The Book Waitress Series Volume One (13 page)

He waited patiently for her to find her voice. “I…I don’t want you to see my body. Not like this.”

“Love-making can take many forms, sweetheart. Take me to your bed, Cam. I’ll show you.”

She bit her lower lip and wrung her hands. Could she trust him, or herself? Enough to let go of the well-engrained bitterness and skepticism that came from previous heartbreak? She swallowed the lump that had formed in the back of her throat and took that leap of faith for the first time since the dreadful debacle many years ago. “Okay. Come this way.”

Taking him by the hand, she led him upstairs to her bedroom. He closed the door behind him, walked across the room to pull down the window shade, and looked around.

“What are you looking for?”

“Your hairbrush. Ah, there it is.” He grabbed it from the bedside table.

“What on earth do you need that for? Listen, I’m not into that S and M stuff.”

At first, he looked puzzled, but he laughed after a moment. “Oh, my God! Don’t worry. I’m not, either.” He mounted the tall, queen-sized bed, and beckoned her to follow. “Come on up here.”

She couldn’t very well resist the half-naked man sitting on her bed, gazing upon her with adoring eyes. It would have been rude. And utterly nuts! So, she took the daintier way up and used the foot stool on the side of the bed. She took the first step and winced.

“Stop! Don’t take another step.” He hopped down and swooped her up to sit her gently on the edge. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“Please, you’re the furthest thing from an idiot. So, what are you going to do with that?” She pointed to the brush he twirled in his hand. He sidled up behind her, and, like a warm, cozy shawl, wrapped himself around her. She closed her eyes while he spoke softly in her ear.

“When I was little, my parents never cut my hair. Remember, they were hippies. It got long, let me tell you.” His fingers massaged her shoulders and she couldn’t help but let out a soft moan. “Well, I kept it long for quite a while, even through college. Every now and then, when I would get pissed off over something, a female friend of mine would get my brush and brush my hair. It soothed me.”

He brushed aside a few strands, and his whispers seduced her heart and soul. “I want to soothe you, Cam. Not to mention, your golden curls have been a total seductive distraction for me since my eyes first locked with yours. My fingers are craving to dive in. And I won’t begin to tell you the fantasies that have hounded me about how those wisps will feel against my skin. That’ll be for another time. For now, I want to make love to you like this.”

Her hand, as if drawn by a magnet, reached up to rest upon his cheek. She turned her head ever so slightly and found his lips eager for hers. Long and slow, warm and soft, she lost all sense of time and place as she gave herself over completely to the passion igniting welcomed fires in her belly and points south. His fingers laced around her head in a possessive, aggressive maneuver, and quickly drew back. Through the blur of her own desires, she peered into eyes that had briefly lost the battle as well.

Voice thick with need, he proclaimed, “Hair. Soothe. Now.” She laughed throatily, and nodded her agreement.

She could feel his hands tremble at first, as though it took every ounce of energy to keep from falling apart and giving in to his baser need. She completely understood, as she sat before him, wrestling with her own desires and common sensibility. Her outer shell was in no condition for what her inner self yearned to experience with him.

With each tangle he unraveled, and every stroke of his fingers through her hair, she fell deeper and deeper into a state of calm she thought would never return to her life after her parents’ passing. A mewl escaped her lips. “You’re amazing.”

She felt him lean in and his hot breath tickled her ear. He nuzzled the sweet spot just behind her ear, and the mewling kitten growled like a lioness. Pulling back, he continued to lavish his attentions on the parts of her that didn’t ache, pinch, or burn. She wondered just how long the serenity would last. No sooner did she have that fleeting thought, than she got her answer.

A wave of scorching fire started from her shins and steamrolled its way up her arms. Kicking her head back into his chest, her body went rigid, and she lit up like a possessed Christmas tree.
“No!”

Kitten no more, and lioness muzzled, she instead raged like a demon from Hell. Strong hands pulled her back onto the bed to lie prone against the cool covers. In her pain-induced haze, she watched him leave the room and return moments later with rags in his hands. He placed one over her eyelids.
Cool relief!
He put the rest on her arms and legs, and finally, lifting her shirt, he placed the last one on her stomach.

