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  GHOSTED

  Phaedra Weldon

  Copyright © 2013 by Phaedra Weldon

  All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover Design Copyright © 2013 Design by Trap Door

  Cover Image Copyright © ando6 | Bigstock

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely fictional. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  1

  She walks out of the apartment building to my right, just a few feet up from where I will be when she's gone. Her walk is beautiful, as is the cadence of her long black hair as it sways from side to side across her back. I can tell from her clothing she would never look at me on the street, or grant me an audience for a drink if we met in a bar. I am one of the walking ghosts that surround her, the ones she never sees. Her attention is riveted to the phone in front of her and its screen tags her as a beacon, someone who is not paying attention.

  My watch tells me it's just past midnight. The cold is not only felt in my thin boots as it makes small icicles of my toes, but in the bite of it on my nose, and the evidence in front of my face, and the faces of everyone on the street. My breath is visible in the air. Puffs of ghosts born and extinguished. Though at that time of the day, when the sun gives over complete control to the moon, there aren't that many people on the street. Smart people are inside and warm in their beds, and not roaming the streets like me.

  I idly watch her as she walks, and her gait takes her further up the sidewalk where she turns the corner to the right and disappears. I will see her again because I have to make that same right. My apartment is another block down this lonely path. I hope I'll get to see her continue to walk as I open my door and step inside.

  But when I make that turn and expect to see her, she's not there. The sidewalk is empty, and the street lamps overhead illuminating the deserted road don't reveal any moving shadows.

  There aren't any apartments except the one where I live, which isn't really my apartment. It belongs to a friend who travels the world, writing about different places on a blog she started as a lark. It became her obsession as well as that of an entire army of travelers who feed her website with donations that keep her from the work-a-day world I live in. I am a carpenter by trade.

  I stand outside the simple door to the loft and watch the empty sidewalk. Worry and apprehension crawl up my back when I think I hear something. It could be a cry of help, or the meow of a cat looking for a handout.

  A loud noise breaks the darkness and apprehension becomes a blanket that covers my shoulders and sharpens my senses. Again I hear the sound of someone—is it a muffled cry?

  I am not a fighter, but I have been known to fight. Bullies left me alone in school because I proved one day I was not an ATM machine. Jimmy Simms is indeed better looking today because of my right cross. He is also one of my closest friends.

  But like all descent human beings, I am a prisoner of my conscience as it gauges what I should do. Logic tells me the woman with the phone did not disappear voluntarily, and given the type of neighborhood I live in, there were plenty of predators who would view her as prey.

  I set my purchased meal on the ground and crouch as I move in a much quieter fashion along the brick wall of a building. There is an alley a few yards ahead of me. Many bus and train commuters use it in the mornings and evenings to cut through from the station to their homes, and there are many who lurk in that area to find the last one out of the station. The lone rider.

  The low hanging fruit.

  My fear response says not to get involved. To just go into the loft and ignore what could be happening to that woman.

  But I have never listened to that part of myself.

  I press my back against the wall and focus my hearing on the sounds coming from the dark alley. If I lean forward and peer inside I will see what is happening. So I do.

  A predator has the woman on her front. I see this because the street lamp above me casts enough light into the alley. He is on top of her and he is raping her. His attention is focused on his kill.

  And on his dick.

  I believe I have an advantage in this situation. I move slow as I turn that corner and keep myself in the shadow of the building. Neither of them see me as I move behind him. I see her face. He has shoved something into her mouth and he is holding her hands at her wrists behind her. From his fumbling, I believe he hasn't been able to achieve his goal.

  There are plenty of things I can use as a weapon on the ground. The most prominent is a pipe that does not belong there. I use this same alley every day so I know what bits and pieces of trash find its way there. I take the pipe in my hand. It is burning cold and I do not have gloves.

  With careful footing I creep up behind him. She sees me seconds before I swing and bash the monster's head. He makes a gasping noise as the momentum of my attack takes him off balance. He manages to roll over and face me.

  And he is visible in the light.

  His clothing is clean and he wears a new ski-mask to block his features. And his shoes—they are the real mystery. I may not have money, but I see it. Every day when I build closets, or when I see my own family admire my father's things.

  This man does not belong here.

  He reaches into his leather jacket. I believe he has a weapon so I do what my Karate instructor in college told me to do: I move into his personal space. My moving in forces him to move back and I have the upper hand.

  So I take it, and I swing. Several times. He tries to tackle me and I grab hold of the mask.

  It comes off. I see his face.

  He quickly retreats and runs down the alley in the opposite direction toward the train station. Panting, I turn to the victim.

  She's on her hands in knees, sobbing as she tries to gather her clothing. She holds a shirt to her breast. I approach her and she screams out at me. "Stay away!"

  I put my hands up. "I'm not going to hurt you. I am going to call the police."

  My words surprise her and she sits bare-assed on the alley filth. Her face is now hidden but her shoulders tremble. "You…you're not going to rape me too?"

