One Loan Soul, page 9
part #1 of Loan Series
Feeling a little more in control, I beeline for the sharps bucket. Reaching for the flap, I pause, seeing the thin trickle of blood winding down my finger from the papercut. Right. They don't heal instantly down here on Earth. And I'm not going to give Clive some terrible disease. That would for sure lose me my Best Employee ranking. And, even with the nonsense going on with the SOLE system right now, flinging me right and left, I'm not going to just hand that over myself.
In fact, maybe I could negotiate a promotion for handling the bug in the portal network so magnificently. Sometimes I could flip some wrong doing at one of my high schools to appear to be an act of kindness and excuse myself from yet another suspending or foster home change … for a bit longer. I’m a self-taught actress. No acting school on my resume, Mr. Director. Impressive, non?
Swiping a purple glove from the box, I try to stretch it on. It's clearly a small, made for delicate lady fingers like Rude Nurse's, not clumsy male janitor ones. After a lengthy struggle, I finally wedge my fingers in and pull the wrist down over my palm. It snaps, pinging the glove right off my hand in sling-shot fashion. It smacks into the wall with a thwack.
A woman screams behind me. Whirling around, I stare right at a bare butt. Behind it, the patient on her stomach has pushed half upright on the exam table, and her panicked green eyes are wide on me, mouth open in an “O”.
"What the Hell are you doing?" It’s not the patient who speaks.
I wince before my head even swings around to take in Mean Nurse paused in the doorway. "I ..." I stutter.
“What’s going on here?” A second woman with a blond bob and an identical heart-patterned scrub top peers in, and our eyes meet.
Mine widen. "Marlene?" my deep voice gasps.
Marlene's face contorts in confusion. "Is there a problem, Clive?"
I feel faint, and it's not blood loss from my papercut. I don't need to ask anyone where I am because I know.
"You okay? You look a little pale. Are you feeling all right, Clive?" Marlene detours around her colleague, professional concern replacing the befuddlement at my strange reaction to her.
The world begins to grow dark —
Slurp.
CHAPTER NINE
“I’m so sorry about that. Nurse Marlene has taken him away. Clearly, Clive is sick; we pride ourselves on privacy here. Normally our janitor wouldn’t come barging in unannounced like that. And I want you to know that he is under our NDA.” It’s like I haven’t even moved though the portal definitely transported me somewhere. “You’ll feel some pressure from my fingers.”
I lift my eyelids with trepidation clenching my gut.
Déjà vu.
I’m staring at a tile floor, my cheeks, chin and forehead smashed into a plastic-coated donut-shaped cushion as someone fondles my behind.
I just want to go back to Hell. Please! Does the Devil listen to prayers?
“Okay,” Mean Nurse states without emotion. “You’re all set, Miss Ferreira. Looks to be healing just fine. I don’t think you’ll need a second follow-up.” Clickity-clacks sound as she types on a keyboard. “You can sit up now,” she adds as an afterthought.
Doing so, I tuck the thin sheet of paper over my exposed body.
“You can finalize the bill at the front desk.” She turns to me with a forced smile. She wants to be anywhere but here.
Kit for kat, lady.
I pull my lips up and offer in a thick Irish brogue, “T’anks a mill.”
She eyes me with suspicion.
Honestly, that’s the best I’ve got. Mixing it with a Brazilian accent is impossible, and I never learned Spanish, let alone Portuguese.
“The swelling from the lip injections should go down soon, too, and then you’ll sound just like yourself again.” She dismisses my weirdness and silence, turning back to the computer to finalize her notes. Standing, she paces to the door and grips the curtain to pull it closed. "You can get dressed, and when you're ready, proceed to the front desk."
She steels herself, and I also brace, unsure what's next. I'm now the client, not the help, so she can't take out her resentment on me for whatever is riding up her pants.
"On behalf of the practice, I want to offer once again my sincerest apologies for the ... interruption earlier by our callous janitor. He will be dealt with." Her brow lowers in a scowl.
