The Flip (7 page)

“Tessa, stop tormenting him.” Gerald perched himself next to his companion on the railing one flight above Brad.

“Did you see the picture on his phone?” she demanded. “Do you think she is prettier than me?”

“Too thin for my taste.” He eyed his preening companion. “I prefer my women a bit more full-figured. You remember, Rubenesque.”

“She’s as skinny as a drowned cat.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Besides, Tessa, my sweet, they like their women like that now. All muscles, like a…like little boys.”

“Hah, I knew it! She’s flat-chested.” She stroked her hands down her well-endowed bosom. “Mine are real. Touch them, Gerald, you’ll see.”

“With pleasure.” He leaned over to caress her, and she flew off the banister to levitate above Brad’s head.

“As if,” she teased him. “I didn’t let you touch them then, and I’m certainly not going to let you now.”

Gerald felt his face heat with anger, his hands balling into fists. Tessa and he had come to a sort of comfortable relationship after all these years together. He liked to think of them as an old married couple. Usually it was just the two of them. With the occasional intruder, he allowed
Tessa her mild flirtations. And there were the Sentinels, of course. She terrorized the crack addicts—they were so unattractive he had never interfered—but this was a whole different story. Tessa was intrigued. Lit up like an incandescent flame, she was back to her old tricks. She primped in front of her imaginary mirror, singing. He puffed up with indignation. She never did those things for him. He stalked across the landing past the handsome man, filled with resentment.

“He is gorgeous.” Tessa taunted Gerald, circling Brad like a predator, her eyes drinking in his muscular build. “Look at his hands; he is so sensitive. I bet he would know how to make me feel like a woman.”

“Enough!” Gerald yelled at her, stopping
when he saw the satisfied look on her face. Anger never worked with her. They knew each other so well after all these years. She thrived on his pain. Changing his tactics, he teased her instead. “Honey, you’re so old, they’d call you a saber-toothed tiger instead of a cougar,” Gerald snickered. Tessa’s face changed, turning white, her teeth elongating into fangs. She raced back at him, her eyes black pits of coal. “Save it for the tourists, Tessa. Doing that makes you look like an old hag.” He floated away, his laughter echoing off the walls.

Brad looked around. He heard something. His gray eyes scanned the high ceilings but could discern nothing in the gloom. He took the stairs lightly, the handrail smooth under his calloused
hand. He paused at the Joan of Arc stained glass window, shaking his head. He understood flowers, even animals, but Joan of Arc? There was something eerily depressing about a stained glass window decorated with a martyred saint. He bowed to her gallantly and then bounded up to the next story. Soon he found himself at the top level of the house. A door beckoned to him from the ceiling. There was no rope to pull it down. He looked around, spying an old chair. Climbing up, he reached over his head to pull down the attic door.

The chair wobbled; Brad glanced down the railing, the potential three-story fall giving him vertigo. It was a long way down, he thought, gulping. His bum leg protested, reminding him it
was just healed. He reached forward, his fingers scrabbling at the opening. Lurching, he started to weave, feeling himself losing his balance. The air gelled. He thought dispassionately that he was going to fall, and it was going to be messy. Two of the chair’s legs lifted off the ratty carpet, and Brad’s mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. Like a manipulated marionette, the chair righted itself, pulling him away from the railing. It landed with a hard thud, jarring him, but he knew he was safe.
That was close
, he thought. He got down shakily and sat on the top stair, his legs wobbly, his heart beating a rapid tattoo in his chest. He wiped the sweat beading his brow. He had almost fallen, of that he was sure. He just didn’t know what had prevented it. Taking a deep breath, he climbed onto the chair
again, tentatively reaching for the ceiling, latching on to the pull so he could yank open the door to the attic. It fell forward, creaking on its rusty hinges. A blast of hot air hit him full in the face. Heart pounding in his chest, he paused to look back at the chandelier, now that he was at eye level with it. It was a monster, all cut glass in a million small pieces. It appeared to spin slowly, creating a kaleidoscope of rainbow colors. Brad’s skin prickled, and he felt the caress of a light breeze travel up his spine.

