Seduction and Pursuit Read online

  SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL

  Prelude: Seduction and Pursuit

  Prequel to So Damn Beautiful

  By A.E. Hodge

  A Fiction Fugitive Select Publication

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prelude: Seduction and Pursuit

  Scenes from So Damn Beautiful

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  About A.E. Hodge

  Prelude: Seduction and Pursuit

  “Who really cares about a missing kid?”

  Christian’s voice is lounge-lizard deep and melodious as a song. He speaks in a low, unhurried tone, with a breathy quality that’s almost a whisper, compelling the full attention of everyone at our table.

  Everyone except for me. I’m too distracted thinking about my son.

  Under the table, I clutch my cell phone. Above the table, I’m smiling at my coworkers and biding my time, waiting for the chance to get the hell out of here.

  “So compassionate!” laughs Dick Anderson, our boss. His broad belly brushes the edge of the round table, his dark suit jacket draped over his chair’s backrest. He leans over the table, holding a glass of foam and sediment that was beer a minute ago. “Hope you’re not planning on having kids?”

  Christian flashes a handsome smile. “The thought had crossed my mind. But I mean, this is a college kid. Probably ran off to find herself.”

  I glance down at my phone. It’s almost eight o’clock. This party was supposed to end at seven, and I only told the babysitter to stay till seven-thirty. But Anderson loves his parties as much as he hates ending them. This one is long past its expiration date. Every topic has been covered: families, pets, hobbies, vacations. We’ve even exhausted talking about work.

  Out of desperation, the conversation has shifted to the evening news, playing on a small TV mounted behind our table at the back of the dim sports bar. On the screen is a selfie photo of a pretty black girl, her lips pursed in a silly way, her red baseball cap turned backwards. The headline reads, Missing Student: Yvette Montana.

  “…Yvette Montana, age nineteen,” reads the newscaster, “reported missing a week ago by her roommate at Wayne State. If you have any information on Yvette’s whereabouts, Detroit police urge you to call…”

  “Isn’t that where you go to school?” says Anderson. “Wayne State?”

  Christian shrugs. “Me and a million others. It’s not like I knew her or anything.”

  Christian’s hair is full, straight, and dark, parted neatly down the middle and falling to his chin. His eyes are a brilliant blue, set in a clear, chiseled face, his sensual lips perpetually smiling. As a new student intern at our law firm, Christian Morgan is the youngest at the table, yet he’s easily the best-dressed, still clad in his suit and tie. I’m certain his suit is even more expensive than Anderson’s—a Gucci or Prada, if I remember from my modeling days.

  Needless to say, he’s very handsome, with an ego to match. I find him childish and a little repulsive.

  Or maybe I’m repulsed by my own attraction to him—a thought I smash like a Whack-a-mole whenever it rears its ugly head.

  “Come on, let’s change this,” Christian says. “I think there’s a game on.”

  Anderson shrugs and turns to Jim Dawson, seated beside me. Jim turned forty last week, which is Anderson’s excuse for this celebration here at Tully’s Bar & Grill.

  “What do you say, birthday boy?” Anderson asks Jim. “You want to change the channel?”

  Jim looks much older than forty, with his thin hair, sagging chin, and plaid shirt. Predictably, he looks at me for a cue, adjusting his thick glasses. “What do you want to watch, Meredith?”

  I force a smile. Jim’s had a crush on me for ages. He’s a nice guy, probably my only friend in the office, so I try to think of it as sweet. “It’s your birthday, Jim. Besides, I don’t know how much longer I can stay. Troy’s waiting for me.”

  Anderson waves the thought away. “You’ve got a babysitter, right? What’s the harm?”

  I swallow my irritation, saying nothing. Jim hesitates, running a hand through his pale, wispy hair. “Well, I don’t think Meredith’s the biggest fan of sports.”

  “What is Meredith a fan of?”

  When I look up, Christian is studying me. He’s still smiling, but his bright blue eyes lock onto mine with unusual intensity, dissecting me with his gaze. It makes me uncomfortable.

