I'll Be Damned (Anna Wolfe Series) (7 page)

“Woman, this will be your last. You’s a lightweight an’ I can’t be havin’ you gettin' sick all over the place,” he states while outlining a fictitious route of vomit by pointing to the bar top, floor and bathroom.

“I won’t, I promise," I snicker back.

“Comin’ right up. No pun intended,” he replies mischievously. 

I give him a puzzled look. Apparently, I’m dimwitted tonight. A prickly voice echoes in my ear. “Hey Anna," Shane says delicately.

Strands of hair lightly whip my ear, tickling my neck. I cringe, knowing I have to turn around. “How’s it going, Shane?” I reply, spinning in a circle until I halt directly in front of him. My vision blurs from the fast spin. Note to self: do not spin around when intoxicated.

“I see you ordered another drink,” he comments with heavy emphasis on
another
.

I smile sarcastically, not anxious to hear what might come next. Too bad I don’t have a choice.

“Those are pretty strong so you might want to be careful,” he says simply, exposing his beautifully straight, white teeth. He does have a charming smile. It stretches right across his face with one dimple that indents his right cheek. 

“I’m being very careful."

“There’s enough alcohol in just one of them to tranquilize a horse,” he says, chuckling at his own joke.

Something about him is eerily familiar. Not a homey familiar either. It’s more like
I’ve seen you before in my nightmares
type of familiar. “Sounds about right,” I say, lifting up my hefty Styrofoam cup. I slurp more of the delicious freezing goodness, enjoying the avalanche in the back of my throat. I hope my silence is a loud indicator of my lack of interest. No such luck, he’s still in front of me, staring.

“You know, Kristy told me what happened between you and your fiancé. I’m sorry to hear that, I can’t imagine what you went through,” he suddenly discloses.

Of course, she did. Kristy has a bad habit of blabbing things she shouldn’t when drinking. There are some things not meant for a stranger’s ear—like my fiancé dumping me for another woman; and Shane’s lack of compassion doesn’t go unnoticed. “Oh did she?” I answer, trying to sound shocked.

“She didn’t provide details, just a general overview,” he pauses while debating whether to delve further. “Trust me, Anna, there’s a lot more to you. You’re amazing and you don’t even know it... yet,” he adds.

A peculiar tone slinks in between his words. He’s starting to give me creepy chills. He needs to learn how to speak to women… sounding like a stalker isn’t hot. “I think I’m going to get going," I respond, unexpectedly fearing for my safety. I stand up to leave as he grasps my arm. A feeling of relaxation shoots through my body, flushing the tension right out of it. What did he do? I want to pull away, but I can't.

“Anna, my apologies for frightening you. You should know our histories have crossed many times,” he says, leaning in close to me with an arrogant grin.

An all-consuming blanket of confusion and peace overcomes me, forcing my anxiety to stay out of it. What an anomaly. “How do you know anything about me? We don’t have a history. I just met you ten minutes ago.”

“It sounds impossible, but let me take you to dinner and explain.”

I yank my arm from his grasp, repulsed at the idea of eating dinner with him. Somehow, I manage to break through my bizarre daze.

“No thanks,” I respond through gritted teeth.

A conceited sneer slithers across his face like a snake. I leave without looking back or saying goodbye. I’ll let the stalker explain my sudden departure. I rush through the doors, popping out on the cobblestones of River Street. The thought of Martello fills me with guilt. I should text him, otherwise he’ll be worried. I pull my phone from my overcrowded purse and type my goodnight text. Hitting the
Send
button, I am relieved my butt is covered. I exhale loudly, completely exhausted and on the borderline of being disturbed. The source of my agitation is Shane and his sly superiority. He’s mysterious in a bad way. I can’t put my finger on it, but darkness surrounds him. The more I think about him, the more bothered I become. What if he stalks me? I'll be damned! Like I need this shit right now. Anger fills me, clenching all my muscles. Every organ in my body squeezes like a trash compactor, threatening to implode and burst into thousands of pieces. While enduring this pain, I make a profound observation. The cramps emerge in serious situations, like when I'm angry or scared. I mean, I have little ones periodically, but the big guys come out in times like these. I make a note to Google this when I get home. I remember the first onset was over a year ago, when I almost got mugged closing the shop. A man snuck up behind me and demanded my purse. My spasms kicked in full force, jerking my body like an epileptic seizure. My reaction sent him running empty-handed. I drove myself to the emergency room, convinced I had a stroke, or that my body was riddled with cancer. The doctors didn't find anything wrong, physically or mentally. With no explanation for this phenomenon, I wasn't comforted. At least, a diagnosis would help me understand what I was up against.

I stumble to a railing that separates the street from the Savannah River. I wrap my hands around the cool steel, grateful for its support. Sweat beads stream down my face like a faucet. I focus on the sound of the water and imagine my pain flowing away in the current. Little by little, the cramping dissipates, letting me exhale loudly. I gaze into the water, coveting its strength and ability to overcome any obstacle. It always finds a way to maneuver around or destroy any obstruction. I want to be more like water and less like an ineffective dam. I spin around, making sure Shane didn’t magically appear. In the process, my cell phone slips out of my hand and lands on the bottom of the railing, teetering between empty space and the river. Before I have a chance to bend down and retrieve it, it drops in with a gentle shove. With an audible “kerplunk,” it splashes, clearly indicating it’s gone. My arm slips too late through the bars in my attempt to grab it. Damn it!

