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WHEN I’D FINISHED dressing, I walked out of my bedroom to an empty room. Cougar’s American Fool CD was still playing, now on “Thundering Hearts.”
But Gail was nowhere to be seen.
Her scent still lingered fresh in the air, but the immediate smell of her was gone.
The mystery writer in me, of course, immediately suspected foul play. But I hadn’t heard anything amiss while in the shower. And there was none of the sour-sweet smell of sweat or angst to indicate that something foul had occurred here.
She was just gone.
I looked around. No note, nothing.
Another tentative sniff.
Gone. Just like before.
I rushed to the door, looked out into the hallway. Her scent lingered there, both the scent of her earlier arrival and the more recent scent of her departure. And there was no other scent in the hallway – she wasn’t abducted or dragged out of my place unwillingly. No, she’d left of her own volition. I considered following the easy trail she’d left. But, if she wanted me to, she’d have at least left a note.
Why would she leave when we hadn’t finished our conversation? It’s not like I’d cornered her. No, she’d actually come to me, wanting to talk to me, about the fact that she knew I was a wolf, that she’d seen me last night.
I went back into the room, rushed to the window, opened it, and looked down. The street was busy, the one-way traffic moving steadily east, the city’s lifeblood flowing. There was no sign of her.
I pulled back inside, and, although her scent was still strong in the air, I buried my face in the cushion of the chair where she’d sat.
After a minute, I stood and looked at the clock. It was nine thirty-three.
Mack’s voice drifted into my head. Need I remind you that you’re under contract and two months behind schedule?
That was enough for me. As good as a kick in the pants from the man himself. I thought about pissing Mack off further, then about following Gail, or, at least, going over to her place.
The image of Gail’s engagement ring hung in my mind.
I took a deep breath, started walking to the door, then I let out a loud sigh, turned and walked over to my desk, cracked open my laptop and started typing.
Maxwell Bronte Novel - Untitled
I stared at the title line for several minutes, drumming my fingers on the desk, mind drifting. This wasn’t starting out so well. I couldn’t stop thinking about Gail.
So put that to use, a part of my mind suggested.
I bit my bottom lip, cracked my knuckles, and started typing again.
Bronte stepped out of the shower, reached for a towel and buried his face in it, enjoying the simple pleasure of the soft texture on his face, the clean scent of the fabric softener, a moment of simple bliss.
He tried to tell himself he wasn’t stalling, that he wasn’t nervous about going back out there and facing Gwendolyn. It’d been ten years since he’d last seen her, after all. Ten years since she’d broken his heart by marrying that Wall Street business executive.
But now she was back.
A phone call just hours ago, in the early pre-dawn hours, her whispered voice, begging him to help her, telling him that she was just around the corner from his apartment.
He’d rushed down to meet her, to bring her back to his place. Without exchanging many words, he’d put on some coffee and told her he was going to first grab a quick shower so she could calm herself down enough to tell him what the problem was.
And of course, his own motivation was to calm himself down, stop the frantic race through his heart because the only woman he’d ever loved needed him again.
But when he toweled off, got dressed, and went back downstairs to the kitchen, Gwendolyn was gone. Bronte focused on the overturned mug on the kitchen table, the coffee spread out over the surface of the table, and dripping in thick black drops to the floor.
This was bad.
After a while, the phone rang, breaking me from what I thought was a good start.
Damn. I couldn’t ignore it. What if it were her?
“Hello?”
“Michael.” The voice was a whisper. Gail. “I need your help.”
For a second, I marveled at the scene I had just written. Sure, I’d based it on Gail’s return into my life, but I’d already given it an additional twist, with the ex-girlfriend needing help. Reality seemed to be following the fiction.
“Gail, where are you?”
“I’m at Grand Central. In the lobby. I’m sorry I took off on you. I can explain. But can you get down here quickly?”