One ring. Two rings. On the third, there was an answer.
"Margaret Winstead."
"Ms. Winstead? Hi, this is Claire Bennet! I was at the club last—"
"Yes, I remember, Claire. Please call me Margaret. I take it if you're calling, you've decided to take Malcolm's offer?"
"Uh, yes I have. The only thing is, I'm not sure how long I'll be in the area—"
"That's quite all right. You'll be paid per appearance. When you've decided you've had enough, you just let us know."
"Great! So when do I need to be there next?"
"We have an hour of unplanned time on Tuesday night. If you want to come in today and practice, that's fine."
"I can do that. Thank you, Margaret."
"Thank you, Claire." With that, she hung up.
Gabriel insisted on coming with her to Juneberry, which Claire couldn't really argue with; it was part of their compromise, after all. The restaurant/bar was empty and closed to the public, but fortunately Margaret was outside when they arrived, and let them in.
Ignoring Gabriel, Margaret put an arm around Claire's shoulders and walked her through the bar, introducing her to "the gang." She first took her backstage, behind the restaurant area. They walked up to the blond-haired man who Claire had first seen on stage.
"This is our M.C., Dorian. I'm sure you remember him from the other night," Margaret told her.
Dorian took her hand smiled. He was almost as good looking as Malcolm. "Hi, Claire. Thanks for saving us the other night. You were quite the act."
"That's why she's here," Margaret answered for Claire, then walked her on to the others.
The next group Claire met were some of the service staff: Mindy, a waitress not too much older than her with bright red hair and freckles; John, one of the hosts who looked to be about Gabriel's age with a shaved head and moustache; Louise, an older woman who was their sous-chef; and Dani, a girl younger than Claire with jet-black hair and a nose ring who did bussing and running. They all were pleasant, but not nearly as enthusiastic as Margaret, even put together. After introducing each one of them to Claire, she hugged them to her and told Claire that they were all part of the "Juneberry family."
Margaret then walked Claire to the stage, Gabriel still in tow and for the most part neglected, and told her she could start practicing.
"Do you need anything, hon?" the older woman asked.
Claire smiled and shook her head. "What you had last night was fine. Most of the songs I'd perform I know the music to by heart. I just need some practice."
Margaret smiled back. "Good. Well, I'll let you get to it then." With that, she left.
Claire stretched her hands and fingers, then started playing a few exercises from her days of piano lessons to warm up.
She was in her third round of exercises when she saw Gabriel standing over her. She stopped and looked at him.
"I'm going to look around. I'll be back soon," he told her.
She smiled. "Good. See you then," she replied, and turned back to the piano.
Even being engrossed in her playing, Claire couldn't help but notice how stiffly Gabriel walked away. She was sure he felt somewhat out of place; all of their previous work had involved both of them. Now, the attention was solely on her.
She let Gabriel fade out of her mind, and soon found herself thinking of Malcolm Everett. He hadn't appeared while she was there; then again, he was the owner. He didn't have to be there if he didn't want to be. That's why he had Margaret to run everything for him. He was a handsome man. Charming too, and successful. He was the type of guy Claire and her friends used to dream about finding after they were done with school. Claire supposed that his type wasn't her type anymore; Malcolm Everett was nothing like Gabriel Gray, for example. Malcolm was deeply concerned with making connections and material possessions. Gabriel wanted only to secure the kind of power that money couldn't buy. Which type of man was more ruthless? Claire couldn't say.
She was now into the second verse of "I'll Stand By You," playing the song while softly singing along, when she felt that feeling she'd had in her dream: that someone was watching her. She took her fingers off the keys quickly, bringing the song she'd been playing to an abrupt halt.
She looked around her frantically, seeing no one on stage, around the tables that made up the audience, or on the sides. Then slowly, fearfully, she turned around on the piano bench and looked behind her.
She gasped and almost jumped. Several yards away, by the exit, there was an old man staring at her. He had his arms crossed, leaning against the wall. His eyes seemed nearly colorless, but they were ferocious, seeming to burn into her, searing her soul.
Claire couldn't move. She wanted to jump up, to run away, to scream. But she couldn't. She was petrified by her fear—or, perhaps, by some force he was exerting on her.
Their eyes were locked for nearly a minute, and for Claire it was an agonizing eternity. Then, he moved his eyes away and walked out of the room.
Even though he was gone, Claire still couldn't move. She stared into space for a while, her mind blank. It was as if he had taken all the sense from her.
Suddenly there were two coal-black eyes staring right into hers. She yelped and jumped back.
His hands grabbed her arms. "Chief, it's ok. It's me. What happened?"
Claire panted. "I saw someone," she said softly.
Gabriel stood up and looked around. "There's no one here."
