Authors: Devon Scott
Dawn had already erupted by the time Ryan steered his car home.
Home.
No longer a home. Now, merely a one bedroom in a Northeast apartment building that’s recently been refurbished. The rent is close to what he’s paying for the mortgage on the house. Pays extra for underground parking. Ryan pulls into the nondescript concrete space that is relatively quiet given the time. Just past 6:00
A
.
M
. and on a weekend. He kills the engine and sweeps his gaze around, feeling a sudden burst of insecurity surge through him.
She could be here.
Reese.
Waiting among the shadows.
He reaches down for the leather slapper he keeps under his seat, and grips it decisively in his hand as he exits his vehicle.
Checks both ways and behind him—nothing—before heading for the elevators.
One comes two minutes later.
Ryan lives on the ninth floor.
He decides to make a pit stop to grab his mail since he didn’t do it last night. The elevator door opens on the lobby level; Ryan cuts right toward the mailboxes, enters the mailroom quickly, and walks swiftly over to the wall of mailboxes. He finds 908 and inserts his key as his peripheral vision picks up a movement from the left. At the same moment, the hair on the back of his neck rises. He senses someone behind him. Ryan spins around, the slapper arcing upward, poised and ready to strike.
In that instant, Ryan comes face-to-face with Carly.
“What are you doing here? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
There are dark circles under her eyes, but otherwise, it is the same Carly—beautiful, regal. She clutches a brown and white purse in one hand. Her other draws circles around her engorged belly.
“The police showed up at Tyler’s.”
Ryan glances past her quickly before returning his gaze to her.
“Are you okay? Do you have any idea what has been happening? God—I’ve been scared shitless worrying about you. Olivia was attacked earlier this evening. And I think she’s coming after you.” Ryan drops his stare for a split second before meeting Carly’s gaze. “It’s Reese. She’s out of her fucking mind!”
“I know.”
“What? You
know
?”
“Yes. She paid me a visit—gave me this.” Carly reaches into her purse and extracts the videotape.
“Jesus. Carly—I’m so sorry you got dragged—”
“Can I use your restroom? And I need to sit back down,” she says.
“Of course, of course. Come.” Ryan leads her out of the mailroom and to the bank of elevators. He punches the up button. The elevator door opens promptly.
They ride in silence, Ryan thumbing the videotape, feeling humiliated—for all of what has transpired. Carly is quiet, holding her stomach. Ryan watches her in the shiny reflection of elevator door metal. She could be furious; she could be an inferno. But, as usual, she is none of these things. She carries her head high, and Ryan experiences a blast of shame.
“I’m a week late, you know?” Carly says softly.
“Pardon me?”
“My baby—she’s a week late. If she’s not here by Tuesday, they’re inducing labor.”
Ryan ponders her words.
My baby.
“Oh.” Suddenly feeling sheepish for not even knowing their baby’s due date, he quickly adds, “She?”
Carly turns to Ryan and smiles.
“I know it’s a girl. I mean, I don’t
know
know, but mothers know these things. It’s a girl alright—can feel her kicking right now.”
Ryan’s eyes brim with tears. He thinks of all the things they could be doing in preparation for this baby: decorating the nursery, baby-proofing the house, lying in bed together, he rubbing her shoulders, spooning each other while they watch late night movies and talk about their child’s future.
And so on and so on…
Instead, this avalanche…this freight train out of control.
“May I?” he asks.
Carly nods, taking his hand and placing it gently on her abdomen. Ryan cocks his head to the side, feeling. His eyes suddenly go wide.
“Oh, my God! I feel it.”
“Her. A feisty thing. She’s coming out kicking and screaming. You watch.”
The door glides open. Ryan checks both directions before helping Carly out of the elevator. They take slow, steady steps. Ryan takes his time, thankful for the reprieve with Carly.
They reach his apartment…908.
Ryan checks the handle. Door locked.