Tessa drew close to the human. The Sentinel had pulled him to safety. She hated their interference. Just when she had control of a situation, they would step in to block her from doing as she pleased. She was afraid of them and
found herself backed into a corner when she felt their presence. The air always thickened, making movement difficult. She glanced around, making sure she was alone. Smiling, she let her hands linger near Brad’s face and felt him shudder as she slid them down the back of his body. She longed to press up against him, inhale his maleness, lose herself in his embrace. She swirled through him, lightly caressing his heated skin, willing herself to form, feeling the weight of gravity pull her cells together. The dense sensation of her skin encasing pressed down with crushing weight. Breath crystallized in her lungs; her nose inhaled the deadness of the house and the aliveness of Brad before her. Light hurt her eyes; her fingers blindly reached out to tangle themselves in the long hair cascading down
Brad’s back. Brad spun, his eyes widening as she took vague shape before his startled face. She was a chimera, the shadow play of light and darkness, indistinct and almost transparent. Pursing her lips, she leaned in to kiss him.

Brad blinked, his eyes wide, when he was distracted by the chandelier to the right of them. It started swirling, faster and faster in a wild dance, spinning in a dazzling array of lights, sparkling in a circular motion, looking like a Catherine wheel. Bright arcs of light were spat from the many branches, hissing as they struck the walls, hitting with the rapidness of a machine gun. Brad ducked, a blast sizzling across his shoulder blades, ripping his shirt and leaving a smoking trail behind it. The pop of the lightbulbs
shattered the silence. Brad flew out of Tessa’s ghostly embrace to land on the floor, rolling toward the stairs.

“Nooooo. You sent them to torture me, Gerald. I hate you.”

Brad heard a female scream as a burst of electricity found him like a heat-seeking missile, creasing the skin above his ear, pushing his head into the wall with a loud
thwack
. Stars exploded inside his head, and he knew nothing more.

Tessa roared with frustration, her semitransparent form shrinking until it disappeared into nothingness. Blackness descended on the landing to surround the unconscious Brad. It hovered over him,
obliterating all light and sound. Slowly, two human shapes formed, one bending over the prone man, a long white finger touching his face.

“You were too rough.” The voice was in a frequency so high only a dog would hear it.

“He’s a big boy.” The other being shrugged. It was tall, with a shock of pure white hair. The eyes were a laser blue in its almost transparent face. It wavered, fading in, and grew stronger, becoming more solid.

“Are you going to do anything?” The other form was definitely female, with the same white hair in a neat bun. She was almost as tall as the male. They wore iridescent suits that reflected the weak sunlight. She bent over and caressed Brad’s
slack face. He groaned, and she rose, hiding her hand behind her thin back.

“We won’t have to. He’ll remember nothing. We have to go. He can’t see us.”

“We can’t just leave him like this. What if Tessa comes back?”

The male cocked his head. “Gerald is consoling her.” He laughed, his bright eyes luminous.

“You frightened her,” the female admonished. “You’re not supposed to.”

“It’s what I do best. Come, we must leave. Look, he wakes. He will go to the attic now.”

“I think not. He’s bruised. You hurt him.”

“He has to go into the attic, Marum. Don’t interfere.”

Marum huffed, walking through the banister to disappear into the woodwork of the opposite wall.

Her companion shook his head and muttered, “Women.”

Brad rose on all fours, his nose running, his eyes tearing. He touched the ripped corner of his shirt, feeling the raw skin where the spark had singed him. He looked around, shook his head with disbelief, stood up, and gripped the banister as he weaved just a bit. His phone broke the silence, Julie’s face lighting the screen. He pressed ignore and walked toward the stairs to
the attic.

Chapter 8

Julie stared glumly at the computer screen, idly looking at pictures of Victorian homes.

“You OK?” Dulcie slid into her seat, a cup of coffee in one hand, a plate with a doughnut in the other. “Want?” She held up the plate.

Julie shook her head. “I had my quota of cake yesterday.” A faint smile came as the memory of their
Tom Jones
eating frenzy flashed through her mind. “I feel like I’m missing something.” Julie sighed. She pressed Brad’s number again and got his voice mail. “No. Nothing. I think Brad is mad at me.”

“Why?”

“He’s so testy. Every time I call him, he has no patience for me. He’s not even answering my call now.”

Dulcie ripped apart the doughnut, considering it. “Stop running after him. The more you push, the more he’ll pull. Don’t call him fifty times a day.”

“I don’t call him that much.” Julie stood, outraged.

“Oh yes, you do, and more. I don’t call Carlos but once a day, girl. You got to make them miss you.” She looked at Julie, her dark eyes dancing. “You got to play hard to get. You too easy.”

Julie shrugged. “I hate playing games.”

