Echoes in Eternity (The Pella Series Book 1) (9 page)

The e
levator door dings open, and I straighten my back and as I walk out and come face to face with two leggy women; a blonde and a brunette. The blonde woman looks elegant, sophisticated and so sure of herself. I can’t help but notice that she’s wearing a pair of Manolo Blahnik alligator boots. I know them to be $14,000 because Sarah owns a pair, and her dress is just fresh off the runway from Paris, or London or Milan or some fashion capital like that. The other woman is a brunette with shiny, straight long hair down to her mid back wearing a pencil skirt which is hugging her curves in all in the right places, and her double Ds are accentuated with a curve hugging sleeveless blouse and her feet are donned in Ferragamo pumps. She not only smells of money, but also class. Both women are holding über expensive Gucci purses elegantly on their arms. By the looks of all four of the suited security guys gawking at them openly, I can tell that these women are used to getting this reaction, and I’m sure they expect to get the same response upstairs.

All of a sudden, I feel so out of place. Compared to these two, I look like a teenager who raided her mother’s closet and
is playing dress up with her clothes. The two women stop talking when they see me exit the elevator right in front of them and give me an appraising look from head to toe as they’re effectively blocking my way. The glossy ‘Visitor – 35
th
 Floor’ ID I have tagged on my chest captures their notice. What? Is it a privilege to get to the 35
th
floor? Deciding that I’m no match for them in any shape or form, they smile at each other conspiratorially. They seem very secure in the knowledge that they look like a million bucks and I look like a cowgirl who is awkward in a dress and whatever job they’re going to perform upstairs, it’s all over their face that I won’t qualify for it. They both sport the same ‘Visitor-35
th
 Floor’ IDs clipped on their very large accentuated bosoms. My heart gets constricted, my face flushes, and I feel an odd burning sensation over my arms. All of a sudden I feel dizzy. Are they interviewing for the same job? Will they get a week-long trial offer right after I do? Why should I care who Alex... I mean Mr. Pella should hire? It’s his company, his personal assistant position. I can find another job. My subconscious reminds me in a small voice that this is the job I want and maybe I do feel a tad bit jealous. I shut her up immediately.

Both the women stand before me intentionally blocking my way. Why would they try to intimidate a stranger who only visited a floor they’re going up to? It doesn’t make sense. “Mr. Pella and I’ve had an encounter, and when he left after more than twenty four hours of
a very intense fucking session, he had the most satisfied look on his face,” says the blond in a lascivious tone to the brunette but her gaze is locked on my face as she is chewing her artificially enhanced lower lip.

“That’s nothing,” says the brunette completely confident. “He must have gone easy on you. He has fuck pads and fuck buddies all over the world. When he tied me up and fucked me senseless I was completely exhausted in a matter of three hours, and I can handle multiple guys at the same time. But in the end,” she says sighing, “we were both very satisfied in multiple ways,” she ends her sentence with a sideways glance to me as her tongue caressed her upper lip as if she just
made a confession about her biggest ability.

“Excuse me,” I say as I push aside the two women out of my way and they part like the Red Sea without hiding their undisguised contempt. Why would they taunt someone they just crossed paths with? Is it to scare the competition off for a rare position? Is being his assistant a rare position? Tears sting behind my eyes but I hold my back straight and keep my tears dammed in. Why the hell would I feel this way? Why should the looks I get from two bimbos bother me this much? Nothing anyone ever said or did bother
ed me before. But it’s not the looks... It’s the topic... They started talking about him right when I came out when they noticed that I came down from his office. The pang of jealousy I feel is insanely ridiculous. I’ve met the guy just this morning! So what if he saved me from falling off the rock and getting a concussion or worse, dying? So what if he was irresistibly attractive and paid me a little bit of attention. He’s probably going to pay more attention to these two bimbos. I’m sure they would be more pleasing to the eye for Mr. Pella’s clients. My heart constricts, and aches in stabs. ‘
Think happy thoughts... happy thoughts... happy thoughts...
’ I remind myself. Shit! I’ve got nothing.