He inserts his key, tells Carly to hang back for a second as he opens the door, taking a step forward and flipping on the light. He grips the slapper as he moves further into the hallway. His place is quiet. Nothing seemingly out of place.
Back out into the hallway to escort Carly inside.
She takes in the small living space: a low futon, faux leather recliner, wood coffee table, and halogen lamp—all could have been bought at Ikea or Target. A hallway leads to a bath and the bedroom at the far end.
“Nice place,” she says.
“No, it’s not,” Ryan retorts. “Bathroom’s on the left. Do you need help?” Ryan tries to smile, to ease the angst he feels. Carly just stares at him.
“I think I can manage.”
Carly turns to head for the bathroom. Ryan drops the videotape on the futon, prepares to sit down. They both hear the distinctive sound at the exact same time.
Coming from the bedroom at the far end of the hall.
Carly freezes.
So does Ryan.
The bedroom door opens slowly.
Out steps Reese.
“Isn’t this comfy?”
Reese is clad in a pair of tight black jeans, a brown tee shirt, and matching Timbs. Her top is two sizes too small. Her breasts strain sensuously against the fabric. In her hand, she holds an aluminum baseball bat. The bat hangs low, its head to the ground.
There’s no mistaking her intentions.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ryan exclaims.
He’s jumped in front of Carly, who makes a hasty retreat to the window.
Her eyes are laser points boring into Reese.
“What do you think? I’ve come to collect my man—and to tie up loose ends.”
“I’m not your man, you crazy bitch!”
“Oh really? What do you think, Carly? Didn’t it look like he’s my man on that videotape?”
Carly is silent. Her breathing is deep, even; her hand clutches the two-tone purse tightly. She steps forward.
“Not speaking? That’s cool,” Reese says, moving leisurely into the room. The bat drags along the hardwood, making a scraping sound. “As long as y’all both know who’s with who.”
Ryan slides backwards until he is several feet from Carly.
“How’d you get in here?”
Reese grins.
“Shit, the security in this place is second-rate, yo! All I had to do is sashay up to the front desk—and you know this dimwit Indian guy is behind the desk, reading a freaking comic book. I flash my sexy smile, squeeze the girls together—like this”—Reese rings her shoulders in, mashing her breasts together—“and Saheed is hooked. Fed him a line about being your best friend from outta town here to surprise you. Told him I’d suck his dick if he let me in without anyone knowing.”
Reese grins, all proud of herself.
“Bullshit!”
“Yeah? Well, here I am, Einstein. Do the math.”
“The police are looking for you. They know all about you—your assaults in Virginia Beach, what you did to Miles and now Olivia—”
“Hold up.” Carly speaks for the first time. Reese glances over at her peculiarly. “That was you?” she asks, hand raised, finger pointed accusingly at Reese.
“Yeah, bitch, all my handiwork.” She hoists the bat to waist-level. “Now shut the fuck up before someone’s baby gets hurt!”
Carly takes another step forward.
“I don’t think so.”
Arc of movement, almost a blur from her right side.
Purse drops. A key ring, lipstick, makeup bag, and a half-eaten roll of Mentos spill to the floor in rapid-fire succession. Before Reese or Ryan can react, Carly is holding a gleaming revolver between her palms.
“Oh, hell no!” Reese yells, flinging the bat in Carly’s direction.
Ryan’s eyes are the size of silver dollars.
He screams.
“NO!!”
The gun discharges.
Lightning flash as a deafening roar tears through the room.
Reese’s eyes grow wide as the slug tears into her breastbone.
She pirouettes on her heels, like a dancer, before slamming into the wall face-first, dropping to the cold floor with a sickening thud.
Hard.
Ryan vomits.
Instinctively, he leaps backwards, nearly tripping over the supine form of his wife.
Carly lays motionless on the hardwood floor, one leg folded underneath her, arm cocked at a grotesque angle, a slow yet steady ooze seeping from a gruesome head wound.
The revolver still in the grip of her right hand, its barrel smoking.
“NO!!!” Ryan screams again.