  “Mystery books,” I answer, with a shrug. “Fish sticks. Classic movies. My son Troy.”

  Christian’s smile beams like a lamp. “Hey, I like movies too! Nothing beats the classics. Let’s look for a movie channel. Cuz frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn about the news.” He glances at the TV. “I mean, politics? Does it get any worse? Who wants to wager which one’s the bigger liar?”

  The news has shifted to the upcoming governor’s race here in Detroit. They’re showing scenes from last night’s debate between the top two candidates—a withered old man named Johnson and an attractive young woman in a pant suit whose name I can’t recall.

  “I don't know.” Anderson admires the woman. “But I know which one I’d rather take to dinner. She could lie to me all night long.”

  I roll my eyes at the only other woman present, the fifth party guest, Agatha, an elderly paralegal. She wears a frumpy dress, a bun in her thin gray hair, and a sunken, sleepy expression. I suspect we’re nearing her bed-time. She meets my eyes with an unhappy glare, and I look away.

  The other women in our office aren’t fond of me. They’re all older, wealthier, and better educated. They’re also uglier, and for some reason that seems to imply I’m a flirty whore who slept my way to my lofty position as a legal secretary. As if I like being treated like meat.

  I can’t help that guys like Jim and Anderson fall all over me. I was born with certain assets—I’m a tall, shapely redhead with clear skin and pleasant proportions. I’m pretty enough that I used to model, back when my photographer husband was still alive. Is it a crime I still put effort into my appearance, at the ripe old age of thirty-one? That I’m wearing makeup, expertly applied, or that my black dress happens to be fashionable?

  “Excuse me.” I rise to my feet. Anderson opens his mouth to protest, and I assure him, “I’m not leaving. Just getting a drink.”

  Settling my purse over my shoulder, I leave the table, heading for the bar across the restaurant. I can feel Anderson’s eyes on my hips as I walk away.

  Sometimes this job can be more than I can take, but I’ll do anything for my son. He’s all that matters, since my husband Max died.

  I’ve been out too long already. As I ease onto the barstool, I fish my cell phone out again to check for any messages. There are none.

  But even as I check, the phone starts to ring in my hand, making me jump. I recognize the familiar ringtone for my home phone. Troy picked it—a theme song from Super Mario.

  This must be the babysitter, calling to complain. Perfect timing. I put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  To my dismay, my eight-year-old son answers, “Hi, Mom.”

  “Troy? Sorry I’m running so late. I was just about to call. Can you put Lana on, please?”

  Troy hesitates. I can hear someone else shouting in the background. “She’s leaving.” Troy speaks through a mouthful of something chewy.

  “What?”

  “That’s why I called. She’s getting her stuff to leave.”

  “Are you kidding? Put her on!”

  Troy cups the phone and calls to Lana, the high school kid who watches him. The phone rustles again and the girl says curtly, “Hello?”

  I resist the urge to shout at her. “Lana. Troy says you were leaving?”

  “You said seven-thirty. You paid for seven-thirty. I’m sick of
getting stiffed, Ms. Banks. And did you know I have a big exam tomorrow? Not like my whole future depends on it or anything!”

  “You can’t just leave my son alone. Lana, I’m sorry. This won’t happen again.”

  “Hell no, ‘cuz I quit. I got other clients.”

  “Watch your language! Listen. Put him to bed if you have to study, that’s fine. But please don’t leave till I get there.” Finally I say the magic words. “I’ll pay double, okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll stay till nine. Then I go whether you’re here or not. And I still quit.”

  I say tightly, “Put Troy back on.”

  She hands the phone off without another word. “Mom?” Troy says tentatively.

  “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to stay out this late. I can’t seem to get away.”

  “Mom, I’m all right. Just playing some video games.”

  “You finish your homework?”

  “Yeah, on the bus. As usual.”

  “What are you eating? Gummy worms?”