"No," I blurt, and her eyebrows shoot right back up. "It's not his fault. He was just doing his job. All grand here.” The accent is running away with my words. “‘Tis not like no one has seen me bum before." I attempt a light laugh. “I’m just here a mo’; he’s here for the long drawl.”
Her expression doesn't change, and I realize too late that I'm not playing my part properly. I'm not being Ginger enough to be convincing.
“Long haul?” she asks slowly.
I babble over the slip. "His compliment confirms that the work you did here improved my ... physique. And I can't afford any negative publicity from any backlash he might take up against me if he loses his job over such a small and innocent error." There, that sounds a tad more appropriate for a haughty celebrity.
"All right," she eventually acquiesces. Her lips pull back again in a snarl. "It's been a pleasure." Like Hell. "Please do not hesitate to reach out to us for any of your other perfecting needs. I’ll let Doctor Fischer know that you’re cleared."
The snap of the door closing provides the soundtrack for the slap to the cheek effect that his name has on me. My entire body drenches hot then cold then uncomfortably warm again. I want to avoid thinking about him, but he keeps getting thrust in my face.
A visual slips into my mind, and I whisk it away with a vicious swish of my hand through the air, letting the table-cloth covering drop, exposing my breasts. If Clive were to walk in again, I might not even notice. Not that he is that idiotic when I’m not at the wheel.
The reminder that I was just here moments ago as Clive spurs me to get up. I have to get away from Leland's business, from him.
Searching the room, I locate a tube top and slip it on. No pants are to be found, however, and I quickly deduce that the shirt is actually a dress. And Ginger Ferreira doesn’t wear undergarments. How best to flaunt one's newly acquired ‘perfection’ as Leland and his staff seem to call any form of plastic surgical procedures.
That’s a palm across the other cheek. I never came to visit Leland here in LA; Marlene had been up to visit us a few times in San Francisco to conduct emergency business. Now I know that his line, his nickname for me … it was all shared lavishly with his patients. Maybe his mistress. Everything he said was lies. I was never perfect, never unique or special to him. He relied on the habitual, saccharine, over-the-top praise that he regularly doled out to soften up clients before handing them the exorbitant bill.
I swipe up my purse, intending to search through it as soon as I’m far away so I can better play my part on top of the foundation Slipknot and Caliré laid. I hook the heels on my fingers, the oversized bag swinging from the crook of my elbow. Peeling back the curtain and opening the door a crack, I peer out, craning my neck to diagnose the hallway status. Bitch is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Marlene nor Clive. I don't know why I'm hiding — they won't recognize me as Darcie. Nothing will appear out of the ordinary except my unprovoked sneaking and atrocious accent. Walking like a zombie fresh out of the grave, my limbs are jittery and my gaze darting, my brain disheveled and largely unfit to sustain my cover properly. If I flub things now, if I unveil this strange obstacle course I’m on, Luci will be put out, to put it lightly. And Leland might think Ginger is medically reacting to something and decide to retain me under his care. The ball is in my glove.
Darting down the hall, I can't help but smooth my hands over my rounded butt every few steps to ensure my dress is covering things. The material is stretchy and keeps nudging up as I sashay quickly in the direction I took earlier as Clive. Creeping around the corner like a trespasser, I let out a tense breath.
The coast is clear. A few people sit in the waiting room, and the secretary is one I don't know on a personal level.
I edge up to the desk, checking over my shoulder every few seconds as if paranoid of a stalker. Where’s my handy assistant? I didn’t have to talk last time. Granted, I didn’t have to pay then. "I, uh, am here to check out?" My words are clipped and garbled, smearing Irish and American accents together in an unconvincing marbling.
The artificially large-chested woman looks up with a genuine smile. "Of course, Miss Ferreira. Would you like to cover this visit with the same account?"
"Grand," I mumble, willing her to just wrap things up faster. Not taking the time to ensure everything is in order in Ginger’s life is not like me, and that throws me off kilter as much as this whole situation discombobulates me.
"Wonderful. Just a moment." She prints a page off and presents it with a flourish. "I just need your signature here, and I'll send you a copy of your records on our secure online messaging system like last time." Nothing for me to misplace before Ginger returns. Grand indeed.