  "No. Of course not." I make sure I move slow so I won't startle her and kneel down beside her, but not too close. "My name's Daniel. Daniel Grant."

  She sniffs. "My name's Caroline Black. I uh…" She wipes at her face again as I pull my phone from my back pocket, a much simpler one than the smart phone she had been carrying. "I guess it was stupid of me to think I….sh-should catch the train home."

  "It's a bad neighborhood for that this late at night." I dial the numbers and put the phone to my ear. "Just relax, okay? I'll stay with you till they get here."

  She reaches out and tentatively touches my arm. She is trembling. I balance the act of reporting a crime with that of removing my jacket as I place it over her shoulders.

  I hang up and tuck the phone into my jacket pocket. "I am so…so sorry this happened."

  "Yeah…but it's not your fault. I uh…God I feel so stupid."

  "You are not stupid. Braver than me." I give her a genuine smile.

  She finally smiles at me through the smeared mascara and lipstick. She is as beautiful from the front as she was from the back. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  She pulls my jacket around her shoulders. "Will…would you hold me?"

  I do.

  And I know that I am not invisible to her. Not at that moment. But I'm not a cheese ball either. I know that when this is done, there is t
he possibility I will disappear again. She will return to her world, and I to mine.

  But at least, for a little while, I am not a ghost.

  2

  The police are thorough in their questioning of me, and of Caroline. I discover very quickly she really is a daughter of wealth. Her father is Gerome Black, one of the city's largest bankers and real estate investors. The police ask me if I would come downtown to the station and give a detailed description for their sketch artist. Perhaps tomorrow?

  I agree.

  Because the predator never managed to unzip his pants, there is no semen. There is only assault and attempted rape. And Caroline never managed to touch him, or scratch him. The police collect her clothing for evidence and they give her a jumpsuit to wear. I wonder if regular rape victims, or attempted victims, are given as much attention as Caroline Black. One of the officers tells me his boss is on the phone with the money mogul himself.

  The ambulance treats us both for injuries—I did not come away from this unscathed. The assailant, as the police call him, managed a few good hits to my face and a serious one to my chest. There is a suspicion I have bruised ribs.

  "I would suggest the both of you come back to the hospital. Just to make sure there's nothing broken."

  A hospital bill is not something I need so I decline. But I insist Caroline go with them.

  "Daniel, do you have a car?"

  "Well yes I do…but it's not—"

  She turns to the EMT. "I'm going to stay with Daniel. He can take me home."

  I feel a low level of panic set in when I realize this meeting is going beyond its initial excitement. With recommendations about medical procedure an reassurances to the police I would come in the next day, I escort Caroline back down the sidewalk to the loft door. My bag of Chinese food rests where I dropped it.

  "That smells good," she says.

  I fumble with my keys to unlock the door and quickly step inside to disarm the security system. I hold the door open for her to step in, then grab the bag off the sidewalk. "This place belongs to a friend of mine."

  The lower level of the entrance is small so I lead her up the stairs to the actual loft door. There I hit the security code and the door opens. Keyless entry.

  Inside I toss my keys on the table by the door and watch her as she shuffles in. Her eyes are wide as I flip the lights on, and the silence of the place is disrupted by the thunk of electricity feeding the bulbs hanging fourteen feet over our head.

  "This place is…" She turns around as she looks everything over. "Is your friend well off?"

  "Yes and know. I did all the custom work. It was just a warehouse space sitting empty when she convinced the owner to let her buy it. The area is zoned commercial, so she lets me crash and I keep my workshop here." I hide my disappointment in myself. I sound like a nervous idiot, babbling. Because that is what I am.

  Nervous.

  And an idiot. Girls like her do not care for the machinations of a simple man like me.

  "You…built all this? The loft up there? The benches around the windows?"

  "Yes. And I made the furniture. Chloe's not really…big into buying things like that because she's rarely home. But she likes big, soft furniture to sit and relax on. Most of her time here is spent watching movies, catching up on Netflix." I wince because I have babbled again.

  Caroline follows me across the hard wood floor to the kitchen. I place the bag of food on the counter and open a cabinet. "Are you hungry?"

  "Yes I am." She reaches up and runs her hands over the white and teak finish of the cabinet doors. "You do these too?"

  "Yes. I guess I should clarify it and say that when Chloe bought the place she abruptly spent a year in Europe and told me, make me a nice place and stay in it. So…I did." I grab two plates.

  "Are you and Chloe…together?"

  It was an odd question. Mine and Chloe's mutual friends knew us well enough not to ask it. "No. We're good friends. But to put things in perspective, if Chloe saw you," I shrug. "She would hit on you."

  "Oh. I get it." Her smile widens. "You're very different, Mr. Daniel Grant."

  I pull the boxes from the bag. "I have Mushu Pork, Mongolian Beef, fried and steamed rice, pot stickers and…wow they gave me two fortune cookies." I pull the cookies out and set them on the counter.