“Ahh….” She sighed and smiled.

“It’s working? The rags are helping?”

She groped in the air for his hand to hold and found it. “Yes, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Whew! Can I get a fist bump and a high five, y’all? You know what I’m gonna buy? Ice packs. They’ll be perfect. This is huge, Cam, huge.” He sat beside her on the bed, flipping the rags over to their cooler sides, until the glowing dissipated and disappeared completely. “I checked my watch when I scrambled to the bathroom, and I just looked at it now. This episode lasted about a minute. That’s sixty seconds too long in my book, but if I can help reduce the pain during that time, I think we can consider that a success for now.”

“I’ll take what I can get. Just keep the cool coming.”

Chapter Four

George Rockford pounded the gavel with authority, and announced, “I now call the Shelter Island Town Council meeting to order. We have a full agenda tonight, ladies and gentlemen, so let’s keep the side conversations down to a minimum.”

Amidst rumblings and agreements, he continued to do what he did best. He ran the show. “In the interest of time, do I hear a motion to wave the reading of last meeting’s minutes?”

A hand shot up. “Aye.” Leave it to Randy Stalwart to be in favor of skipping steps.

“Do I hear a second?”

Another hand shot up. “I second.” Meredith Coates. Of course, the two of them probably had a tryst set up after the meeting.

“Make a note, Randy Stalwart made a motion, and Meredith Coates seconded. All right. Tonight, we need to discuss requested funding for the improvement of the town park. It’s grossly outdated, and we all know the equipment and pool present safety hazards. We have a town celebration coming up and need to have that pool repaired. We’ve received three bids. You’ve had a chance to look at the benefits and drawbacks of each. We need to come to a decision.”

“The third bid, Five Pointed Star Construction, seems a bit sketchy to me.” Emil Hanover’s voice boomed through the microphone, and he leaned back apologetically as he continued. “I know they’re quoting us the best price, but they’ve also had some run-ins with the Better Business Bureau. I looked into it, and people claim sub-par materials were used on certain jobs. I say Bid 2 is our best bet.”

The rest of them chimed in with their agreement. George agreed as well, and as he opened his mouth to make a motion for the approval of Bid 2, the strangest sensation washed over him. He couldn’t move a muscle and sat stone still while an insidious virus attacked and attached to every molecule in his body. The neurons in his brain ceased to fire for a matter of nanoseconds and re-fired, creating a new outlook on the world.

Reanimated, he spoke his mind with a voice not his own, yet his own at the same time. “We need to go with Bid 3. They’re the cheapest, and those reports are old. They’ve fired the people who were in charge at that time. We need to spread our budget as widely as possible. Emil, you have a stake in whether or not the drainage problem is fixed on Main St. Sheila, your school needs a new septic system. I could go on. Each of you has important issues that need addressing. If we don’t choose the cheapest bid now, someone will be shortchanged. All in favor of Bid 3, say aye.”

After a tense few moments where every member of the council picked their jaws up off the floor, one by one they raised their hands to support Bid 3 as their choice for the park renovations.

“That’s more like it.” George smiled, got up, and excused himself. “I’ll be right back. Take a five minute break.”

He walked to the men’s restroom, turned on the sink’s faucet, and splashed his face with icy water. When he looked at himself in the mirror, someone else’s face stared back at him. His eyes glowed fiery red, while his lips curled into a snarl. His head shook violently as he touched a trembling hand to the mirror before him, and smashed it to pieces.

“Break’s over!” He shouted while stalking back to the meeting room. Everyone returned to their seats. He remained standing, and looked out upon the group, devoid of any emotion other than pure hatred and a love of evil. Walking past each of the council members, he touched their left shoulders and gave a seemingly innocent squeeze by their collarbones. One by one, they sat erect, their eyes glazed over. “We have work to do. This is just the beginning. Go back to your families, jobs, and lives. Prepare for darkness. Evil shall reign yet!”

***

A very long, torturous week saw improvements on Camille’s injuries. No longer open wounds, they’d seared over, like brands, and were smooth, shiny, and pink. She didn’t bother with scar cream, since she figured hoping for that was no more than a pipe dream. They kept track of how many times a day she had episodes. Thirteen times, with no rhyme or reason as to when.

