Tricks & Treats: A Romance Anthology (24 page)

She tied the bodice as best she could by herself and stole one last look at the bed. He was like a statue of muscle and hard body tangled up in the white sheets. What a memory. She sighed. And the best part? This was one hundred percent guilt free. She would never see him again, so she wouldn’t die of embarrassment.

She opened the door and slipped out into the dimly lit hallway, closing the door quietly behind her. She leaned against it for a minute and sighed. Thank you Mr. Steely Eyes. She might actually start that new job in New York with a spring in her step on Monday.

The End

If you enjoyed this short story by Kallie Clarke see what happens to Cassie Kennedy as she starts her new life in New York City in the expanded version of Waking up in Vegas coming in April, 2017.

About the Author

Kallie Clarke is the pen name of an author living and publishing in St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada. Under her real name, which shall remain anonymous, Kallie is an author of historical fiction and numerous academic works of history.

Being part of the Romance the Rock group has inspired her to wade into the romance waters. Waking Up in Vegas is her first contemporary/erotic romance and is a short story that is currently being expanded into a full length novel for release in April , 2017.

She can be contacted at by emailing
[email protected]
.

Story Ten

Old Haunts by Kelli Blackwood

This is a work of fiction. Places, names, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to locales, actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express permission from the author.

Copyright © 2016 Kelli Blackwood

All rights reserved.

Dedication

This is for my many supporters, but especially for my wonderful husband and daughter who have been extremely patient with me and my 'stories' over the years. My greatest story will be the one about the two of you.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my husband, for teaching me that love is real and that I am worthy of it, and never doubting I could do the seemingly impossible. Many thanks to my writers' group, Rocket Writers NL, for your unwavering belief and always constructive criticisms. My dearest friend BDP, you have been there for me every day, despite our geographic 'disadvantage'. Your kindness and generosity are an incredible inspiration and mean the world that me. To my 'inadvertent muse', PT, who never asked for the role but accepted it and my writing with grace and gusto, I owe you. Also, to my many mentors—too numerous to name, but never forgotten—your advice and encouragement have been invaluable, and sincerely appreciated. To all the 'others', I thank you for everything you've given me. To all of you, I only hope I can give a little back.

Chapter One

I thought the signs I had made were obvious, that
I
had been obvious. So why, for so long, did Gordon only ever seem to see me as Breezy, the girl next door, the best friend? That question had almost destroyed me in high school, but I thought I had moved on. Only now, after returning for my father’s funeral, did it haunt me again. Ironic that the name of this town was Bonavista.
Buona vista
, in Italian, meant ‘good sight.’

We grew up here, Gord and I, and our other friends, in a town once known for fishing but that would become a tourism crown jewel and an entrepreneur’s dream within ten years of our graduation. These days, Bonavista was an example of vision, culture, and ingenuity. The town exemplified the sort of industriousness that Newfoundlanders have been known for from the early sixteenth century, since shortly after Giovanni Caboto had landed on the rocky shore, mere kilometres from where I now stood.

My family, the Abbotts, had settled here in the mid-eighteenth century; Dad gave me a different year every time he told me the story. It occurred to me now, of course, he would never tell me that story again. I turned my thoughts back to Gordon, assuming that would help. Raw is raw, though. No matter what scab you pick at, it hurts, and you bleed. I was done with hurting and bleeding. If I did not move on soon, I felt I would die.

It was a great day for a funeral. That sounds like a terrible thing to say, but it stems from the sense of humour I shared with my father. Greville Abbott would have found a funeral on Hallowe’en the perfect joke. So did I. I felt nothing like laughing now, though. Numb was a better word to describe me, but that would change.

Bonavista was generally quiet this time of night. Most of the teens and twenty-somethings—though let me be honest, there were thirty- and forty-somethings who did it, too—had finished their cruise of ‘the loop’ in their loud, slow-moving cars. They would circle from Confederation Drive and Canon Bayley Road to Church Street, occasionally breaking to head to Canaille or to the Cape, once they had chosen a partner—or two—from the side of the road. Church Street had not been one-way since the ’nineties, but people still took the loop clockwise. Maybe they thought it brought luck. Hell, a number of them got lucky, after all. The loop was like a cakewalk, and if you liked cake, there would be quite an assortment of the beef and cheese varieties for the choosing.

Gord and I had walked the loop with friends most weekend nights. None of our small crowd were looking for casual sex. The walk was simply a social activity. It was what you did, other than see a movie or go to the takeout or a dance or somewhere. The loop was a fun place to people watch, to keep up with the neighbors and be ready for the ‘Tony’s girlfriend was with Jack but that’s only fair since Tony was screwing Melinda behind the stadium’ gossip for the next Monday at school.