“Fine! Think of something else!”
 as I remind myself, exasperated with my own inability. Something else, something else, something else... Oh, the cowboy! I remember as I walk up to the Security desk.

“I’m returning the identification,” I say in a soft voice to the suited security manning the desk with several monitors before him. Then I notice the engraved cursive
 
P
 on my Visitor ID. He nods and silently takes it from me still eyeing the two rich bimbos who just walked into the elevator.

“Uhm... Excuse me,” I get his attention.

“What does that P stands for on my visitor ID?” He looks down at the ID, and then when he looks back up at me, he has a reverential look on his face. Why is he looking at me oddly, obeisant? I almost wished for him to look at me indifferently.

“It alerts assistants upstairs that a special guest for Mr. Pella has arrived.” Special guest? I’m here for an interview.

“What about the regular 35
th
 Floor Visitor ID? Aren’t they special?”

“Not everyone is allowed on the 35
th
 floor ma’am. Only those who have business can go up. And the P is only issued to rare guests,” he says, and mutters under his breath, “
rare as a live unicorn
.” The other three security guards who were equally preoccupied with the women who are on their way upstairs are now staring at me with the same awed look this one is giving me. I shake my head and walk towards the underground garage trying to erase what I heard from the two women from my mind. But the bimbos still have business upstairs, I think to myself. My face falls again. I have to think of something else.

“Hellooo? The cowboy?”
I remind myself.

Who was that man? Shall I go back up and demand to see
him? That would be a no go, not unless I want to get kicked out or look like a demented idiot before the classy bimbos. Or pretend I need to use the restroom... but they must have a restroom downstairs here. Besides, I turned in my special visitor tag. I’m left completely and utterly curious. I feel like I just had a déjà vu! A cowboy... Well, not a cowboy exactly but a gentleman. Finding such a man who belongs to the wild wild west in its heyday here, in the most modern architectural wonder, a building more fortified than Fort Knox in the city of Los Angeles is the most curious sight; unless of course my enigmatic, buckle my knees the moment you see him kind of new boss has some show going on for his clients and this cowboy is a part of it. But then he looked and acted very well educated, in a class of his own; a gentleman. I’ve never met a cowboy in my life, yet I felt as if I’ve known this man a lifetime and just his momentary glance and greeting gave me an avuncular feeling about him. Odd, because I just have one uncle and this stranger isn’t it.

I walk into the underground floor, preoccupied and start fumbling in my clutch to find my car keys standing in the middle of the parking lot. I drop my clutch and lean down to pick it up in those high heels I’m not so used to wearing. This isn’t my day. The security
 vehicle patrolling the parking structure nearly hits me as I lean down to pick my clutch up. I hear the car screeching and coming to a halt only mere inches from me. I stand up straight immediately with a rush of adrenaline and come face to face with the car reserved for the security and utterly frozen in my place. My blood is coursing hot, my heart rate increases and baroreceptors are firing rapidly, I’m shaking violently yet I’m unable to move. The security vehicle’s door swings open and a young, well groomed, impeccably dressed security officer rushes to my side.

“Miss!! Miss, are you alright?” he asks and I vaguely notice that he left the car door wide open. A shudder goes through my body and my hand shakes as I finally pick my car keys from the clutch, and transfer it into my left hand still shaking. My body is burning hot from what must be the most intense encounter I’ve had with Alex coupled with meeting the bimbos outside the elevator and the near accident just now.

The young security officer is standing only two feet away from me and holds my arm right above my elbow.

“Miss, are you alright? Are you hurt?” he asks. I shake my head wordlessly.

“Is this your silver Mustang?” he asks pointing at my car. I nod. 

“Do you need help getting in?” he asks helpfully. I shake my head. My body is burning. Is it the anxiety? Adrenaline? Fear?

“I’ll help you anyway,” he says concern lacing his voice. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I really didn’t see you. It was the red purse that just got my attention when you... stood up,” he says shaking his head. He presses the remote without taking my keys from my hand and unlocks my car. Opening the door for me, he ushers me in.

“Can you manage from here on end? Or do you need to rest a little?” he asks concerned.