During the daily blur, they poured over the books he took from the library, searching for any small detail that could shed light on how to proceed. Since they discovered coolness helped reduce her pain, he
bought an obnoxious amount of icy gel packs. During breaks, sometimes she napped, covered in what amounted to an ice blanket. She had the idea to create an outfit where these packs could be sewn right in at the exact points to touch her scars, providing continuous comfort.

She had to give the man props. He went straight out and bought material for her to play around with, along with a used sewing machine. Finding just the right material was crucial. It had to have a little give, but be strong enough to hold the packs right up against her skin. Nothing worked. Not even spandex. It had been seven days of relentless pain, and she really needed something to work.
Some divine intervention to counterbalance Evil isn’t asking too much, is it?
She didn’t think so.

“I’ve got it!” He slammed his hand on the dining room table and jumped up from his seat.

“You found out how to close the portal?”

“No, I know what material to get you. I’ll be right back!” He grabbed his backpack, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and ran out before she could utter another word.

“That man is either crazy or brilliant. I guess I’ll soon find out.”

He returned about a half hour later, marching through the door like a triumphant warrior. “I’m either a genius or a crazy man, but this is gonna work either way!”

“Funny, I thought that about you as you ran out the door. What’s got you all pumped up?”

“Just look what I’ve brought home.” He pulled out a black scuba diving outfit with a shit-eating grin on his face. Waving the material with flourish, he rested it at her feet. “Huh? Huh? What do you think?”

She stood, crinkled her brow, and picked it up to feel it, stretch it, and visualize the possibilities. “By Jove, I think he’s got it! You are one crazy genius!” She laughed and tossed the outfit aside, opting to grab him instead for an extended toe-curling kiss. “Now, to get to work.”

“Seriously?” He twined his fingers through her curls, keeping her locked in place, and pulled her in for another scorching assault of his own. When he relinquished her lips, he offered a questioning glance.

“Yes, seriously. Hit the books, buddy. I’m gonna make me an outfit.”

He pouted. “You’re as cold as ice.”

“I’m willing to sacrifice our love… for a virtually pain-free existence. Ooh, come to think of it, I have that Foreigner song on my mp3 player. I’m gonna get it and crank it up to full blast.”

She detangled herself from him and set up her music to play. Cranking the volume to the max, she sat down with the suit and a pair of scissors before the sewing machine on the kitchen table. Singing with abandon along with the song, she devised an outfit to rival Batman. She attached the gel packs inside the redesigned outfit with Velcro and suited up in her bedroom.

“Well, what do you think?”

He turned around in his seat and thanked the Lord his jaw was attached to his skull, because it would have dropped right off otherwise. At the foot of the stairs stood the sexiest woman alive, dressed all in black like a superhero, or Catwoman. The neoprene hugged every curve and slope, and he held onto the table for dear life, afraid he’d tear it off of her and ravish the minx on the spot.

“Well?” She waited for a response, but he could only stare, his mouth having gone too dry to speak. She spun around and continued, her long spiral curls swinging gently like a curtain. “It feels good. I mean it’s pretty tight, but I can still breathe. And the gel packs are slender enough that I don’t think they make me look lumpy. Do they?”

“Do they do what?”

She huffed her annoyance. “Do they make me look lumpy? Do I look okay? Geez, Derek. What’s gotten into you?”

He prayed his legs would work, knowing they already felt like rubber rope, and stood. Slowly, he approached her. “I…I’m just gonna tell it to you straight. I can’t lie to you. I won’t.”

She scowled and bristled, “Damn it. I do look lumpy.”

He stalked over to her, a man possessed, and had she not backed up against the wall, he would have likely plowed right through her. Caging her with his arms, he pressed his taut body against hers so no question remained how he felt about the outfit. She gazed upon him like a doe caught in headlights. As he choked out his thoughts, quick puffs of her breath fell upon his lips, and he knew she teetered on the same edge.