"No. Before." Claire closed her eyes tight. "He stared right into me. He's the one who gave me that dream. I'm sure of it!"
Gabriel knelt down again in front of her. "Do you want to try to track him down?"
Claire thought for a moment, then looked around. "No. No, I need to practice." She turned around in her seat and put her fingers to the keys, playing "I'll Stand by You" once again from the beginning. Halfway through the song, Gabriel came and sat next to her, and remained there with her until she felt she had practiced enough.
Tuesday night she was nervous, but not because she was going to sing for a packed room of strangers. She was nervous because she knew that man was going to be there. She didn't know who he was, or what he wanted, but she knew that he was the reason they were there, in Florida.
This time she wore an airy white linen suit with her black stilettos and chunky black beads as an accessory. She hoped that it would look stylish, yet professional. It seemed to do the trick, as Claire couldn't help but notice the stares she got from the men on the street as they were walking to the club from the parking garage. Gabriel seemed to notice it too, because he clasped her elbow and walked closely to her, as if to make it unmistakable that they were together.
They arrived, and Mindy, one of the waitresses she'd met earlier, showed Gabriel to a table near the stage so he'd have a good view. Claire went backstage and waited to be announced.
She stood there, feeling her heart pound, her breathing short and shallow. Then she felt a hand suddenly grab her shoulder.
She screamed and jumped back, then sighed in relief. "Oh! Margaret!" was all she could manage to say.
The businesswoman cocked an eyebrow. "Are you all right dear? You really have nothing to worry about. You did a lovely job the other night."
Claire managed a timid smile. "Yes, I know I don't need to worry. Thank you."
"Margaret, we're almost ready," a voice said behind them. They turned around and Claire thought her heart stopped beating. It was the man she'd seen the other day, the one whose icy stare had paralyzed her.
But Margaret smiled at him and said, "Wonderful. Thank you." Then, turning back to see Claire's frightened and confused face, she added, "Claire, this is Carlisle Janney. He's in charge of our sound system."
The old man nodded briefly, then walked away. Claire could only stare dumbly. Margaret stared at her.
"Are you all right honey?"
Claire shook it off and looked at Margaret. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine. I'm ready."
"Good. Dorian's going to announce you in just a few minutes."
Claire heard her name announced, then walked onto the stage as if in a trance. She sat down to the piano and played the introduction mechanically, then started in singing the song as if she was on auto-pilot. She knew the song she sang by heart, and she'd performed it several times before for her family and their friends.
She finally awoke from her trance when she finished the song and heard the applause. She didn't know how she had sounded; she had felt so removed from everything she hadn't heard herself. Once she finished her first song, she moved on to perform several others that her piano teacher had taught her, older songs that most of the senior patrons would know and that younger patrons would recognize.
When she finished her fifth song, she had reached her agreed limit for the night, and she got up and took a bow. Her head feeling cold and light, she walked off of the stage and to the back area.
The hallway was empty and bright, most of the activity being in the kitchen areas and in the restaurant and bar. Finding a chair, Claire sat down and closed her eyes, her mind only faintly alighting on her performance. She was thinking of that man…Carlisle. Somehow, he'd sent her that dream. But why? Didn't he know if he did, she'd find him and try to stop him? What did he want from her? Was he like Gabriel—the way Gabriel had been before, that is?
Her reverie was broken by a voice: "Can I get you something to drink?"
She opened her eyes. It was Mindy, the red-haired girl. She smiled kindly at Claire. "You did a great job out there. I've always wanted to do something like that, but I've never had the courage." She looked down shyly.
Claire smiled at her. "Thank you. And yeah, a glass of water would be great."
While Mindy left to get the water, Claire sat and waited. She sat for a few minutes, and then she heard voices down the corridor. Curious, she got up and walked down the hallway, coming to the closed room that the voices were coming from and standing a few feet away from it.
"I need some, Margaret. You have to get it for me."
It was Malcolm. He sounded weak and in pain. Claire stepped a little closer and listened.
"Malcolm, it's late. You've gone this long; can't you wait a little longer?"
"No!" Malcolm's voice came urgently. "Now! Please. I need it. It hurts!"
"All right, all right." Margaret soothed him. "I'll go now. I'll meet you later at the house."
Claire walked as quickly and as silently as she could back to the end of the hallway where she had been sitting. A few minutes later, Margaret left the room, walking in the opposite direction and apparently not seeing Claire sitting at the other end.
A few minutes after that, Malcolm himself left the room. He looked around, then, seeing Claire sitting there, he smiled and walked to her. She smiled back, trying to appear casual.
He stood in front of her, leaning against the wall. "I'm sorry I missed your performance," he said. "I'm…not feeling my best at the moment."