Quashing my inclination to read the fine print — Leland may be as devious in his details as the Devil — I let my wrist go floppy and slash a bunch of illegible curlicues across the line. If anyone were to compare signatures, they'd immediately start an identity-theft investigation. Leland's practice won't do that unless the funds don't come through. Money is the bottom line here. I never asked Leland what the rate for his services were outright. I didn't need to. We lived in a penthouse in the most expensive city with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge, and he flew to work and home each week on a private jet, working only three days out of every seven. I have no doubt Ginger Ferreira can afford whatever obscene costs they're requesting on this form. Presumably no first borns.
The secretary, whose name tag pinned on her protruding breast says Tammy, doesn't even glance at the sheet as she neatly slides it off the counter, maintaining eye contact. Oh, she's good. I see why they put her at the front to deal with client compliance and Bitch in the back when it's too late to run … unless you want to do so without pants. "Wonderful. I've alerted the valet, and he should have contacted your driver to pull up out front shortly. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to come in and see us, Miss Ferreira. Always a pleasure. I wish you the best with your burgeoning career!"
"Thank you, Tammy." My return smile is genuine. Tammy should be a therapist. She's doing wonders at lowering my blood pressure.
Still, I turn away smartly and quick-pace it out the door, blinking at the harsh LA sun.
"Miss Ferreira?" A valet in an honest-to-goodness top hat and tails offers a gloved hand. "Your car has just arrived." He helps me down the two steps as though getting my butt altered has impaired my ability to walk.
"Miss Ferreira." The straw kid grins, holding the back door of the limo open. "I hope all went well?"
I settle into the buttery leather of the backseat, appreciating that my body no longer aches, and scan the spacious interior. Spying the mini fridge, I pull out a bottle of champagne, grinning up at the assistant, who I'm actually unexpectedly glad to see again. "It will be now," I tell him. “Take me far away from here.”
On the inside, I know distance won’t be enough. All of my previous hypotheses were blown out of the window when I was sucked back into Ginger Ferreira’s casing for the second time in as many days. I should have taken the time to consider the suspicion I’d flicked off before it truly formed. It is unusual enough to revisit a casing ever in the SOLE program. Multiple times in a week is unheard of. Luci always gives His loaners breaks between payments. Furthermore, it is impossible that such a casing would have a close and intimate connection with the substituting soul’s life.
This must be a test. The Devil has taken note of my excellent service, my top standing, and He’s trying me out, exploring the extent of my skillset, to see if I’m worth promoting in the program. Just like the proposal I suggested to Kenji Atsuko’s boss, He can’t tell me it’s a test because then He doesn’t get an honest view of my capability; the awareness of being observed would skew my typical work.
I pop the champagne as the limo joins the LA traffic. I’m facing a Devil’s Deal myself, one that inescapably revolves around trying my dedication to uphold rules one and two by rapidly and unexpectedly altering my objective and plopping me consistently disrupting my path with the danger and distraction of my ex-fiancé.
Nothing will be well until I am back in Hell with Silas. Hearing me admit that would fuel Silas’s dreams for weeks.
CHAPTER TEN
Slurp.
I’m in Hell. Not actually Hell, the realm. This is so much worse.
Familiarity hits me in a tidal wave that would have been a comfort if not for the solid lump of coal-like dread in my core. It’s any soul’s dream to be where I am right now.
Because I’m home. In my apartment. With my fiancé. As if I never died.
Turns out he’s not at his office.
I try to rev up my strength. Longing claws at the wall, scratching for entry as my heart flares back to life. Everything before now, all the muddy trouble I’ve been dragged through, is nothing to this. The Devil’s ultimate test.
Sourness twists my features, an unexpected hurdle presenting itself. A building despair clambers over the pangs of nostalgia. Because equally familiar to my location and company are the fingers pressing into my fiancé’s bare chest, playing connect the dots with the trio of moles that I could pinpoint without looking even after a year apart. They’re the perfectly manicured fingers of my best friend.
