Creature of Habit (Creature of Habit #1) (18 page)

Chapter 29

Amelia

Where did she go?  A cool breeze swept across my face. I shivered, wrapping my arms around my body.  It was dark and the rough, damp ground scraped against my bare feet. I searched for the girl, but like everyone else, I couldn’t find her.

There! She streaked past me, running in the wrong direction.

"Come back!" I called, picking up my pace.

A cry echoed in the dark, followed by the sound of scattered dirt. I kept running and felt my feet slip from under me and I fell, arms searching for anything to catch hold of. My fingers desperately grabbed for the jagged edge scraping down my body.

I found her, Jenna, clung to the side of the cliff. We both hung precariously from the edge, a bright, flickering fire glowing beneath us.

"Help me!" she cried, the fire lapping at her heels. She kicked her feet, attempting to escape the flames. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

My fingers slipped, sweaty and cold.

"I'm coming," I yelled. My voice echoed back. The flames moved closer and closer to the girl. I didn’t felt heat from below, only cold.

I searched around me for an escape, a way off of the cliff. Just above me, a withered, aged root sticking out of the dirt. I dug my toes into the clay, pushing myself upwards, struggling to reach the gnarled limb. I scratched and clawed, mud caking under my nails. I made contact with the root, wrapping my fingers around the cold, rough surface. The root came alive, reaching out, its long tendrils enveloping my arm, pulling me to solid ground.

The root morphed and changed to a strong, deadly hand. I looked to find the source of the hand and found a man with erratic hair and purple eyes on the other end.

"Grant," I choked, sobs filling my throat. I sat in a softer place, feeling the warm tears flow down my cheeks. In the darkness I felt him. I felt his cool breath washing over me. I felt the tips of his hair touching my forehead. The warm tears stopped, replaced by the icy trails of his fingertips as he wiped them away. I sighed as his thumb brushed across my bottom lip.

I blinked awake, trying to unscramble the dark. A sliver of light came from under the window shade and my eyes acclimated.

I was alone.

I sighed and lay back on my pillow and pulled my sticky shirt from my body. It was the third day in a row that I'd had the dream--or nightmare, I guess I would call it--and each time I awoke confused, covered in sweat and tears. The first one came the morning after Grant stayed the night, after Sasha broke in. I woke up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. There was a note on the coffee table telling me he had to leave but that his security firm would be monitoring my apartment.

Every day I woke up the same way, feeling the pressure of his thumb on my lip, his name on my tongue. Each time I blinked, positive he would be there. The dream was so vivid. Jenna, the girl from the missing poster, fell off the cliff, then the gnarled root transformed into Grant’s powerful arm. When I looked into his eyes I could almost taste his cool breath on my mouth. I would run my tongue over my bottom lip seeking a trace of him, but only found the salt of my tears.

I thought about Grant as I shook off the lingering feelings from my nightmare. My arms shot out, stretching to the edges of the mattress, and I kicked the covers off my legs. It was Monday and I finally had to leave my apartment and face the real world. I had to go to work. Things had changed between me and Grant over the weekend. He called once, informing me that his security team was in place. His tone was less formal, and I could hear the concern in his voice. I assured him I wouldn't leave without Drew and that all my doors and windows were locked. I searched for the security people, but no matter where I looked, I couldn’t find them. I guess they were that good.

I pulled open my shade and looked out into the dreary rainy morning. Watching countless hours of bad TV and re-reading my favorite books gave me time to think over Grant’s strange behavior. I was convinced that things were not exactly as they appeared. There was one thing I was sure of: Grant Palmer was a mystery, and I was dying to figure him out.

An hour later I had my keys in one hand, tea mug in the other. I struggled to throw my bag over my shoulder and open the door. Using my elbow for leverage, I managed to twist the knob enough to crack the door open. I pushed it the rest of the way with my foot and it flung back, crashing into the wall. There went the last of my security deposit.  At this rate I’d never make it into work.

"Fuck," I muttered, knowing I probably made a dent in the wall. I peered behind the door and saw a dark scuff mark but no real damage. When I came back around I came face to face with him. Grant stood in my hallway with a tense grin on his perfect face.

"Good morning," he said, in his ridiculously charming voice. His voice never matched his face. Add that to the list of things about Grant Palmer that didn’t add up.

I stared at him for a moment trying to figure out what he was doing outside my apartment and how long he had been there. I must have stood there for too long because he spoke again.

"I…” he hesitated for a moment, his eyes apprehensive, "I wondered if you would like me to drive you to work?"

Huh.

That was how the rest of my week unfolded. I would wake up, sticky with sweat, sobbing and reaching out dream Grant in the dark. He caught me every time, pulling me off the cliff into his tight grip.

I’d prepare for work, open my door, and he would be on the other side waiting for me, hand out for my bag, which he would then carry to the car. We would sit, side by side, speaking only of the weather, current events or work. We avoided the subject of Sasha and why he was actually escorting me to work each day and how really, really weird that was.