Claire pretended to be surprised. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Ach, it's nothing," he said, waving it off. "I played football in high school, and I messed myself up pretty badly in the last game I played. The old aches and pains never go away completely."
Claire nodded. That explained the conversation she overheard. Malcolm must have been telling Margaret to fill a prescription for his pain—at least, she hoped it was a prescription. With his means, Claire was sure that Malcolm could afford all sorts of exotic opiates not approved by the FDA.
But he smiled with Prince Charming level-flirtation and she couldn't help but say, "You look like you're in fine shape to me."
The smile fell from his face and he looked at her with serious intentions. Instantly she regretted saying that. She didn't want to be in this situation with him.
"You know," he said, kneeling down to her level, "I hope you'll consider staying on. I'd…like to know more about you."
She smiled uneasily. "I'm—I'm only eighteen. There—there really isn't much to me."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Malcolm purred, letting his fingers run gently through the locks of hair that framed her face and looking her up and down. "Appearances are often deceiving. I think there's a whole universe inside this lovely shell."
"Claire," came a stern voice from the end of the hall. They both looked up. It was Gabriel. He was standing in the middle of the hallway, braced as if for a fight, the dark, terrorizing look of his old days on his face.
"Oh! Gabriel!" Claire stood up quickly, walked to him and took his hand, which felt ice cold and hard in hers.
Malcolm smiled genteelly and stood up as well. "I heard she did a wonderful job out there tonight. You must be proud," he told Gabriel.
Gabriel glared at Malcolm. "I am. We'll be going now."
Malcolm returned the glare, and, not taking his eyes away, said, "Claire, we'd love you to come back on Friday night and sing again."
"Okay," Claire said in a soft voice, looking at the two men who seemed locked in some sort of psychic challenge.
Malcolm blinked, as if to end the showdown, and smirked. "Good. We'll see you then." With that, he turned and walked away.
Gabriel was silent all the way home, gripping the wheel with both hands—something he never did. He usually drove with one hand, leisurely, as if the car and everything in and outside of it was completely under his control. Now, with the black supple leather of the steering wheel being kneaded under his deceptively lean fingers, Gabriel looked to Claire as if he was holding on for dear life to what he believed he knew.
She didn't dare say anything to him in the car. Despite the power, grace, and agility she knew he had, she didn't want to risk upsetting him while he drove. And quite honestly, she didn't know what to say, anyway.
They entered their room, Gabriel going first, Claire meekly following. She closed the door and leaned against it, watching him. He slowly removed his tie and jacket, then sat down and began to remove his shoes. His face looked white and calm, but Claire was willing to bet there was rage flowing underneath.
He said nothing, and the silence was beginning to feel maddening. She had to say something.
"I saw that guy again. The one who gave me the creeps earlier. He's the sound guy for the restaurant. I think if we follow him, we'll get to the bottom of all this."
Gabriel didn't reply. It was almost as if he didn't hear her, for he continued removing his shoes and then his dress shirt without skipping a beat.
Claire sighed and sat down at the small desk next to the window. "Nothing was going on with Malcolm, you know," she told him. "He's a flirt, that's all."
A long silence passed. Then, she heard him say with a quiet tenseness, "He's toying with you. He's trying to lead you into a false sense of comfort, so you'll let down your guard."
Claire swallowed and looked away. "You think he's the one we're looking for?"
Gabriel turned to her. "Possibly."
"Okay. What proof do you have?"
"I can sense it. He's not what he appears."
"What do you mean, you can sense it? What do you sense?"
Gabriel looked at her darkly. "He's a predator. Like me. He searches for something specific, targets it, and takes it."
Claire rolled her eyes. "Gabriel, you're describing a cutthroat businessman. Which he probably is."
He smirked. "You can have a day job."
She nodded. "True. And I'm sure your 'senses' have nothing to do with the fact that you're jealous."
He glared at her. "I don't get jealous. Jealousy is below me."
Claire stood up. "No, it's not! You like to think that all your abilities and your intellect make you superhuman, but they don't. At the core, you're like every other human being on this planet—afraid of losing control!" She now began walking towards him. "I saw the way you were driving tonight. You practically left indentations in the steering wheel, you were gripping it so tight! Now why don't you just admit it—you hate the fact that I had a premonition, that I have a job that puts me at the center of attention, and that my boss is a young, handsome, rich businessman that finds me attractive."
She was now right in his face, looking up at him defiantly in spite of the fact that he could break her if he wanted to, either by physical or mental means.
"I think I know what you're most afraid of: that maybe I'm as attracted to him as he is to me," she said in a soft, fierce whisper.
She saw his eyes blaze and he pointed his finger at her. She felt herself get thrown onto the bed, and he was on top of her. He grabbed her wrists and brought them above her head. She cried out and struggled, but he held her tightly.
