffeine in the green chai?"

I managed a laugh. "I overslept and had to run in."

"Man, I hate it when that happens. Hinkle gets all over my ass."

"I'm just glad Sandra isn't here."

"Yeah, that'd be brutal." He opened his mouth to say something. Paused. "Uh, well, guess I better get back there."

"See you later," I said, hardly paying attention as he walked away. I dropped into the seat and caught myself peering down the executive hallway every few seconds. Nearly an hour later, Burt Jameson emerged from the office, leaving the door open.

"If you feel fine, then I don't see a problem," he said. "Thanks for letting me know."

Thomas's muffled voice echoed down the hall, but I couldn't make out what he said.

Burt laughed. "Yeah, it's called getting old." Then he walked down the hall toward his office at the end.

Kevin walked past the front desk, a stack of charts and a tripod under one arm. He sidled up to the desk, eyes flicking toward the executive hall. "You hear about Jones?" he said.

My hands trembled. I tucked them into my lap. "No, what happened?"

He tapped his temple. "His memory is screwed up. Got in a fender bender and bumped his head."

Thomas's warning echoed in my head. "He lost his memory from a bump?"

"So he says. I gotta go in and show him what we've been up to."

"Do you need my help?" I said, desperately wanting to see Thomas.

"That'd be great. You have time?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Can you run to my cubicle and grab the other set of charts?" Kevin made a motion with his head, indicating the general direction.

"Sure thing." I hurried down the hall, past my little office, and grabbed the materials. My hands shook, whether due to nerves or excitement, I didn't know.

Voices echoed from the conference room. I entered to see Kevin putting the charts on the tripod.

"What's with the tripod?" Thomas said, his voice sounding different, almost like a weaker version of his normal tone and timbre.

"Uh, you told us you preferred us to do it this way," Kevin said, looking back and forth between the charts and Thomas.

"Uh-huh." Thomas took a seat. Aside from a small bandage on his forehead, he looked fine, albeit a bit pale. Something else seemed off. "Paper charts on a tripod. How many years have we been using the projector?"

"I'm not sure, Mr. Jones. Ever since I started working here."

"And I suddenly decided to go back a century."

"Um." Kevin seemed at a loss for words.

"You asked them to switch to paper," I said from his side.

He flicked his head my way. Instead of a look of recognition, his eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

"Emily Glass, the new intern." I looked at him, trying to figure out what it was that seemed so different about his appearance.

"Since when? What happened to Shannon?"

"Shannon hasn't been with us for three months," Kevin said. "Emily just started with us this week."

"So you're the expert on office procedure after a week?" Thomas said, sparing me a disparaging glance. He stood, walked to the front of the room, and knocked the charts off the stand. "Put this crap into a digital presentation, and get it done by lunch so I can look over the figures." He headed my way toward the door. Stopped and turned back to Kevin. "And get me the sales figures from the past three months. I may have lost some memories, but I sure as hell haven't lost my damned mind." With that, he stormed past me, his shoulder bumping me aside.

My vision blurred and a lead weight sagged in my chest. He hadn't recognized me in the slightest. And he'd practically shoved past me. What happened to him last night? A hand touched my shoulder. I flinched.

"I'm sorry, Emily." Kevin stared out the door. "Great. Looks like the old Jones is back from vacation. Maybe they should send him on another one."

I nodded, hardly hearing his words, as I dragged my heavy heart out the door and back to the front desk, trying with all my might not to cry.

Lunch came around, and Thomas emerged from the executive hall, pressed the button for the lift. He turned and squinted at me. "Where's Sandra?"

"Sick." A lump climbed in my throat at the sight of him. He seemed smaller somehow. Less robust. As if someone had taken a vibrant picture and washed out all the colors. But the nagging thought that something else was completely wrong with his appearance wouldn't go away. Not only that, but the usual vibe I got from Thomas was completely absent, as if this was a shadow of a copy of the real man.

The difference slapped me in the face.
His eyes are brown!
Had he been wearing contacts? If he had, they'd been exceptionally good, because I could usually tell the difference.

"She's never sick." Thomas grunted.

I snapped out of my confusion. "Is your head okay?" I didn't dare mention I'd been with him the night before.

He touched the bandage. "It's fine. Damndest thing. I remember vacation, and then
poof
"—he snapped his fingers—"nothing. Woke up behind the wheel of a car I don't even remember buying."

"Your Range Rover?"

He grunted. "You've seen it? Too expensive. Too fancy for my tastes. Give me a Ford sedan and I'm a happy man. None of this import crap."

"Sometimes you have to live a little," I said, smiling hopefully.

"Not if you have to waste money to do it." He banged on the lift button several times. "Damned thing is slow today."

"Will you be going out for pho soup?" I hoped the question jogged a memory.

He turned back to me. "What soup?

"Vietnamese noodle soup."

"I don't eat that crap." He narrowed his eyes. "Are you saying I've been eating some kind of Asian garbage food?"

I shrugged. "You mentioned going there one day, sir."

His lips curled into a grimace. "Christ Almighty, it's like I was possessed." He crossed the distance between the lift and the desk and said, "The Blue Ribbon Grill or Mackey's are the only two places I eat lunch. Why? Because the food is good, it's cheap, and I know it ain't got dog meat or some other shit in it." He shook his head as the lift dinged, casting me one more venomous look before getting on. "Eating Asian food. Gotta be kidding me."