“I’m okay, thanks,” I manage to whisper a reply, and I think he gives a sigh of relief. I move in the seat of my car, and dropping my clutch onto the passenger seat, I attempt to insert the key into the ignition still shaking. I hold one hand on the steering wheel to steady myself, feel the intense burn on my arms and wrists and drop the keys to the floor of my car. I lean in sideways awkwardly and pick the keys up, and this time still shakily I manage to insert the key into the ignition and start my car. Music from my docked iPod automatically comes on as the security guard closes my door still with worry in his face. Where did this song come from? It’s not one I’ve loaded. Did one of my friends load it for me? I have heard the song before. It’s Daughtry singing “Break the Spell.” It’s a mesmerizing song. As I listened to it, I feel it calming me, taking me to a different place. I realize that it defines the foreign feeling I have been feeling all day for Alex, at least partly...

“
Like a moth into a flame, I'm hypnotized and like a stone I'm paralyzed
Cause I can't look away. You find your way under my skin, in trying not to
Love you but I hate the way that I keep giving in to you like I always do no
Matter how I try, maybe could it be that you’re the part of me that's keeping
Me alive.”

He croons, and my head is dizzy, my eyelids are heavy, my breathing is shallow. The last thing I hear as my head falls onto my steering wheel is, “
How am I supposed to break this spell you've got me under I'm so addicted to the pain.”
 Not again, not in broad daylight! And I pass out unable to have control over my body and sleep claims me plunging me into my recurring nightmare. The nightmare that leaves me lifeless in such a way that I try almost anything to feel alive here and now. I force my eyes to remain open to no avail, and I plunge into the darkness in daylight hours for a second time.

I peek outside the window waiting for my husband to return in the drawing room. It’s a dark starless night, but I can still make out the stone walkway winding down to the stables a couple of miles down the road. Our two year old twins, Agnes and Jill are sleeping upstairs. I walk to my bookshelf and pick up a book to read while I wait for Alexander to return from the stables. I have an uneasy feeling inside constricting me and I can’t get over it. All the help, including the nanny are away tonight. But I only care about Alexander’s absence.
The foreman woke us up in the middle of the night and they took off to the stables because both Boreas and her nearly two year old colt Zephyr were restless and kicking and jumping and whinnying relentlessly for hours. Alexander took off with Buck Whitman to go see what was bothering my most prized possession of horses. Everything I finally notice, including the house is eerily silent, like death is descending over it. A shiver runs through my body as if someone just stepped over my grave and I force myself to sit down on the chaise lounge and read the book in my hand without even looking at the title. 

“
Move Elissa!
” I hear a distant voice. Odd... I look up. Though the tone of the voice suggests that he’s shouting, it still sounded like a whisper to my ears. I look up, and see no one. Just the dim light on top of the small tea table I have by my chaise. No sounds other than my increased heart beats and the chiming of the grand clock we bought in an auction in Paris last year. Surely, I must have imagined it. I shake my head as if to shake the nervousness away, and lower my gaze back to Socrates’ words in the book I’m holding.

“
Hurry up and mooove!
” says the same voice in a louder and a more forceful, determined tone. “What are you waiting for? 
Mooove! Go!
” I heard it loud and clear this time in its intended intensity and pitch. Why am I moving? Where am I moving? I look around and see no one.

It’s then the acrid smell of fire reaches my nostrils with a sudden, suffocating intensity
which makes me realize why I have to get moving. I drop the book onto the floor, and jump to my feet running in full speed, making my way to the huge winding staircase climbing them three at a time while screaming, “Agnes! Jill!” and I trip on my long nightgown. The smoke is reaching my nostrils forcefully now, filling my lungs and burning my eyes. I pull myself into a crawling position and climb up while holding onto the wrought iron banisters. I peek a glance around to see the fire. Perhaps getting an idea what might have caused it. What I see utterly shocks me; the fire looks like plasma as if it has a body, surrounding, imploding, and suffocating. It encroaches with an all-consuming hell into the corners of the 
Four Winds
, our house, with intent to extinguish all life within.