“Darlin’, you are the sexiest woman on the planet. So freakin’ hot, I wanna rip that damn suit off you right now with my teeth and make love to you until we’re both too sore to move.”

She moistened her lips and they shined like luscious strawberries. “I…I…uh…uh….”

“I know.” He stepped back abruptly, raising his hands to free her. “We have work to do. Hell’s portal won’t close itself.” He sat back down at the table and turned back to his books. How much longer could he keep himself from following through with his base desires? He wrestled with that question and his racing heart, battling to calm his ragged breath. “And the suit is lumpy. In all the right places.”

She cleared her throat, and he thought she’d peeled herself away from the wall, since her voice trailed behind him and into the living room. “That’s all I wanted to know,” she muttered.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in strained silence. Page after page yielded nothing of any use, adding to his frustration. Why would the ghosts lead him to these books if they held nothing to guide them? Add to that, every part of him wanting her in the worst way, but too much, literally, lay between them. With no idea when the surges of pain could come, making love would be like playing a game of Russian Roulette.

“Hey, I’m going stir crazy here.” He looked up from his book to find her leaning against the archway between the living and dining rooms. “Since I have this armor of sorts, maybe we could go check on that woman your mom’s friend spoke of. I can put some loose clothes over top.”

“Sure. If you really think you’re up to it.”

“I’m up for some forward progress. I’ll be right back.”

Camille’s mood brightened as she locked up the house and walked to his car wearing a loose shirt and skirt. The scuba outfit and gel packs were working out brilliantly, and although she’d had another episode, it didn’t knock her off her feet this time. The weather seemed to agree with her disposition. Clear blue skies allowed the sun to create sparkling jewels across the surface of the lake. The breeze through the car window hinted at the possibility of an early autumn. Shelter Island was a beautiful place, she had to admit, despite the people that inhabited it. But she thought she might revise that conclusion based on the view before her. He’d stopped the car in front of what could only be described as a run-down shack.

“You sure you have the right address?”

Derek peered out his window and scowled. “It matches what my mother’s friend gave me. Take a look.” He passed her a scrap of paper. It matched, all right.

She sighed and opened her car door. “Well, best we get on with it. First impressions can deceive, so hopefully, the inside is in much better condition. I’d hate to think that this woman is living in squalor.”

“Me, too.” He grabbed her hand for a squeeze. She figured it served to reassure him as well as her that they were in this together, no matter what they discovered.

They took the wooden stairs together and he rang the doorbell. It took a second try and a yelp from inside to convince her anyone lived here. After a series of what sounded like a multitude of locks being undone, the weather-worn door creaked open a few inches, revealing a wiry, gray-haired woman, who epitomized the word creepy.

“Who are ya and what do you want?” Nails scratching on a blackboard would have been more welcome than the thin, scratchy voice that demanded answers.

“Myra Scroggins?”

“Who wants to know, I ask ya. And tell me your business here. Then I’ll see if I want to tell you who I am.”

“My name is Derek Galloway, and this is Camille Dutton. We have found ourselves in an unusual predicament for which my mother’s friend, Sandy Page, recommended your expertise. May we come in and speak with you?”

“Sandy Page, you say? Fine, upstanding woman. I haven’t seen her in a long time.” She considered them with a scrutinizing eye. “Well, friends of Sandy, you are welcome. Come in.”

“Thank you so much.” She offered her best, most earnest smile.

The door shut and reopened fully, freed from the final chain that held it closed.

“Come in, and have a seat.” The shriveled woman, dressed in a simple floral skirt and t-shirt, ushered them in as though they were wayward children. In a way, she felt like one. Would she ever be able to return to who she’d been before? She took a cursory glance around. They’d entered a shoebox of a kitchen, where every bit of counter space had been taken up with colorful apothecary jars. A bridge table, covered by a red tablecloth, sat centered in the room, with four metal folding chairs set around it. A floral scent tried to mask a musty odor, but failed.

“I’ll help you, but you must do me one thing.”

“What would that be?”

He pulled a chair out for her, but Myra shuffled over to a baker’s rack and opened one of its drawers. She took out a silk pouch and poured out a blue and white swirled stone, about the size of a walnut, into her pruned hand.