On the upside, I did learn several things about him. 

He had an innate sense of direction. No matter which way we traveled he seemed to get there just before the train passed or the light turned green. He managed to avoid back-ups entirely, driving a different way to work each day, always in perfect accordance to the traffic. At first I thought it was a coincidence but as he veered off the highway before a major jam, or hit six green lights in a row, it seemed like more than that.

I also found that he changed his cars with his mood or habits. He had several, three in the garage at his townhouse but I suspected more stashed away. He loved his cars, his eyes growing energetic when I asked him about them. On the days he had to go into his office, dressed in a crisp suit and tie, he would drive his dark gray Tesla, shiny and clean, with lightly tinted windows. The interior was pristine, the leather soft and cool to the touch.  Other days, when he was more casually dressed, prepared to work from home, he would arrive in an SUV. When I asked about it I was forced to listen to a twenty minute lecture about how it was the new Lexus hybrid, unavailable to the public until later this year. Apparently, between the car and the fluorescent lighting, Grant was very concerned about our earth's natural resources.

Then his third car, which I'd never seen him drive, was tucked away in the corner of the garage, beneath a light blue canvas cover. I wasn’t sure what day and activities warranted the use of that mystery car.

It was Thursday, Tesla day, apparently, and I decided to ask him about it specifically. "Tell me about your other car. The one you’ve got hidden in the back of the garage.”

“It’s not hidden.”

“Then why don’t you drive it?”

His looked over at me gauging whether or not I really wanted to know. His eyes bore into mine and his body relaxed, comfortable for once. It was one of those moments that if he wasn't gay I would think he liked me. I raised my eyebrows in encouragement and he said, "It's a 1968 Plymouth Belvedere GTX."

I had no idea what that was and it must have been apparent because he laughed again, a sparkle glinting in his eyes. He went on to explain how it was known as the "Gentleman's Muscle Car" and how it has some kind of enormous engine called the Commando or something. Oh, and it was a convertible.

As he spoke I realized how much I loved hearing him talk about the things that interested him. He knew so much about art and music. He could fix my computer or printer when it conveniently decided to not to work. And this, the talk about cars. A spark glinted behind his eye, like a little boy in a candy shop.

"How come you never pick me up in it?" I asked, envisioning his wild hair whipping in the wind, his muscular arm resting on the edge of the door.

He shrugged and said, "I don't know. I don't really drive it anymore."

His tone changed slightly, sounding sad so I attempted to veer this back in the right direction. "How did you get it? It looks like it is good condition. Do you maintain it yourself?" I asked, curious as to how he acquired his many collectables.

He his brow furrowed slightly at the question. I couldn't imagine why since it should be easy to answer. "I've had it for some time. Taking care of cars in our family is not really an issue. It’s sort of a group hobby.”

I laughed a little, looking down at my fingers laced together on my lap. "You couldn't have had it for that long. Contrary to the way you act sometimes, you're not really all that old, you know,” I said, making a face at him.

"It was Miles'. He gave it to me when I was old enough to drive." He looked away at that last part, not meeting my eyes.

Miles. Grant mentioned him when he described his family the other night but very little about Miles specifically. I reached over and placed my hand on his arm, feeling the soft fabric of his suit. "It’s really nice that he did that for you. He sounds like a great man."

He mumbled, "He is," and continued to keep his eyes forward. “I owe him everything.”

I moved my hand and placed it back in my lap, wondering how he had gone from happily talking about his passion to closing off so quickly.

We spent the rest of the ride in quiet, the only sound from the speakers of Grant's musical choice of the day. I thought about how no matter how many steps forward I took with him, I always managed to push it too far.

Chapter 30

Grant

After five days you would think I would be used to it. The trembling, the sobs, the sound of my name as it quivered over her lips. Each time, against my better judgment, I reached out and wiped the tears from her face and brushed my thumb across her thick bottom lip.

The first morning had been by invitation. She had asked me to stay, to keep her company after having her home violated by Sasha. I agreed, of course, it was my duty to stay and protect her. After all it was my fault she was in this situation in the first place.

That night she didn't try to hide her fear and it pained me to watch her cry, to worry and spill tears over Sasha and by default, Caleb. I had promised her I would keep her safe and there was no decision I had ever made that I felt more strongly about. She was so tired and sleepy, her eyes barely staying open and when she shifted on the sofa to get more comfortable, I saw my shirt under her jacket.

My eyes narrowed and fire licked the back of my throat.

Mine.

I returned the following night, after she and Drew were safe in bed, and repeated this dangerous trend over and over, taking liberties. Each one inappropriate and illegal, not to mention possibly bordering on perverse. I didn't really care. Because every morning, as dawn broke through her window, I heard her call for me, and it filled my empty heart with a sliver of hope.

Each time I tempted fate. Rubbing my thumb over her lip, wishing more desperately each day it was my mouth upon hers.

