Chapter 7 of the continuing saga of Remy comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie. Check out her three books of short stories available on Smashwords for only $1.99 and $0.99. https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/camack.There you can read the first story in each book for free. However, the stories are all different, so the sample stories aren’t a true representation of the other stories.
Next week’s chapter will come from Deborah Dera. Deborah has just recently joined the Spot Writers, and Chapter 8 will be her first contribution to the group.
“No, I’d just like to go home, if you don’t mind.”
Sam stared at her. Remy saw his face change from an inquisitive, hopeful expression to one of mild displeasure, but she didn’t care. Things were getting out of hand – or they might – if she didn’t get home. Unknown texters and callers be damned. She felt safe in her condo. There were twelve units in her building, so it wasn’t like she was totally alone. She’d double-bolt the door. Yes, she’d be fine. She’d keep her cell phone close. She could dial 9-1-1 quickly.
“Okay, then, let’s go,” Sam said. He motioned for the waitress to bring the bill.
Once outside, Remy let out a repressed sigh. The fresh air felt cool on her face, which she knew was flushed from the extra drink. Sam was right; they were the best Long Island Iced Teas she had tasted. Usually she stuck to white wine, so the change was good.
Eleven unknown text messages? Remy repeated the words over and over in her head during the drive home. Who would have done that? Surely it wasn’t Barbara. They had just met, and Barbara really had nothing to fear from her, although, of course, Barbara couldn’t know that.
Remy glanced at her watch. It was after ten. She felt Sam’s gaze upon her, but ignored him. As much as she had enjoyed the evening, she wished she hadn’t gone out with him. He was her boss, after all, and their relationship should remain totally professional. Even though nothing untoward happened, it would be hard to remain focused the next day. In fact, work would be forever awkward. She’d always sense him watching her, wanting her. She knew his type.
Why oh why did I go with him? Remy let out a huge sigh. “Don’t poop where you eat.” She tried to remember where she had heard that quote.
“Hey, you okay?”
“Oh, yes. Fine. Thanks.”
“My offer still stands. You’re welcome to spend the night at my place. I have a guest bedroom. I promise you’ll be safe.”
“No, really, I’m good.”
When he pulled in front of Remy’s building, she grabbed her purse from the floor and opened the door.
“Thanks for dinner. And the drinks.”
“Maybe I should come in with you. Just make sure everything is okay,” Sam said.
“No, really. I’m fine. I have my keys right here. The lights are on. Thanks again,” she said, just before shutting the door.
She bent down and gave Sam a wave.
Yikes, what am I thinking? I didn’t need to wave at him. Childish.
At home, she plopped on the couch and read through the messages again. Unreal. Quickly, she deleted them – all except Jeremy’s message. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t delete that one, but for some reason she wanted to keep it.
Sorry. We can talk when you get back.
It sounded genuine, but emails are open to interpretation. Without hesitating, she hit the delete button. He had Barbara. And a baby on the way. She didn’t want to be involved in something disgusting like that.
Yes, it is disgusting, as harsh as that sounds, she thought. Remy had morals; having a baby out-of-wedlock was not part of her life’s plan.
Later, in bed, while tossing and turning, all sorts of thoughts drifted through her head. She rehashed the evening with Sam – no, Dr. Kendrick. She had to keep their relationship professional. Thus far, it was just one teeny indiscretion: an evening out. One evening out of her lifetime, and there wouldn’t be any more with him.
Olympia Dukakis, that’s who it is. The name came at her like a thunderbolt crashing out of a clear blue sky. “Don’t poop where you eat.” Remy loved that expression and wished she had heeded it.
Jeremy flashed in front of her, as well. Then a screaming baby. And a cranky wife – Barbara. She dreamt of being at their wedding. She was the maid of honor, standing at the altar with two of Barbara’s friends, watching as a young boy dressed in white wheeled in their baby daughter sleeping soundly in a white plush wagon. After the ceremony, she kissed the bride and the groom and offered her congratulations.
When her lips brushed across Jeremy’s cheek, she bolted upright to see the sun streaming through the slightly parted drapes, like it was attacking her face. She rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock. Two minutes to seven. Two more minutes until the alarm blasted. She reached over and turned it to the off position.
What a nightmare.
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Catherine A. MacKenzie