Obsessive Compulsion (9 page)

Her eyes lift up to gage my reaction, but I
don’t know what to say. I can’t deny that it’s severe, or that I’ve
been hospitalized for it. I know that I’m currently functioning on
a mixture of uppers and downers that leave me wondering who I am
underneath it all. Often, I don’t think there’s anything of Ian
left.

“They wanted to prepare me,” she continues,
“for how bad it can get sometimes. Brandon made sure I knew about
the skin contact issues and why you might stare at me or freak out
randomly. He also wanted me to give you a chance. He really
respects you, you know?”

“I do,” I nod. “I’m glad he told you. I
didn’t mean to stare, though. Well, that’s not entirely true.” I
sigh. Might as well just say it. “You’re beautiful, Charlotte.”

Her sharp intake of breath is so loud it
snaps my spine to attention, and I’m immediately flailing again.
“Charlie, I mean. I… awe, hell.”

“Did Emma tell you?” There’s a strange
inflection in her rasped question, as if my slip had cut something
inside her wide open.

“Not exactly,” I let the explanation die. No
way was I going to admit to tracking down her University of Dallas
alumni photo from six years ago, the last place she was ever
mentioned as being called Charlotte. Even the charcoals on my wall
from Portland are signed as
Charlie
McLeod. “Emma did tell
me that you no longer like the name. It’s none of my business, and
I’m sorry, but I think it’s a beautiful name that suits you just as
well as Charlie does.”

“Thank you,” she relaxes and takes a sip
from her mug. “It’s not that I don’t like the name, it’s just…” She
sets down the mug again, placing her hands back in her lap.
“…complicated.”

“I understand
complicated
,” I attempt
to salvage my billionth screw-up of the night, “and I’ll try to
remember to always call you Charlie, if that’s what you would
prefer.”

She nods slowly, but I can already tell her
mood has completely shifted. I wonder what about that name has
caused this change in her, and I know I’m going to be obsessing
about it until I figure it out. My heart is telling me to let it
go, but my brain is holding onto it with a death grip.

She blinks out of her thoughts. “Thank you
for the coffee. I should be getting home, though. I have to go into
class early tomorrow and prep the dyes.”

Dammit.
She gave me a chance – heck,
she gave me
chances
- and I blew every single one of them. I
stand and nod, walking her to the door. I quietly help her put on
her coat, then I put my last hopes on the table. “Thank you for
coming over. Will I see you tomorrow?”

Grabbing her purse, she shakes her head. “I
don’t think so. I’m still doing those extra classes for
Pamela.”

“Right,” I nod and open my front door. I’m
tempted to ask about Friday, wondering if she’s planning to go back
to The Stables or if I’ve blown that, too. “Goodnight,
Charlie.”

She looks up and smiles, but her eyes are
haunted. “Goodnight, Ian.”

The door closes behind her, leaving me
alone. Suppressing my uncertain emotions with routine, I clean the
remains of dinner, begin unplugging my appliances and pick up the
book I’d begun the night before. Instead of sitting down to resume
reading it, I stand in the middle of my living room, with a hole in
my sock and a crooked tie around my neck, staring at my
Gallery
of Never
.

‘
Say you won’t forget me,
Charlotte.’

‘
I won’t forget you, Neil, I promise. Now
please, get down.’

‘
At least one person will remember me,
because I know you always keep your promises, Charlotte.’

He’d called me Charlotte. Five years, eleven
months and twenty-nine days ago, he’d called me Charlotte, and then
he’d jumped off a bridge.

Merry fucking Christmas.

I thought maybe I’d gotten over it. I
thought enough time had passed. I thought enough had happened in my
life since then to fill in all the jagged cracks left behind by the
parts of my spirit that had jumped off that bridge with him. I
thought wrong.

Ian had simply called me beautiful, and I
proceeded to flake out on what had become a surprisingly wonderful
evening. He probably thinks it’s his fault. I left him twitching so
I could run away and hide before the tears started. I
really
like Ian, but I’m not ready to trust him with that part of me
yet.

I haven’t even told Emma why I don’t like
hearing the name Charlotte anymore. Why I had to repeat a semester
in university. Why I stopped drawing for so long.