  He pauses in his chewing. I hear him swallow. “A few.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m sure you’ve had enough for tonight. You don’t want another stomach ache, do you? Did you feel all right today?” His stomach’s been bothering him lately. I wonder if he’s coming down with something.

  “Mom, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

  Despite myself, I smile. Such a good boy. So mature. Maybe I shouldn’t worry so much, but I do. I worry a lot.

  “I promise I’ll be home soon, okay? I’m leaving now. I love you, baby.”

  “Love you, too. Bye!”

  Even as I lower my phone and hang up, I’m startled by a gentle voice behind me.

  “Was that your kid?”

  When I turn, to my surprise, Christian has joined me at the bar.

  He sits on the barstool beside me, facing the mostly empty restaurant; his legs are stretched out and crossed casually, his elbows leaning on the bar behind him. As I look over, he meets my eyes with an easy smile that quickly starts to fade. “Is something wrong?”

  “My babysitter was about to leave early, without even telling me,” I growl. “Can you believe that?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like you might have a lawsuit. Talk to Anderson about it.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’d rather he just let us go home already.”

  Turning back to the bar, I root through my purse for bills to pay the bartender. Dropping one of my last ten dollar bills, I set about chugging the rest of my daiquiri so I can leave. I’m aware of Christian beside me, watching me, still as a statue. “It’s okay, Meredith,” he says. “It sounds like Troy’s pretty mature. He’s eight, right? Man, the things I got up to at eight.” He shakes his head with a smile, remembering some untold mischief. Why are men always so proud of their mischief?

  I set down my cocktail glass and glare at him sideways, licking my lips. Now I can add presumptuousness to his list of turn-offs. How long was he listening to my phone call, anyway? Uncomfortably, I fidget with the bodice of my dress, reigning in the cleavage.

  Christian looks down at his sharp, Cuban-heeled leather boots, polished to a high shine. “Sorry,” he mutters, as if reading my mind. “You just seem worried.”

  “It’s… okay.” I mean to say none of your business, but at the last minute I realize I still have to be professional. He is a coworker, and he’s just being friendly. Right? I take a deep breath. “If you really want to help, you can tell Anderson to end this party, so I don’t have to argue with him about leaving.”

  He sniffs in amusement. “That could be arranged. But what do I get out of it?”

  I narrow my eyes. Oh, brother. This kid’s not trying to flirt with me, is he? How drunk are they letting him get here? “You get out of this party,” I snap. “What more could you ask for?”

  He laughs again, a little louder, and turns to sit on the stool properly, facing the bar. As he moves, I catch a pleasant whiff of sandalwood cologne. God, but he smells good. “Ah, well. I’ll quit bothering you. I was just trying to make you smile.”

  My cheeks heat as I feel a flash of guilt about my bad mood. It’s not like my babysitter problems are Christian’s fault. I force a confused smile. “I’m sorry. I just feel like I don’t know you all that well for how you’re talking about my son.”

  It comes out haughtier than I meant, my tongue loosened by stress and drink. I immediately regret it. Like my mother told me long ago: If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all; so Meredith, just keep your mouth shut.

  But Christian only nods, and looks at me with those arresting blue eyes, bright even in the dim neon lights of the bar. His thoughtful pout forms a roguish smile. “Well, I’m trying to get to know you, aren’t I?”

  I look over my shoulder to our party’s table at the back of the restaurant, where Anderson is regaling Jim with some story and Jim is nodding in a sleepy way. The old woman, Agatha, glares at me and Christian. I avert my eyes and sidle to the edge of my stool, away from Christian.

  “Don’t lean so close to me,” I mutter. “Agatha’s watching. The women in this office are all gossips.”

  Christian smirks, but says nothing. Eyeing him over the rim of my glass, I polish off the daiquiri and set it down. “So what’s your plan?”

  “Hm?” He turns his head in a lazy way, smiling. A shot of whiskey has appeared in his hand. He holds it delicately between two long, sensitive fingers.

  I smile back a little. “To get us out of here already.”