I survey my surroundings suspiciously. Obviously, no one pushed it or I would have seen. I’m extra paranoid since everything about this night is far from ordinary, and it makes me want to scream. One decision led to all of this! Now, I completely understand Alexander’s no good, very bad day. Twenty minutes later, and fully composed, I make sure the coast is clear before starting the journey back to my car. I stroll through the familiar avenues and squares, admiring the night’s beauty in the swirling moonlight and dancing shadows. I cross into Chippewa Square and the sensation of being followed overcomes me again. My mind races, sifting through the quickest route to the shop. The desolate streets are full of promises, but only cause me more worry. I curse under my breath, suddenly missing the sea of people normally awake at this hour in New York City. I wouldn't be so vulnerable in a crowd. I toss around the idea of going back to River Street, but it's not an option. If I backtracked now, it would be too dangerous.
No phone, no people, no chance
!
Focus, Anna!
The only option left is a good old-fashioned run for your life. I'm no track star, but I’ll gamble on my adrenaline. I glance over my shoulder, trying to steal a glimpse of someone, or an outline, but see nothing. The air suddenly feels sinister, convincing me I'm not alone. One can never be certain what cloaks itself in darkness. I walk faster, glancing behind me every few steps, staring at empty space. I pick up my pace, and before I know it, I'm in a full-out sprint. My heart pounds in my ears and my lungs are burning, making me winded much quicker than anticipated. I pound the pavement like a jackhammer through Madison Square in a full blown panic. I keep my pace, watching my shop grow larger with each step, like a beacon of hope.

Terrified, I reach the door and frantically thrust my hand into my purse to fish out my keys.
Come on… come on.
Fumbling, I drop them on the pavement in front of me.
Too many keys, damn it!
I reach down and scoop them up, quickly locating the correct key. I slip it into the deadbolt smoothly, while wordlessly cursing myself. The lock's clicking mechanism motivates me as I barrel through the door, slamming it into the locked position behind me. I dash behind the counter and wait. The only sounds in the room are my lungs, panting for oxygen. I glance at my cordless phone hanging on the wall across from me. So close, but so far. There’s no way I can move yet. Minutes tick by, churning a wave of nausea through my stomach. The crashing of heavy footsteps reverberates in my ears. I lower myself behind the bar, leaving my eyes exposed. Blindly reaching in the cubby below the counter for a weapon, I pull out a porcelain mug. This will have to do. If I hit him hard enough in the face, I might have a narrow window of opportunity.

A tall outline suspiciously strolls in front of my window, stopping. It has to be a man, judging from his stocky build and height. His arms hang stiffly at his sides as he glowers through the glass. I’m hoping the darkness works in my favor by concealing me in its shadows. One by one, my muscles contract and pull against one another, warning me of another episode. Now is not the time! I slowly drag my eyes from him and inspect the shop for a quick escape route. A small chunk of steel lodged between wood won’t hold someone back for very long. Should I run out the back? No, bad move. I've seen too many horror movies to know what a stupid idea that is. He'll be waiting by my car, or pop out of a cluster of bushes. Startled, the figure snaps his neck to the left. I follow his gaze, unable to see what’s there. He turns to me hesitantly, before taking off in a sprint. I slowly stand, staring into the empty night. There’s no sign of him anywhere. When I'm convinced he's gone, I rush to the phone and hit three lifesaving buttons. 

“911, what’s your emergency?” a woman's voice asks.

“There’s a man stalking me,” I reply, anxiously gulping in air. “I’m in my coffeehouse on 328 Bull Street, across from Madison Square,” I finish frantically.

“Is he still there?”

“No…. um… I don’t know… I don’t think so,” I answer, the words tumbling out of my mouth hysterically.

“Okay, ma’am. Right now, you need to remain calm and stay on the phone with me. I’m sending a unit over right away.”

“Okay.”  

“Ma’am are you still with me?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Do you see anything?”

“No, and I would rather not move. I don’t know if he's waiting for me outside or if he is…” I trail off, unwilling to finish my sentence.

“A unit will be there in one minute, just hang tight and stay on the line.”

Hang tight? Like I have another option? Sirens scream in the distance, imbuing the otherwise peaceful air with panic. A moment later, red and blue lights barrel down the narrow streets, painting the sidewalks in hazy streaks of purple. I walk towards the door, flicking on every possible light. “I see them,” I announce to the phone. I wait patiently, reluctant to unlock it until a man with a shiny badge and a gun is staring back at me. The two cruisers finally pull up, abruptly stopping at the sidewalk.

“They're here,” I say hastily.

“Are they right outside?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You're welcome. You have yourself a good night.”

What a way to close a conversation. A good night would not include me losing my phone, being chased by a weirdo, and calling 911. I hit the
End
button and stuff the phone into a constricted pocket in my jeans. A heavy knock forces me to look up. I recognize the two police officers standing at the door with quizzical expressions. I turn the lock and pull the door towards me, stepping aside so they can come in. Officers Ted Smolt and Brad Biffen walk through the doorway, treading their hefty boots on my hardwood floor. Officer Biffen huffs his way past me, demonstrating his annoyance. He’s short and plump with an unnaturally tiny head. His unkempt gray eyebrows are wiry, coiling out in every direction like a shaggy dog. He reminds me of a character from
The Lord of the Rings
, only he’s the typical small town, narrow-minded cop who knows everything about nothing. No depth there. Officer Smolt tips his hat towards me as he walks in behind his partner. I always appreciate a Southern man with manners. All the women in Savannah swoon over him, swearing he is George Clooney’s younger brother. His slender build gives him a long gait and athletic look. He's only in his mid-forties, proving how age can look glamorous on some people. They both take a seat on my couch as I stand, too wired to sit. After the standard introductions, they get right to the point.