For the next ten minutes or so, Mark watched the counselors put away groceries and sweep out cabins, his attention completely focused on the few shots of Chelsea. He listened to the sound of her voice and laughter, and he watched her bottom in those shorts. Just the sight of her in a five-year-old horror flick twisted him into knots.
An actor with shaggy brown hair like a surfer and wearing a green Abercrombie shirt found an axe stuck in a wall. He pulled it out and placed it on a shelf next to the fire extinguisher. Then he stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a bag of weed. Mark remembered Chelsea telling him the bad boy was always the first to get it in a horror flick, and Mark figured Mr. Shaggy Hair Surfer would be the first to go. The camera panned to the window and what looked like someone in a mask watching from the forest.
At dusk, the scene changed to Chelsea standing at the end of a dock. The setting sun washed her body in gold as she shucked out of her shorts and whipped her top off. She wore a pair of white panties, and Mark got instantly hard. She jumped into the lake and swam about before heading to the shore. Water ran down her breasts and dripped from her chin as she walked up the beach. A male stepped into the shot, his back to the camera. She gasped, then smiled.
“You scared me,” she said as she reached for Mr. Shaggy Hair Surfer. She kissed him long and hard and they slid to the sandy beach. The surfer touched Chelsea’s back and behind and ran his hand up her thigh. Mark had an irrational urge to punch the kid in the head. To rip him apart. He felt sick as sounds of pleasure spilled from Chelsea’s lips. Pleasure she found with someone else.
It was crazy. Chelsea didn’t belong to him, but even if she did, this was a movie, and those weren’t the sounds she made when she had sex. He knew what ›. Hshe sounded like and that wasn’t it. Her voice was breathier, lower during sex. She said, “Oh God” or “Oh my God” a lot. Sometimes, “Oh God, Mark!” And when she orgasmed, her moan came from some deeper, more satisfied place.
A huge, dirty hand grabbed a handful of the surfer’s shaggy hair and cut off his head. Blood splashed all over Chelsea and she screamed. A bloodcurdling scream as she sat up and scooted backward into the woods. Mark remembered her telling him and the guys about this scene. He waited for the axe to cut her throat, and when it did, he looked away.
Mark Bressler, former captain of the Seattle Chinooks, had experienced more than his share of gore. He’d witnessed bones snap and blood gush. He’d seen razor-sharp skates slice flesh, and bodies clash with such force that he could actually hear the damage. For the most part, it had been just another day at the office. But this. He couldn’t watch this. He couldn’t watch anyone hurt Chelsea. Not even when he was still so mad at her it burned a hole in his stomach. Not even when he knew it was all fake. The axe. The blood. The scream.
She was an actress. She made it look real. As real as saying, “I love you.”
He shut off the television, and the next morning he threw his clothes into a suitcase and took the first flight to Seattle. He felt more alone than when he’d arrived in Vegas. He grabbed the In Flight magazine and read about luxury condos on a golf course in Scottsdale. He thought of the houses he and Chelsea had looked at most recently. He needed to make a choice soon.
After the two-hour flight, he walked into his empty house, and his suitcase fell from his hand. The emptiness of the six-thousand-square-foot home pressed in on him. There was no one waiting for him. No light. No laughter. No one trying to boss him around. His life was complete crap. As bad as when he’d hit that patch of black ice and totaled everything. And just like that patch of invisible ice, his feelings for Chelsea had been surprising and painful.
The doorbell rang, and he didn’t realize he’d half expected it to be Chelsea until he opened the door and stared into the face of a middle-aged woman with short, black hair and a pear-shaped behind. Within the space of three seconds, his heart sped up and came to a sudden halt.
“I’m Patty Egan. I’m your new home health care worker.”
“Where’s Chelsea?”
“Who? I don’t know a Chelsea. The Chinooks’ aftercare program contracted me through Life Force.”
Life Force? “I don’t need a nurse.”
“I’m more than just a nurse.” She handed him a stack of his mail.
Chelsea had been more than just an assistant. She’d been his lover. Somehow he didn’t think he’d have the same problem with Patty, but he still wasn’t about to have a nurse in his house and underfoot.
There had been a time in his life when he would have slammed the door in Patty’s face and not really thought anything of it. Chelsea had called him a selfish dickhead. He’d like to think he wasn’t selfish anymore. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he said, and grabbed his mail. “I don’t need you.” He started›221 to shut the door and added for good measure, “You have a nice day, though.”
The doorbell rang again but he ignored it. He walked into his office and called Connie Backus. Someone must have found out about his relationship with Chelsea and fired her.
“Why is there a new home health care worker on my porch?”
“Sorry it took so long to get someone out there. But Chelsea Ross quitting on such short notice kind of left us in a bind.”
The mail in his hand hit the desk. “Chelsea quit?”
“Last week. Tuesday I believe.”
The day after she’d walked out of his life. “Did she give a reason?”
“She said something about moving back to L.A.”
Chelsea stood with an icing bag in one hand, piping hearts on three dozen cupcakes. Some of the icing kind of squirted off one side and onto the table. Her luck had been going that way lately. One thing after another. A few days ago, she’d had a flat tire, and yesterday she’d lost her cell phone. The last time she remembered seeing it had been right before she’d jumped in the shower yesterday.
She’d worked for Georgeanne Kowalsky for three days now, and she could honestly say it wasn’t bad. She’d certainly done worse. Holding the hair of a certain celebutard while she puked in an ice bucket came to mind.
She’d also applied for waitressing jobs at several different restaurants and bars. No sports pubs though. Nothing with televisions hanging on the walls.
Georgeanne stuck her head through one of the doors to the big kitchen. “Chelsea, there’s someone here to see you.”
“Who?”