  He shrugs. “Well, I’ve got a gun in my car…”

  Despite myself, I snicker. “I think this calls for something more tactful.”

  “Why don’t you just tell Anderson your babysitter’s about to split?”

  My smile sags at his naïve answer. Of course that’s what I’ll do, what I’ll have to do. It doesn’t make it any easier. “In the business world,” I say, “you know what happens to women who put their kids before their jobs? They stay secretaries. They get cut out of your little men’s club. You know Anderson promoted somebody at one of these parties last year? On the spot. Swear to God.”

  Christian sniffs in amusement, then downs his whiskey shot, smacks his lips, and grins. “The business world blows,” he announces. “You shouldn’t be punished for being a good mother. You should be rewarded.”

  “Yeah, well. Go tell that to Anderson.”

  “You know, I’m studying business,” he says. “The more I learn about it, the more cut-throat it seems. It’s kill or be killed, just like everything in this world.”

  My heart is racing a little. I can’t tell if it’s out of worry for Troy, or because of the way Christian’s smiling at me. My voice drops to a hush as I answer almost against my will. “If you hate business so much, why don’t you study something else?”

  “I didn’t say I hate it,” he says with his playful smile. He lifts a finger to the bartender, who refills Christian’s shot glass. I narrow my eyes. How old is Christian, anyway? He seems much older than he looks. He swirls the glass as he looks dreamily into the distance, through the bottles stacked behind the bar. “I was studying film, for a while. I always wanted to be a director. But you know what they say. Dreams don’t pay the rent.”

  I know I should slide off the bar stool, turn and walk out the door, and to hell with Christian and Anderson and all of it. Instead I find myself asking, “What kind of films?”

  Whatever else can be said of Christian, the boy can hold a conversation, damn him.

  His smile deepens. “You want to see? I have one of my projects here.”

  Before I can protest that I don’t have time for movies, he fishes something out of his suit jacket—a small iPod knock-off with a big, full-color touchscreen. His free hand finds mine; I’m startled at his touch and offer no resistance as he lifts my hand, turns it over, and sets the movie player in my palm. His fingers are firm, but gentle, and warm as fire.

  “Christian…”

  “Just watch.” />
  His hand leaves mine and he pushes a button on the screen. A movie starts to play. Tinny music comes from the small, on-board speakers of the device, barely audible over the noise of the bar. Credits or some other text roll across a dark, flickering background, like an old silent film, but I can’t quite read the text.

  As I raise the small device closer to my face, the film begins in earnest, and I gasp.

  There’s a flash of light on the screen, bright as an atom bomb. Then scenes and images flash past, almost subliminal, seemingly random—oceans, deserts, city skylines, refrigerator doors, eyeballs, bodies, scenes from a war. It’s too bright and fast for my eyes to follow, but something about the colors is instantly disorienting, almost nauseating.

  The movie’s soundtrack, at first too tinny to hear, somehow rises above the noise in the bar, becoming clearer the longer I stare—until somehow the sound from the thin speakers seems to drone out everything. It sounds like rhythmic, sexual moans interspersed with some hellish choir, the garbled words and groaning voices of a demonic tongue. A harsh, pounding techno beat accompanies this and my heart races to match it.

  “Christian? What the hell… is this?”

  I’m not sure if the words actually make it out of my mouth. Suddenly I feel weak and lightheaded, to the point that I’m fighting to keep my eyes open.

  To keep my eyes on the film.

  I’m utterly transfixed by it. I can’t look away. I can’t even speak. A surreal feeling washes over me and I feel depersonalized, like a passenger in my own body. How much did I have to drink? Only two daiquiris, and I’m certain no one slipped me anything. I was watching my glass the whole time. Wasn’t I?

  “Meredith?” Christian snaps his fingers. “You still with me?”

  I look up.

  The movie is over.

  We’re no longer sitting at the bar, but at some small, round table at the back of the restaurant, practically alone, an island unto ourselves. The bar is far away. The cover band plays an endless Allman Brothers song.