Intimate Passenger, chapter 1 |
by Angel Leigh McCoy |
|
COPYRIGHT WARNING: The following was written by Angel Leigh McCoy. You may not reproduce the document for distribution and/or for commercial purposes without Angel's express permission, given in writing in advance. Thank you for your consideration.
Marlie knew something had changed within herself the moment she decided to kill Michael Bradley. She had never had homicidal thoughts before, much less ever believed she might actually do something like that. Sitting in her car outside his house, she wished she had a gun.
He deserved to die—no question about it. Three months earlier, he had breezed into her life with a roguish grin and sexy, blue eyes. What a wonderful coincidence, he had said, that I ran into you.
It was no coincidence.
The bastard had seduced her into sharing the fact that Broderick Publishing was having serious financial difficulties. He had printed it, causing a disastrous drop in the company's stocks. When the story broke, Marlie heard about it via her boss. He appeared in her office, Chicago Tribune in hand, and threw it on her desk. Thirty seconds later, she had no job.
And there was Michael Bradley, right before her eyes, in his candlelit dining room with the female CEO of Drake Books. Michael was more than just a reporter out to get a story; he was a corporate spy and terrorist. Marlie could see them laugh through the filmy sheers. She could imagine their self-satisfied amusement at how Michael had made the unattractive, gullible, junior editor fall in love with him. Drake Books had eliminated a competitor. Marlie had lost everything.
The murder was easier than she had expected. Marlie waited until the bitch left and Michael went back to bed alone, then she walked to the house. The garage door was unlocked. Michael had an old gas stove. How easy—to blow out the pilot light and turn on the burners. How simple—to relight the candle in the dining room and tip it over onto the tablecloth.
Marlie drove away and kept driving. She didn't learn just how successful she had been until two nights later. Four, stiff vodka tonics and an anonymous fuck had laid her out on the bed of her hotel room. The man had left, and Marlie had turned on the television. The newsman reported the fiery death of Michael Bradley. Marlie sat up, heart thundering. Michael was dead.
Marlie had done it. She had killed him. Once the shock passed, Marlie felt overwhelming remorse. Sorrow washed over her. She had loved him. Hours later, she fell asleep with tears on her face...
...and awoke to blind terror. A man stood over her bed, identity hidden in shadows. Marlie cried out and scrambled back, fighting the blankets that threatened to entangle her.
The man didn't move.
"What do you want?" Marlie demanded. "Leave me alone!"
The man didn't answer. He didn't move.
Marlie glanced around the room, into the darkness, seeking a weapon or an escape. The bathroom door offered the best option. Looking back to the man, Marlie calculated... then, leapt off the bed and ran into the bathroom. She slammed the door and locked it.
Nothing happened.
Marlie screamed for help until someone came. She heard them knocking and cautiously opened the bathroom door. Her room was empty. The front door was locked from the inside. The man was gone. All that remained of him, the lingering aroma of a fire, turned Marlie's stomach.
Marlie packed her things and hit the road again. She didn't realize, not consciously, that she had a passenger. She just knew she had to keep driving.
Read the next installment of "Intimate Passenger."
chapter 3: 08/99