Gord seemed to make signs back then, too. He would put a hand around my shoulder if we took the dark shortcut behind the post office, or brush my hair from my face as we sat and chatted on a rock. He often told me things about himself and finished with, ‘I never told anyone that before,’ as if he had a million secrets locked away in his heart. He would let me burrow into his arm if we saw a horror movie at the Garrick and I got frightened.

Yet, he never tried to kiss me. Never did he actually declare anything romantic or talk about what the future might hold for us. Though, to be fair, neither did I. I sometimes had visions of us in one of our regular haunts, where Gord would brush the wayward hair from my lips, then graze my lips with his thumb as though he had only noticed my skin for the first time. Then, I imagined, he would kiss me softly before pulling me down into the wet sand at the shore and caressing my skin, my tenderest places, with that same thumb, that same warm mouth. It never happened. Perhaps it could have. I did not know. I now think the attraction was mutual, but it still came to nothing. Still, I would let myself fantasize. I fought hard not to do it now. The streets were quiet, but this was still a public place. To allow myself the sexual charge I would enjoy from such fantasy would feel awkward and inappropriate enough here, but especially today. Hallowe’en was a day for dead things, and my father was one of them.

I took advantage of the bright moonlight, and began my walk on Church Street. When I left Bonavista, I left all of this behind: my home, my friends, my memories, my life, Gord. Looking back, perhaps that was intentional. I could not go one loving someone if he did not love me back, or loved me and could never tell me. Tonight, though, I regretted drifting away.

No matter what time of night, wander through your old haunts for long enough and you will find other souls wandering just as lost as you are. I saw old Mrs. Little at one point, looking out of her house to her garden, empty but for a gnarled crabapple tree, its rotten children littered in the dying grass. No candy coating for those offspring, and no offspring at all for Mrs. Little, who became a widow in her twenties and never remarried. I wondered if she looked out now for an errant trick-or-treater, late as it was. She always gave the best and most generous treats to us when we were kids.

Mr. Johnson was visible tonight, too. That was rare. He was a man who kept to himself and had a reputation for being mean and angry. In reality, he was not, but he had every right to be. Everyone had treated him as though he were somehow evil and twisted because he preferred to keep his own company rather than be overtly social. Mr. Johnson had never intended to be friendless, though. Gossip and speculation robbed him of a life and even when he walked amongst us, he was always quite alone. It was only upon reflection that I understood who Mr. Johnson really was. Tonight, he seemed to wait for someone to break his loneliness, but I felt he was not seeking me. Besides, tonight, I had planned to walk alone.

For October, the night was milder than I expected. The sky was clear and dyed indigo, the stars like intricate embroidery in threaded white gold. The moon glowed silver and I followed the moonlight to the bridge, where it rippled against the black water, a breeze on dark silk. When I looked up again he was there.

Gordon stood on the bridge over the water, his back arched and his forearms resting on the barrier. He looked peaceful, but sad, and I knew exactly how he felt.

As a teenager, Gordon was always good-looking, but as he had aged a little, he had come to bear a
gravitas
that made him look so intelligent and thoughtful, as well as incredibly handsome. He had always been intelligent and thoughtful, of course, but you could see it now so clearly. Gone were the hoodies and tight jeans of youth, replaced by a grey wool medium length coat and dark trousers, well cut. Seeing him, his thick fair hair waving in the light wind, I could not breathe.

Perhaps it was the moon, or the distinguished ruggedness of his face, or the funeral of the chilly morning, but I felt that the time had come to say my piece and I approached him. I did not rush. I did not touch him.

“Breanna, I missed you so much over the last ten years.”

There were tears in those beautiful grey eyes. He was probably the only guy back in our youth whom I had ever seen cry unabashedly. Most boys I knew never cried, or at least not in front of others. Gordon, though, would simply weep when affected. His tears were beautiful and haunting. He would let the tears fall until they stopped of their own accord, no more bothered by them than a sudden sun shower. He told me once that no one could stop the rain.

I had not seen him at the funeral, but that meant nothing. I had kept to myself today. I guessed, though, that was why he had come back home from wherever his life had taken him. I wanted to embrace him, but I did not try, not after so long a time without so much as a word. I did not feel that I could, and I imagined he did not feel he could do so, either.

“I missed you, too, Gordon. You have no idea how much.”

Gord pulled his coat a little tighter, and I had to wonder if it was a sudden chill or an unconscious signal that he had hidden his heart from me. Could I blame him if he had? I had been the one to leave first, after all.