And my drawings? Ian has a gallery of my
artwork on his wall. I think he’s had them there for a while, too.
I guess that should creep me out a little bit, but it doesn’t. I
find it kina flattering, like the way I kept catching him staring
at me. He thinks I’m beautiful and he likes my artwork.

Actually, now that I think about it, I think
he said he fell in love with my charcoals. The man loves my art and
I fled from his apartment after telling him I’d been checking into
his
mental health problems.

Running is safer, Charlotte, or don’t you
remember the bridge?

Of course I remember. Bitch. And don’t call
me Charlotte.

How could I forget? Neil made me promise.
Neil made me promise, and then he left me.

I pull my car over to the gravel shoulder.
I’m only a few miles from Brandon’s estate, but the tears are
making it too hard to see the road. I’m just glad it’s a quiet
little country road where no one will see the crazy redhead hitting
her forehead against her steering wheel.

Ow.

Leaning back into my patched pleather seat,
I take in large gulps of brisk winter air, rolling down the window
with the manual crank. The gears protest and grind, threatening to
get stuck again. This old car’s seen better days, but it was the
best I could find on my budget when I came back to Dallas. My
parents and Emma have both offered to help me get something better,
but I’ve never been able to accept assistance, even when I know it
really is coming from the heart.

I glare at the check-engine light on the
dash as it pops on for the third time this week. It’s a faulty
oxygen sensor, or so the mechanic said. He also said the alternator
is about to go, I need a new timing belt and I should really just
consider taking the car out to a field with a shotgun to put it out
of its misery. I affectionately pat the dash of my poor little
clunker, and it chooses that moment to stop running.

“No, no, no…” I turn the key. The
dash-lights dim and the engine refuses to turn over. Pausing, I
count to twenty, pump the gas twice then try the key again. The
engine turns over, revs then promptly dies.

I sniff the air from my open window. The
country odors of cows and winter-wet hay fields has now been mixed
with burnt oil. Getting out, a puff of visible frustration exiting
my lips, I crouch down and look under the carriage. Sure enough, a
nice, oily black pool has formed. With my luck, it’s the head
gasket and I won’t even be able to get this car into a field for
the recommended shotgun burial.

A car horn startles me and I jump up,
tightening the closure on my black trench coat. I’d already been
running late, so I’d dressed at my apartment and packed my normal
cloths in a duffle bag. I was now standing on the side of a country
road with a coat covering bondage gear. Wonderful!

Turning around to face the car, my gut
drops.
Of course
it’s a cop car. No, wait, correction. It’s
the damn Johnson County Deputy! Ten bucks says he takes me in for
indecent exposure, twenty bucks says he hits on me and a hundred
bucks says he’s gonna think I’m a prostitute.

As he pulls up behind my car and gets out,
I’m running through all the excuses I have. Costume party? No, it’s
almost Christmas. Birthday party? Not unless I’m the one coming out
of the cake. Well, that’s better than a bachelor party where I’m
the one…

“Need some assistance, ma’am?” he swaggers
over.

And man, does he
swagger
. The guy
could give Kyle lessons. Putting on a smile, I hug my body tighter.
“My car seems to have finally gone to pasture,” I joke with a
nervous laugh.

“I could call you a tow,” he looks down his
nose at me, his grey Stetson shading my face from the fading sun.
“Where were you headed? Not much out this way.”

“The Peters Estate,” I offer. “Visiting
some…
friends
.”

He grins and tips his hat at me. “In that
case, I can give you a ride to The Stables, ma’am, and I’ll call a
tow to take your car to Emanuel’s garage. Best place for miles.
He’ll let me know, by the time Brandon’s serving pancakes tomorrow
morning, if the car can be saved.”

I blink at him in stunned silence and that
makes him laugh. He takes off his hat then holds his hand out to
me. “James Darcy, Deputy of Johnson County.”

His jet black hair and dark eyes are as
unsettling as his tall height. He must be the same height as
Brandon, though he lacks the bulk. I take his hand and give it a
firm shake. “Charlie McCloud. Are you… I mean, you know about The
Stables?”