Chapter 31

Amelia

Today was a Tesla day and I was alone in the townhouse completing the jobs left for me by Grant. He had left early to go into the office, his real office in Raleigh, to take care of some business for the Foundation. He was already so busy, add on his obsessive need to drive me to and from work, I had no idea how he had any down time. He assured me he was fine, so I let it go. Honestly, I was selfishly happy to have someone around.

The doorbell rang and I disengaged the alarm system to open the door for the postman, who had a thick package I needed to sign for. The envelope was addressed to The Palmer Foundation, with CONFIDENTIAL stamped across the front in bold red letters. Grant usually didn't get paperwork addressed to the Foundation at his home office, so I took a moment to call his office to find out what I should do.

"The Palmer Foundation, Mr. Palmer's office," the steady, official-sounding voice on the other end of the line said.

"Hi, this is Amelia Chase, Mr. Palmer's assistant. I think I have some paperwork at the house that may need to be at the office." I described the envelope to her.

"You're probably right. I can send a courier over to pick it up this afternoon," she told me.

I thought about it for a minute and looked at my watch assessing the time. It was still early morning and my work load for the day was pretty light. I said, "You know, I’d really like to see the main office. Maybe I’ll drive down and deliver it in person. It would take just as long.”

I hung up the phone, excited to observe Grant in his work environment. I'd never seen him with anyone other than his family and I was intrigued to witness how he behaved with other people.

A couple hours later, I turned Grant's SUV into the underground parking garage and pulled in one of the spots reserved for guests of the Palmer Foundation. Grant had given me permission to drive his cars while he was out since his daily transportation meant I didn’t have mine at work. The Tesla was parked in the space closest to the elevator. The shadowy darkness of the garage was making me uncomfortable, but before the panic could fully take over the doors slid open and I stepped inside.

A last minute panic attack rolled over me as I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored elevator doors as I rode to the top floor to the PNT offices.  I had on charcoal gray capris, a cream colored V-neck, capped sleeved shirt. My sandals had a heel and my hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck. No doubt I was underdressed for a visit to his corporate offices.

The elevator chimed and on the other side of the doors was an open reception area. The hardwood floors were a deep reddish brown, and the walls were adorned with beautiful artwork. One wall was solid glass, obviously tinted to keep the glare out.  The view of the city was magnificent. The space had a very open floor plan with offices divided by large glass walls, so each employee was visible to the reception area. Large vases of yellow and white flowers brightened the area and filled the room with a fragrant light, soapy smelling scent.

I walked in clutching the package and stopped at the curved front desk occupied by an attractive woman in her early sixties or so. She had on tortoise shell half-glasses and her hair was grayish blonde, elegantly styled. Busy on the phone, she gestured for me to sit and wait until she was done. I found a chair by the windows and I scanned the room, my eyes eventually falling on an office furthest from the reception area. Grant’s name was etched on the door. Through the glass, I could see him at his desk.

He was wearing the suit I’d had seen him in that morning, his tie still perfect, his shirt crisp. His face was smooth and he had his typical professional air about him but as he bent over, writing with nimble fingers, I realized he looked so young. Like a boy sitting at his father's desk.

A young, attractive man in a suit and tie approached his office. I watched as he knocked gently on Grant's door. Without looking up Grant waved him in and the man tentatively approached, stopping several feet away from the desk. Their interaction was fascinating and I was completely enthralled to see him interact with another employee. Grant never looked up but continued to scribble on the paper in front of him, even at one point lifting his hand and retrieving a folder from his employee.

Grant always seemed one step ahead of those around him, including myself. He often seemed to appear from nowhere, startling me. I always thought it was just me being unobservant but watching him around others made me realize this was not the case. The two men in the office were polar opposites, Grant calm and nonchalant, the other shifting on his feet. His employee clasped and unclasped his hands nervously. After a second, Grant waved him off and he left the office, quickly and looking a little distressed.

"Can I help you?" I pulled my attention away from Grant and looked at the receptionist.

I stood up and walked over to her desk. "Yes, I'm Amelia Chase. I called earlier about the package for Grant." She looked at me quizzically glanced at me over her glasses. "Grant?"

I held the package out to her. I looked in his direction and found him staring back at me, the corner of his mouth barely turned upward. Before I could smile in return his eyes shifted and his face fell neutral. I followed his gaze and realized he was looking at the receptionist, who was watching both of us intently.

"Umm…Mr. Palmer? I'm his personal assistant."

"Of course, I was uh, taken back by the familiarity," she said, eyeing me carefully.

I peeked at Grant from the corner of my eye and he hadn't moved an inch.  He simply watched me talk to his receptionist with a concentrated look on his face. I rolled my eyes at him and lifted my hand to wave. That broke his focus and he awkwardly waved back.

His eyes darted around once more and I realized that a small group of office workers had paused to watch our interaction.  He pressed a button on his desk and at that moment the reception phone rang. She picked it up.

"Mr. Palmer would like for me to show you to his office."