10Megan
The last fewdays had been my most productive. I’d written over twenty thousand words. As I stretched before my morning run, I stared out at the beautiful beach less than a quarter of a mile away from my condo.
The neighborhood was runner friendly with its winding little running trails that circled the multi-million-dollar condos.
I’d been in Florida for nearly six months now, including the month I’d spent with the August Knights Motorcycle Club. This was the longest I’d settled in any place over the last three years. I’d set a rule for myself that I would never settle in one place past six months, but the people here in Florida were friendly and accommodating. Who was I kidding? Leaving Florida would take me away from my flirting desire to reconnect with Aaron’s sexy ass.
Since September had rolled in, the slight drop in temperature produced the perfect type of weather for enjoying the outdoors. The breezy comfort was easily enjoyable. Today, the sun sat high in the sky, and the breeze off the ocean kissed my skin as soft sprinkles winded their way through the air and licked away the heat of the sun.
If that wasn’t relaxing enough, the breeze never stopped sweeping my skin with its cool care. This was one of the most relaxing places I’d lived, but I had finally made the decision to move out of the country. I had built up enough courage to leave the United States and move to the Dominican Republic. Although I’d never been to the beautiful island, it was one of three places I’d chosen at random to get lost in.
My turbulent past was the reason I moved around as often as possible. I also had a propensity for stirring up trouble, playing with fire, and throwing stones at hornets’ nests, while gathering ideas and concepts for my books. But more importantly, I gathered knowledge in the art of survival.
I convinced myself that it was journalistic exploration, but the people I used in the process of gathering insight would find it highly insulting if they knew what I was truly up to.
I’d inherited millions from my husband’s death over three years ago. It wasn’t until after he’d been killed that I found out his family owned seven of the most lucrative pharmaceutical manufacturing companies in the country.
My dearly departed husband, Eric Christenson, had kept the big secret from me. I often speculated on how he’d managed to take such good care of me on his military salary alone. How he could afford to take me on all those expensive trips. After his death, I found out he had more than ten million dollars in his trust fund.
He’d defied his family’s demands for him to help run the family businesses and had joined the military instead. I’d met his family for the first time at his funeral, and despite the depressing event, they’d been cordial to me. Although I’d never officially met them before, they claimed that Eric had shared with them that he’d never been happier before his marriage to me.
When they called me the next week to meet them at their lawyer’s office, I didn’t know what to expect. Eric’s last words were a love letter to me, and the last few sentences left my mouth hanging wide open. He’d left me every cent of his trust fund. The insane amount of money, ten and a half million dollars, hadn’t appeared to faze his family at all.
When you were sitting on endless millions, losing a little of it didn’t hurt, I’d guessed. His letter had also highlighted the fact that I had no idea he’d even had money.
Living the life of a millionaire was fun for me—for about three months. When you discovered that there was only so much fun you could have with darkness lurking at your back, you tended to concentrate on more important things, like plotting survival strategies and escape plans. The inheritance allowed me the financial freedom to relocate my life on a whim, and the ability to run from any trouble I stirred along the way.
I’d never have to work another day in my life, but I’d trade every cent I had inherited for a normal, worry-free life. Writing had always been a secret hobby of mine. When you spent years locked away inside a nut house, you had to find an outlet or face losing your mind completely. Writing was also the one thing that kept me company in the lonely and sometimes dreary life I’d taken on after my husband’s death.
After a seven-mile run, I ignored the elevator and hiked up my stairs to my third-floor condo, making my legs burn a little bit longer before relaxing.
When I entered my apartment, a strange awareness overtook me—a sense that I was being watched. A distant view of the ocean met me after I’d walked over to my window and stood. I did the same at my side windows, which gave me a view of my neighbors in the condo complex next to mine. We weren’t in high rises. The tallest building around the area went up to the fourth floor, giving the area a more laid-back look versus that of a city.
After my shower, I sat in front of my laptop and started working on my latest book again, but that sense of being watched climbed onto my back and weighed me down. There were eyes on me. I sensed them and couldn’t shake them.
I ambled over and stood at my bedroom window for minutes. Was I being watched or was I being paranoid? My neighbor, Mr. Hancock, in the next set of condos across the way, liked to people watch through binoculars, but I couldn’t see him. The couple on the fourth floor were on their balcony, but they were damn near fucking each other out in public, so they didn’t have time to watch me.
The nagging feeling that I was being watched, lingered. I beat the feeling back. I’d been careful. I was safe. I was locked inside my condo, minding my own business. No one was watching me. It was my twisted mind dredging up ghosts that weren’t there. So, why wasn’t that feeling going away? Why couldn’t I make it go away?