My blood stalls cold.
It doesn’t make sense. She’s dead. I killed her. She died with me.
Leland’s hazel eyes darken, and he pads toward me. “Parfait,” he rumbles in a husky voice, and my heart clenches, somehow capable of shattering all over again as it did that night I stepped onto the balcony and found his arms tight around her, face buried in her hair. On our anniversary. Just weeks after he proposed.
He is wrong. Everything is far from perfect.
My heart rate’s response as he prowls toward me is not from the thrill as it once was. His open button-up billows in the dim lighting of our bedroom — their bedroom. I feel like prey. Unlike my last night, anger doesn’t quench the hurt of betrayal. The shock of being returned to this spot, facing him, somewhere I never expected to be, crumbles my resilient bravado, a tornado trashing the toothpick fence around my heart.
I know what Luci’s doing. This is it. This is the moment of truth. In one hand is the plug to pull and, in the other, a trophy embossed with the name Darcie Rose.
I’m not sure I can do it. Leland takes another step, blocking the trophy from my view.
How can He do this to me? I want to wail. It’s against Rule Two. So against Rule Two. It’s my life. He can’t break Rule Two from the start and expect me to succeed, expect Rule One to remain intact. I’m a great actress, but sleeping with my ex, while pretending to be the woman with whom he cheated on me? It’s too much. I only just got a handle on things. This is why Rule Two exists. I’m sure of it. It’s too difficult to adhere to Rule One when crossing the boundaries of Rule Two.
Is that the reason I’m here? It’s a lesson, not a trial. Luci is showing me why the rules exist, both of them, to permanently steer me onto the straight and narrow after my one tiny mistake. I could tell him he needn’t go to this extreme; I was fully willing after my warning. I’ve been golden as a goose since, hence my pristine track record.
The light catches something on my hand as I back away until my legs crash into the bed, and I sit down hard, staring at the ring that used to be on my finger. The engagement ring Leland’s mother passed down from her mother to offer to me now sparkles on Larkynn’s hand. Well, someone got a promotion. A year later, and he’s already engaged again? To her?
I died only moments after finding out that I was being cheated on at all, so I never got to ask the terrible self-harming questions of a rubbernecker. I never learned how long he’d been shacking up with my best friend behind my back. Now, the question rises on my tongue, the curiosity choking me.
Leland intrudes my personal space, sliding in between my legs. My head tips back to take his tall frame in. His hungry eyes scour over me, and his ears wiggle in that way they always did when his jaw clenched. My eyes drift shut to block it out. Maybe I can fake a headache or something. Tell him it’s my time of the month.
I don’t. I can’t seem to vocalize anything, including a “no”. Part of me dreads hearing her voice come out of my mouth.
His hands descend onto my thighs, palms warm, sending tingles skipping up and down my body, coalescing in the core of my torso. I gulp. I can’t think of a more torturous, heart-destroying, crumbling place to be except where I am right now.
I realize in that moment: whether this is a test of my strength, or a lesson, or a malfunction, Hell is not a realm far away from here. It’s not a place I can escape by returning to Earth. Hell is wherever I am. I am a soul condemned to Hell for eternity. This is nothing but a cruel game.
Leland’s hands skim up my body, and I whimper in heartache, tears leaking from behind my lids, humiliating, painful, knife-twisting horror flaying me open with each gentle brush of his fingertips.
Now, a year in, I understand what Hell really is: it’s me.
So, I do what a possessing soul from Hell would be expected to do: distribute pain and vanish. I knee him and shove past, fleeing the penthouse.
◆◆◆
I burst out of the door in a flummoxed flurry of leather and lace and forgo the elevator, worried that Leland, who is incredibly fit, will catch up to me before it arrives to whisk me to safety. Tripping down the stairs in thigh-high Stiletto boots is no easy feat, and I’m unsurprised but nevertheless dismayed when I hear Leland shout from above. I pound faster, both hands sliding on the railing and pressing down to allow me a little lift to launch over multiple steps at once. I used to like living on the top floor. Finally, I smash through a heavy door into the regal lobby.