Once, though, he had been first to leave. We were eighteen and Gordon and I had planned to watch a movie. We were eighteen, and dad and mom were using the living room. They trusted us and adored Gordon, and so we settled ourselves on the cream and rose patchwork quilt on my bed, the light of the television and a single night light between total darkness and us. My bedroom was our own private theatre, and the suspension of disbelief allowed us to lose ourselves within the story, which of course now, I cannot recall.

Gord had scratched at his arm and I took over, gently scratching his forearm from wrist to elbow along the inner length. Rhythmic and soothing though I had been, I felt my heart beat harder, and as he relaxed himself beneath my hand, I could have drunk his scent. He exuded a clean musk that screamed masculinity and was ridiculously intoxicating.

Our hands eventually intertwined, and he did not flinch and I did not squeeze. The touch was natural and soft; we said nothing but had Gordon made any further move, I would have given myself to him completely.

I was a virgin but not naïve. I felt myself open for him that night, my blood throbbing low inside of me. I was tempted to reach my other hand to his belly and slide my fingers along his fly, to feel whether he had such a fierce need of me, but I could not dare. Gordon had taken my hand but still, I could take no part of him.

We stayed that way until the movie ended. The sudden blueness of the screen broke the spell. I ached, in my heart and at the centre of my sex. Gordon released my hand and as he passed through the doorway of my room, he said nothing but ‘good night.’

I should have said something. I should have touched him. I should have told him not to leave and led him back to my bed, but I was weak. Enough time has passed that I can look back and be certain that I failed us both that night.

I could not sleep after he left. When I finally heard my father snoring, and stopped hearing my mother admonish him for it, I crept down to the living room at the opposite side of the house, and took the matter of relief into my own hands. I bit a pillow to keep silent as I came at my own lonely touch. I cried quietly through each climax and there were many. I finally tiptoed back up to my room at dawn, my body exhausted and wet, my fingers sticky and numb. I told my parents, when they came to wake me, that I was ill. They went on to work. I stayed in bed all day and sobbed, and when Gordon called me, I did not answer. He left no message, either.

Had Gord meant for me to make a move? Yes, probably. At the time, I did not know, but I knew I should have done
something
.

I wanted to say,
If only he had
said
something to me.
I was a hypocrite.

The next time I saw him, things were awkward. We walked the loop yet again with our friends Bobby, Jenn, and Lucas. Gord and I talked to each other like normal, but it did not feel normal to me, not anymore. Gord was the second to leave, right after Bobby, so that he would not have to leave first this time. I stayed out until midnight, just trying to lie to myself. That was summer after senior year, just before I went away.

Now, tonight, Gord was standing right in front of me on the trestle bridge. Bobby, Lucas, and Jenn were not here. The town was quiet and it was well past midnight. I could no longer lie to myself. I loved this man in my youth, and unless something had changed drastically, something I was unaware of, then I loved him still.

“Walk with me,” I entreated, “like old times.”

Gordon hesitated, just briefly, then turned and began walking down Church Street toward the shore. I had to catch him up a bit. Perhaps my body was not quite what it used to be, but he seemed to glide, he was so fast.

“Dad didn’t seem sick for very long,” I mumbled, looking for a way to break into conversation.

“Cancer. That’s always a terrible way to go. Always.” Gordon looked at me as though disbelieving we were together after all this time.

“Dad’s not suffering now. He was ready, Gord, and I’m actually sort of happy for him.”

“I know,” he replied. “He’s at peace. We all deserve that in the end.”

“I like to think it’s something we all get when we die.”

He paused, and then turned up Roper Street, toward the Plantation. Mockbeggar Plantation was historic, and beautiful. I had passed it many times over the years before I finally went inside at fourteen. That was much too late considering I had grown up so close, but we rarely notice what is right in front of our eyes. The house was just one part of the Plantation, dating to the eighteen-seventies, but the fishing plantation itself predated it by at least a hundred and forty years. Mockbeggar had served many uses, and been a part of history for not only Bonavista, but for Canada. One of its many residents had been instrumental in making Newfoundland a province. How many souls had passed through this place, I wondered? What events did they witness? What was in front of their eyes that the rest of us might have missed?

“Do you remember telling me you’d seen a ghost here? In the middle window?”

Gordon stopped, turning slowly. He gave me a sharp look, as though he were reading me and had hit a confusing passage. “I doubt I ever said that, exactly. I said I’d seen a glowing
light
when there should not have been one. But a ghost? No. Never. Others told me stories, though.” He stepped closer to me, raised his hand as though to touch my sleeve, and then let it hover as though unsure whether I would be receptive to his touch. “What made you say that, Breanna?”