“Charlie, hu?” he tilts his head, ignoring
my question, and gives me another look over. I’m not entirely sure
I appreciate the way he’s examining my body with slow
determination, or the way he dismissed my question by not
answering. “You that debut last week by the name ‘a Scarlet?”

“I am.”

“Thought so,” he snorts, but it’s not cute
like when Ian does it. He points his hat at my head. “Took a wild
guess on account ‘a your red hair and me never seein’ you before.
I’m also gonna guess by the way you’re holding that coat closed
like you’re fightin’ the jaws ‘a life that you’re already dressed
and ready to go?”

Definitely don’t like this guy. But, he’s my
ride, he’s a deputy and he knows about Brandon’s club. So, I temper
my growing anger and give a coy little blush instead. “I was
running late.”

“Well, grab anything you need, sweetheart,
and let’s get you to the club before you turn into a pumpkin.”

I laugh at his dumb joke as I stick the keys
in the glove box, futilely try to roll up my window then grab my
duffle bag and purse from the back seat. He’s already talking on
his radio to someone as I approach his car. “I put the keys in the
glove box.”

He nods and relays that info over the
handheld CB microphone along with my cell number as I provide it to
him. His eyes never leave my body and I’m fighting back the urge to
shove his radio down his throat. Ian may have been staring at me
for three months, he may have purchased my drawings and he may have
memorized my work schedule, but none of that pinged my
creepy-stalker radar like this deputy. Deputy Darcy’s entire
demeanor screams power-hungry, womanizing wolf.

It’s a shame, really. He’d be kina handsome
if he wasn’t oozing an aura as oily as the puddle now forming under
my car. I know it’s wrong of me to judge, in five minutes, the cop
that’s saving my stranded butt. Then again, Daddy always said
first impressions tend to tell you all you need to know about a
person if you listen to your gut
. I’m not getting much of a
reading from my gut, aside from
creepy jerk
, but my skin is
itchy every place James lets his eyes wander.

He opens the back door for me, stating I’m
not allowed to ride upfront where the loaded weapons are. Fine by
me. I slide into the back seat and buckle my seatbelt as he gets in
and pulls back onto the road. Is it strange that I’m glad there’s a
sheet of bullet proof glass between us?

“Emanuel says he’ll get his boy out here to
pick your car up, soon as they finish eatin’ dinner,” he glances at
me through the rearview mirror.

“Thank you, Deputy Darcy.” I attempt to keep
it formal.

“James is fine,” he fails to keep it that
way. “Least till we get to The Stables. Most folks know who I am.
Hard to keep a low profile when you’re one of only three deputies
in a tiny county like this. But, at The Stables, Brandon’s rules
are the rules, so I’ll call you Scarlet and you can call me
Crow.”

All my muscles stiffen at once, and now I
want that bullet proof glass to disappear so I can claw my
fingernails into his neck.
Crow
. This is the pencil-dick
bastard that sold Kyle a crock of lies about Emma, put Emma into a
mental hospital for a month and tore out Brandon’s heart.

I’d wanted to hunt the mysterious Crow down
and hang him from a tree by his balls. Now I finally get what Saul
had meant when he told me Crow was untouchable. Crow is a damn
deputy and could take Brandon’s club down in a heartbeat.

Very well. I enjoy playing games, too.

“It’s
Miss
Scarlet, actually,” I purr
with a Cheshire grin.

Both his eyebrows raise at me in the mirror.
“Really, now? Well, I aint exactly been on my back before for no
Mistress-in-training, but for you, sugar, I think I’d be willing to
try just about anything.”

“I’m sure Mistress Cat would let you help
train me,” I shrug lightly, holding back a laugh as he coughs.

“Vic..er, ah, Mistress Cat is trainin’ you?”
He looks like he swallowed his CB radio.

“She is,” I nod. “She’s a wonderful teacher.
She helped my
best friend
, Baby Doll, get situated at the
club three months ago.”

I watch as his eyes dart from the mirror to
the road then back again, his brain slowly putting the pieces
together. That’s right, dickless. I’m
that
best friend, and
I’m here to make your life a fucking disaster zone. “Are you
alright, James? You look a little pale.”

“Dinner’s not sittin’ well, that’s all,” he
forces his lips into a smile and I smile right back like
everything’s peachy as pie.