"You're mine. Don't forget that," he growled in an octave below his usual voice range. He ground his hips roughly against hers.
Claire couldn't believe it, but being dominated like this actually turned her on; besides, all of her struggling was doing no good. So she carefully raised her head, and pressed her lips against his. "I haven't forgotten," she whispered.
She felt his grip loosen slightly on her wrists, only to find that he now brought both her wrists in the clasp of his right hand, while his left moved under her linen shirt. He laid his palm against her stomach, his hand warm on her skin. She began to feel herself tense, her breath now coming in short puffs. She wanted more.
She got her wish. Looking deep into her eyes, Gabriel now moved his hand from her taut belly upward, his two fingers sliding slowly under the material of her bra to come just to rest on her nipple. Claire moaned lightly and rubbed herself against his fingertips.
He pulled his fingers out from under the silky fabric and moved his hand under her, to undo the clasp in the back. Claire found, with a pleasant surprise, that he did it quickly and effortlessly. The confining material now less of an obstacle, Gabriel brought his free hand back to her full breast, kneading it firmly, then rolling the bud of her nipple between his fingers.
She cried out and tried to arch against his hand. It wasn't fair; he had her pinned so tight she couldn't do anything! Her cries were muffled when he bent down and kissed her with such a passion that it nearly took the air right out of her.
As he kissed her, he eventually let go of her wrists with his left hand, his right moved down from her breasts, and both hands were now at her waist. Grabbing the tops of her pants, he pulled downwards, bringing her underwear with it. Before she could even react, he reached up again, pulling her shirt and bra off as well and using his telekinesis to make them fly to the floor.
Then he was at her side on the bed, pulling her against him. It felt strange for her—he fully clothed, she completely naked. But she was going to fix that.
Still on their sides facing each other, she pulled off his shirt, him giving her no resistance. Then she carefully unbuckled his belt, unzipped and unbuttoned his pants, and, in the same manner as he had stripped her, took off his remaining clothing in one fell swoop.
Claire pressed herself against him, feeling his erection pressing urgently to her, and she smiled. But Gabriel still held that dark, predatory look in his eyes.
Before she knew it, she was lying on her stomach, and he was pushing one of the pillows under her hips. Then he was on top of her, wrapping his arms just under her breastbone.
She gasped.
"Shh," he said, kissing her cheek. "Trust me."
It was later that night, after the torrid session, that she realized. After they'd rutted like animals, him pushing roughly into her, her pushing back as hard as she could to take him all in. After she heard him get out of bed, throw his clothes back on, and tell her he needed to take care of something. It was after he had returned quietly and slipped beneath the covers again that Claire remembered that Mindy never brought her that glass of water.
GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG
Briggs is looking at me intently, the judgment so clear on his face. "So you killed Mindy Royster, that very same night Mr. Everett approached Ms. Bennet."
I sit back in my chair and look at him, soberly. "Yes," I say simply.
I know he was hoping I'd say more. He's hoping I'll say something that will let him into the inner workings of my mind, or maybe something that will help him figure out exactly how I did it. But I don't say anything. I'm quite tired of talking, actually. My cigarettes are all gone and the terrible craving for them is taking me over. It's all I can do to keep from killing the annoying little man right now.
Still he presses on. "Why her? Why kill Mindy Royster? She did nothing to you."
I roll my eyes. "That never stopped me before. I did it because there was the necessity, and she was there."
He glares at me in that way that has often broken the lowlifes he's used to questioning, but is merely amusing to me. Then he says, "Did you enjoy killing her?"
"Oh, Jesus," I groan in frustration. The simple fool still doesn't get it. He still believes that all murderers do it for some thrill. I don't bother to recognize the question any further and I sit in stony silence.
After five minutes, he gets an idea. He leaves the room for a moment, then comes back with a new pack of Menthols and a lighter, tossing them across the table to me.
Tentatively, I open the pack, pull out a cigarette, and light it, feeling the anxiety leave my body. I smile and blow the smoke upward.
"You know what I like, Detective. Smart move."
He cocks an eyebrow and nods. "Now, will you answer my questions?"
I shrug. "Why not? It's convenient for me—for now."
I know he's still unnerved by the threat I pitched at him about an hour ago. He doesn't want to believe it, of course. After all, there's nothing about me that appears to be terribly formidable. He's sure that a big strapping policeman like himself could take me on. But there's still that fear lurking in the back of his mind, a little voice saying that maybe he's wrong. Even so, he has to take the chance.
He leans forward, menacingly. "Tell me about Mindy Royster's murder."
I take another drag and smile. "Certainly, Lieutenant. But in order to do that, I have to tell you about all the other murders I've committed like it. I hope you have the stomach for it."