Vision blurs; walls, floor, window, furniture—all become a kaleidoscope of out-of-focus patterns.
Then everything goes black.
It is a picture-perfect day. Temperatures in the low seventies, a light breeze blowing gently. He drives up to the house, marveling at the sheer beauty of this home as he does each time he arrives—a two-story yellow Victorian with a wraparound porch. The verdant grass is cut low to the ground and is luxurious, and it never ceases to amaze him how he conjures up images of little children rolling and laughing among the shiny blades of Kentucky fescue. He longs to be one of them.
He turns into the driveway, slows to a stop, and honks his horn once.
Immediately, the front door opens and a young black girl, no older than three, barrels out.
“Daddy, Daddy, Dad-deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” she squeals with delight.
No doubt she is her father’s daughter—same complexion, same brown eyes, exact same way of arching her eyebrows and displaying a frown when considering a question or anything posed to her. Her hair is worn in two thick plaits that bounce down her back. Jeans, a light top, and sneakers, which pulse red light when hitting the ground, are her attire.
Ryan exits his vehicle and squats down, allowing her to run into him with all of her energy.
“HEY, baby!” Teeny hands scramble for his neck, clutching him as if petrified of letting go.
“Daddy, Daddy, Mommy said not to tell you, but I’m gonna anyway!”
She’s wearing a bright red Dora backpack, which she refuses to hand over.
Ryan buckles her into the car seat, kissing her on her forehead.
“What is it, Alexandria? What did Mommy say not to tell me?”
He’s moved around to the driver’s side and takes a single glance back at the front door to the Victorian while revving the engine. He turns in his seat to face his excited daughter.
Alex puts her finger to her lips, blows hard.
“No telling!” she says.
“I promise.”
“Pinky swear?” she asks.
Ryan laughs. “Pinky swear.”
Satisfied, Alexandria continues. “Mommy said I’m going to get a little brother for Christmas! Daddy—Santa’s going to bring me a brother!”
Ryan’s face has gone white. It’s as if the air has been sucked out of the vehicle. He remains perfectly still, mind on auto-pilot, not hearing his daughter’s additional words. A spike has just entered his cortex, severing the senses. “Daddy, is the day after tomorrow Christmas?”
Silence.
“DADDY?”
“No, baby,” he whispers, “Christmas is a long way off.”
“No telling, Daddy…pinky swear!”
“Okay, okay.”
All color has drained from his face, yet his daughter doesn’t notice. She’s too busy rummaging through her Dora backpack. Ryan puts the car in reverse, easing his foot on the gas.
Off to his right, the front door opens and Carly runs out, hands waving in the air.
Ryan lurches to a stop.
“Oh, thank God,” she stammers, out of breath, face looking as fresh as a Dove commercial. “Thought you had left already. You’d have one helluva weekend without this!” she says, displaying Alex’s blanky. Alex turns her head, spies the blanket, and emits an earsplitting screech.
“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, Mommy said a bad word!” she exclaims while snatching the blanket through an open window.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Carly says sarcastically.
Alex immediately calms down.
Ryan takes a moment to stare at his ex-wife. She looks so happy, so content. You can see it in her eyes, in the relaxed lines to her sculpted nose, and her beautifully sensual mouth. Ryan opens his to speak—congratulations are in order. But then he shuts this thought down, snaps his mouth shut, remembering his pinky swear. Besides, what exactly is there to say?
For close to two years now, Ryan’s fought hard to wrestle these thoughts from his mind—thoughts that would make any man go insane:
If only he had been faithful…
If only he had turned away…
It is the sight of her that triggers his fixation and obsession, so he sighs.
This…all of this…could have been
his.
Carly has been, for the past few moments of ensuing awkward silence, watching Ryan. She cocks her head to the side, as though wanting to ask if everything is okay. But she smiles instead, knowing the answer to her own silly question.
Back on the porch, Carly is joined by Tyler Nichols.
He reaches for her.