  "I'm thinking they assumed one person wasn't going to eat that much food. So…" She puts her hands together. "Let's eat?"

  We sit on the couches as the flat screen displays a rerun of some comedy I never watch. We talk about ourselves and who we are. She is much more interesting than me.

  "And then I graduated—barely. My dad was happy I at least got my cap and gown and a job. I work as a paralegal for one of my uncle's law firms. It's a pretty cool job and I actually like doing research."

  "Legal research?"

  She digs into the box of fried rice with a pair of chopsticks. The plate, abandoned. "Any kind." She fishes a large chunk of rice and chicken out and chews it. She points at the loft. "Like right now…I would love to research this building and find out who owns the rest of it because I want one of these."

  I laugh softly. I am fascinated with her as well as impressed. She was nearly raped and possibly killed and yet she sits in this loft with me, a perfect stranger, and talks about researching a building. I reassess my first thoughts of her from when I saw her step out to what I know now. "What were you doing down at the Blue Lagoon?"

  "Meeting a friend who never showed up. I was there for about an hour. Who knew they had such good sushi there?" She digs into the box again. "And this Chinese is the best I've had."

  "It comes from Golden Dragon. It's around the corner from Blue Lagoon."

  "Big Asian community here?"

  "Yeah." I finish an egg roll and wipe my hands on the napkins included in the bag. "Did you find out why your friend never showed up?"

  "She and I were texting when I was—" Her eyes become wide and her brows arch high on her forehead.

  "Caroline?"

  "Dammit Daniel…my phone. I don't remember what happened to my phone."

  "If you left it at the scene, the police will find it."

  "Oh…kay." Her expression relaxes. "I hope so. My life is on that phone." Caroline sets the box on the coffee table with the sticks and sits forward. "Now it's your turn."

  "My turn what?"

  "Who are you, Daniel Grant?"

  "I'm just Dan Grant. I work construction for Farfield Construction—"

  "My dad owns that!"

  "I know." I smile at her. "I work just about every part of the process, except the power. I'm not that good being an electrician." I rub my hands on my jeans. "I was born in Florida. My parents still live there along the intercoastal waterway. I have a sister who lives in Japan. You know about Chloe. And I have the best friend in the world. His name's Jimmy Simms. I work, I make things and I eat and sleep."

  "No girlfriend?"

  I shake my head. "No girlfriend."

  I am excited as well as shocked when she stands and comes to sit on the couch with me. We face each other. I see beyond the mascara darkened eyes and the pale lips. I see a beautiful, vibrant woman with a good heart. I see someone…I would love to know better.

  "Daniel?"

  "Yes?"

  "What did he look like?"

  I know who she asks about. I comb my fingers through my hair and lean back on the couch. "Isn't it better not to remember and let me do it for you?"

  "That's sweet, but I have to know."

  I describe him to her, in as much detail as I intend on giving the police sketch artist.

  She grows very, very white and her eyes fill with tears. I reach out to her and she moves into my arms. Her shoulders shake as she cries and I hold her as tight as I dare. My sweatshirt muffles her screams and I wince as her grip around my chest reminds me of my own injuries. I hold still and take as much as she is willing to give.

  When I rest my chin on the top of her hair, she turns her head a
nd is hiccuping. "God…I hate it when I cry that hard."

  "Cry as long as you like."

  "Why, Dan. Why did it happen to me?"

  "I don't know. I wish it hadn't. But I'm glad he didn't touch you."

  "Me too."

  We sit like that for several minutes before she lifts her head. "Dan?"

  "Yes?"

  "Kiss me?"

  I freeze because my desires and needs war with my mother's hardline stance at treating a woman right. And succumbing to my baser needs at that moment is not what she had in mind. She taught me well—a little too well sometimes. "I can't."

  "Can't?" She blinks. I see her eyes are blue under the mascara.

  "Caroline," I push her back as I settle beside her. "You've just been through a very traumatic experience, and though I would love nothing more than to kiss you, among other things, I think that would be rude of me. I'm…I don't like taking advantage of women." I add a smile to relax her crossed eyebrows. "My mama raised me right."

  "That…she did." Caroline's cross eyebrows soften as she looks at me with narrow eyes. "You're different, Dan Grant. Not like any guy I've ever met. You sure you're not gay?"

  I laugh. "I'm sure. Now…I'm also possitive Chloe has clothing in there that could fit you. Why don't you take a shower, grab some clothes, and then I can take you home?"

  She takes my hand. "Trying to get rid of me?"

  "No, I'm trying to keep my promise not to kiss you. But the longer you stay, the harder that's going to be."

  Caroline smiles and before I can stop her, kisses my cheek before she stumbles off the couch and heads to the back rooms. By the time I clean the kitchen and put away left overs, she returns. Chloe's pink sweater and soft jeans add to Caroline's tribute to the female form. I stare for a few minutes before she reaches up to touch my cheek. Her face is clean now, and she is more than beautiful.

  She is Goddess.

  3