Dulcie smiled, revealing even white teeth. “Isn’t he playing games by not answering you?”

“Huh!” Julie huffed, considering what Dulcie had said.

Her intercom buzzed with the annoying tenacity of a droning bee, interrupting their conversation. She depressed the button to hear orders rapped out in rapid succession. Go to human resources, get the Bailse contracts, stop by supplies, get a new stapler. Julie took a pen, recording the list so she wouldn’t forget anything. With a sigh, she rose, looking at Dulcie for sympathy.

“Better you than me is all I have to say. I got him breakfast, and they put the eggs on the
wrong side of his plate.” She laughed. “I got him a new plate, but it had more than eggs on it when I gave it to him.”

“Eeeew. That’s disgusting, Dulce.”

“He deserves it. You can’t treat people like scum and not pay for it.” She harrumphed and turned, her nose in the air, to type the requisition order she had been working on.

Julie giggled and headed off, taking the elevator to her first stop. In the supply room, she found a box to hold all the things Mr. Wilson had demanded. She juggled a heavy stapler, a box of staples, a ruler, pens, and a cord for the new phone. She became aware that someone was in the room but, not feeling threatened, didn’t look
up to identify the intruder. A hand caressed her bottom and she gasped, pushing away. Strong arms grabbed her from the front, one pushing its way down her blouse.

“Julie.” She felt his hot breath heat the back of her neck.

“Mr. Wilson!” She wriggled away from him. He was a short man with a wide belly. Surely, he couldn’t be doing this to her. “Stop! What are you doing?” His pasty bald head gleamed with sweat.

“Julie, Julie, Julie.” He pressed his groin against her. She felt him poking her, and she used her elbow to break his embrace. “Don’t you feel the tension between us? Dump that pretty boy. We could do great things together.” His glasses
were askew on his face, his lips wet with drool, his eyelids at half-mast in what she guessed was his bedroom look.

A giggle bubbled up hysterically from her throat. “Stop that this instant!” she shouted, as his hands groped to separate her white shirt from her skirt.

“I know you want it. Just think of what I can give you. Julie, I can make life very easy for you.”

“I’m married,” she said sternly, slapping his hand away. The box of supplies was crushed between them, some of its contents falling out the sides.

“I…want…you…now!” he spat. “I always
get what I want.” His hot eyes devoured her.

Julie looked at his pursed lips and his unfocused gaze and yelled, “I am not interested! I said stop it!” When he didn’t respond, she reached for the ruler between them and slapped him on his fleshy cheek, drawing blood.

Mr. Wilson gasped, his pudgy hand going to his cheek. His face crumpled.

“Oh!” She dropped the ruler. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but she wouldn’t let him take advantage of her. “Oh!”

“I thought you wanted it.” Her boss backed away. “You always wear such short skirts. You bend in front of me.”

“You keep dropping things,” Julie defended
herself. “Mr. Wilson, I don’t think I can be here anymore.”

“Neither do I. Are you going to lodge a complaint? Because if you do, I will say that you asked for it.”

“Asked for it! I don’t know what you are talking about. You’re despicable, Mr. Wilson. I thought of you as a father figure.”

“Me?” he asked with a laugh. “A father figure? I could have any girl I want.” He stalked to the door. “You make trouble, and I will make sure you never see another construction loan from the bank again.”

Julie put the supplies on a shelf, walked to her desk, and emptied the drawers.

“Where you going?” Dulcie looked up from her screen.

“I got a better offer. See you, Dulcie. I’m leaving, and I won’t be back.”

Chapter 9

Brad climbed the steep stairs into the overheated attic. He felt the bruise over his ear. It was tender to the touch, but nothing worse. He had blacked out for a minute. Well, Julie had warned him not to go into the attic alone. The last time, he had fallen ten feet and broken his leg in two places. It was a bitch of an injury. Four years in the heat and danger of Afghanistan without a scratch, but in one of his first flips, he almost incapacitated himself. No Purple Heart in flipping houses. He rubbed the permanent bump in his shin, wincing at its tenderness. Maybe he should listen to her, maybe not. It was stifling up there, with the acrid smell of dry wood and insects. Using his phone as
a flashlight, he lit a path, his mouth open with wonder. It was a treasure trove of furniture, bronzes, boxes of dishes, Majolica ware, Wedgwood china, and rows and rows of belongings from different eras. Brad smiled; this could be life changing.