Arm in arm, they watch Ryan and Alexandra go.
Enjoy the following excerpt from OBSESSED
In stores May 2009!
“I call shotgun!” Zack squeals.
“Boy if you don’t get in your car seat,” Kennedy exclaims.
They stand outside of their stone, three-level, one-garage townhouse located on Taylor Street in Northeast D.C. The street they live on is tree-lined and quiet. A community made up of mostly middle-to upper-middle class whites and African-Americans, a few immigrants from Pakistan or Afghanistan who keep to themselves. Crime is minimal, due to an aggressive neighborhood watch program and surveillance cameras installed in the driveways of several homes.
All of the rowhouses, as they’re called in the District, are stone, some the color of dark mud, others the reddish-brown hue of autumn or the dull gray of slate. All are well kept, with small yet manicured bushes and shrubs. Michael and Kennedy bought this home shortly after they were married six years ago. They were looking for something they could stretch out in and raise a family. The location is decent, as far as the city goes, quiet, Metro-accessible, and a short drive from the private school that Zack attends and the association where Kennedy works as a lawyer downtown. Michael, who is also an attorney, but works instead for a government agency, can make the short drive downtown as well or take Metro.
Their luggage—Michael’s garment bag, Kennedy’s two suitcases, and Zack’s gym bag and backpack are sequestered in the back of Michael’s Range Rover. Kennedy’s BMW is tucked in the garage. Michael jumps in the front seat and starts the engine as Kennedy supervises Zack buckling in. Once everyone is set, they take off.
The drive to Jeremy’s takes about ten minutes, his home north of Children’s Hospital and Catholic University. Michael double parks on the narrow street, as Kennedy gets Zack to the sidewalk. He quickly hugs her and races up the stoop to the second floor, ringing the bell as his father gets out, leaving the engine running.
“Hey, can I get a hug or something?” he yells to his son.
“Oh, yeah. Sure, Dad.” Zack races back down, backpack bobbing against his thin shoulders. Arms reach up around his father’s neck and hug him. “Buy me something in New York, PLEASE?”
“Is that all I’m good for? Lord!” Michael grins.
Jeremy yanks open the door and the two high-five each other before racing inside. Jeremy’s mom, Lori, comes outside, a good-looking thirtysomething woman of color, dressed comfortably in sweats and running shoes. She waves at Michael as Kennedy climbs the steps. They meet halfway.
“Hey, girl,” Kennedy says, embracing Lori. “Thank you so much for taking Zack this weekend.”
“You know it’s not a problem,” Lori says. “We’re going to have a great time. I’m taking the boys to the movies tonight, and we’ve got plenty of things to keep them occupied all weekend.”
“That’s great. Zack’s been talking about this sleep-over all week.”
“Jeremy too. You guys have fun. Don’t worry about a thing—I’ve got your number if we need to reach you,” Lori says before dropping her voice down a notch. “Wish I was going away with my husband. You need to have enough fun for both of us, you hear me?” She winks at Kennedy. Kennedy grins back.
The ride to Union Station takes less than fifteen minutes. Michael parks on the upper level and together they lug their bags into the Amtrak station. They have a 3
P
.
M
. reservation on the Acela Express and a half hour to spare before the train departs. Check in is a breeze. In this day and age of self-service technology, they retrieve their boarding passes from an automated kiosk and grab a caramel frappuccino and a Danish from the Starbucks across from the waiting area. They take adjoining seats close to their gate and collectively breath a sigh of relief.
“The vacation begins,” Kennedy says, placing a hand on Michael’s lap and leaning in until their foreheads touch.
“Love you, baby,” Michael responds, taking her head in his hand as he kisses her lips gingerly. Kennedy, for a moment, loses herself in the closeness of her husband, loving the feeling as she always does of her tongue on his. She opens her mouth wider, inviting him in, then pulls back, suddenly aware of her surroundings.
“Love you more,” Kennedy remarks back, in breathless anticipation of things to come.