BED RIDDEN

Chapter One:

Chapter One:

“What the hell’s going on?” The woman pressed a button and somewhere an electric motor hummed softly as her hospital bed rose to the sitting position. “I’m supposed to be getting prepped for tomorrow’s surgery.”

The doctor studied her a moment. “There isn’t going to be any surgery.”

“What? But you’ve already got my money.”

“Well it would appear some guy in China has more money than you. What can I say. It’s like anything else– money talks. Sorry, I’m running a business, here. Got it?”

“But I’m dying...”

“Aren’t we all,” the doctor sighed then refocused. “Well it’s up to you. I can keep looking for a donor but I’ll need another check.”

“Another check? You’ve taken all I have. My savings, the investments, even my retirement pension is gone. My accounts are dry.”

“Well ask your daughter for money. See if she’ll help.” The doctor turned and moved toward the door, the white lab coat flapping about dark slacks.

“Fucker!” she shouted at the closed door. Her money had been sucked away like the poisoned blood in her veins. “If I could just get up out of this bed...” She scooped up her television remote and pressed the power button.

The television flickered to life. “Thursday, January 22nd– and that’s our take...”

She snapped off the set and threw the remote against the wall. “Fucker! Even made me miss my news program.”

“...so, on behalf of the WCJB news team,” the announcer continued, “Cloey Chase and Steve Slinger, I’m Roger Boroughs wishing you a pleasant, good evening.” Anchorwoman Cloey Chase looked into the television camera and gave her signature I’m as cute as the dickens smile just before the red light went out.

The floor director stepped into the pool of studio lighting. “Good show, people. Thank you.”

Cloey pulled the earbud free, draped it across the news desk and slid her chair back. “You boys go straight on home, now.” Her eyes danced in the studio lights. “I don’t want to hear you’ve gotten yourselves into mischief with the girls from outta town.”

Steve watched Cloey get to her feet. “Actually Roger and I are going for a drink. Your old man’s stuck up in Tallahassee– why not come along?”

Cloey placed a hand on a set hip and smirked. “The last time I accepted your drinks invitation, you got drunk and insisted on taking me shopping– for a bra. You remember?”

Steve looked up and took in the image of a sporty little blonde with a very trim figure. “Well you said you didn’t have one.”

“I said I wasn’t wearing one. There’s a difference.”

“Semantics,” Steve scoffed defensively. “Back me up here, Roger.”

Roger grinned. “What difference does it make. She wasn’t about to allow you into the change room to help try it on.”

Steve shrugged and watched Cloey step down onto the studio floor, headed toward the crash doors. There was the tinkle of jewelry. In her gold sandals she may have stood at five-feet, just. She wore an ankle bracelet that was just visible beneath the hem of a long skirt in a pale Navajo design: dove-gray with a rich pattern. The fabric hung from narrow hips, clinging softly in all the right places and Steve watched her saucy little bum see-sawing beneath the brushed cotton. “I’d give a year’s salary to stick my nose up that crack,” he said to Roger.

Roger took a look. “You see any pantie lines? I don’t.”

“Sheesh.”

Cloey was almost at the doors when she tilted her chin back over a shoulder and rang out in her teasing, little girl sing-song voice: “I-know-what-you’re-looking-at...” And with an added flourish, she caught the crash bar with a hip and was gone.

Roger slumped back in his chair. “Christ, that’s nice. If I had that I wouldn’t let her outta the house.”

“If I had that,” Steve shot back, “I wouldn’t let her outta the fuckin’ bed– geez, c’mon Roger, let’s get outta here– see what strumpet the tourist bus has brought to town.”

A cold front had swept down from the North Florida Panhandle and brought with it a chilly drizzle that would have the visitors to Disney World grumbling and trading their shorts for jeans. Cloey hugged her jacket closed and dodged the puddles in the parking lot. Her trusty Lexus started at the touch of the key and Cloey fumbled the AC off and slid the lever to the heat control. “Sunshine State my ass,” Cloey grumbled under her breath. She gathered her skirt up around bare thighs where it couldn’t interfere with her driving and turned on the headlights.

Old Allen at the gate was picked out in the beams. He came around to the driver’s window to wish her a pleasant evening and to admire the curve of girlish leg. Cloey didn’t mind. She liked Old Allen and didn’t bother to cover up. If she could send him home to his empty bed with a little something to cheer about, well that was fine by her. Cloey smiled and waved.

But tonight, Cloey didn’t relish the thought of going home to her empty bed. Nick was up in Tallahassee again, wiring up some damned computer network for some damned government agency. Did they still use wires? Cloey thought not. Anyway, he’d drive back to Gainesville for the weekend and Cloey looked forward to that: A cozy dinner at The Wellington and discussing their plans for the future.

Nick was anxious for her to retire so they could start a family. Cloey wanted a boy and a girl but she knew Nick would laugh and retaliate by saying he didn’t want any male competition. Nick wanted to fill the house with girls. Little Cloey-clones he called them, and the more the better.

She hated it when Nick was out of town but the new business he had partnered with a couple of other computer technicians was doing well, very well in fact. But the work took him away from home more often than either of them cared for. They made sacrifices. So for the past week it had been a damp empty house in the suburbs that greeted her with only Peaches to keep her company.

Cloey thought wistfully for a moment, about catching up with Steve and Roger. A snug bar somewhere might be nice. A distraction. But then no, she decided. She preferred the company of her puppy and looked forward to a hot sensual shower. Cloey would come back to her decision again and again in the coming months. If only she had turned the car around when she’d had the chance.

Not tonight. Please. Why tonight of all nights? Cloey stood dripping on the stone tile in her front hallway. She tasted the air. God. Someone had been in her house.

It wasn’t the first time she’d had the premonition someone had invaded her home while she was at work. But the other times Nick had been there beside her, had just laughed, called her silly and walked her around, room by room, closet by closet, to prove she was just imagining things. But tonight there wasn’t any Nick.

And where was Peaches?

Her puppy always scrambled to the front door when Cloey arrived home from the studio. But not tonight. Cloey felt a chill rise in the middle of her back that cinched her shoulder blades. She checked the security panel. The light blinked green to let her know there hadn’t been a breach in her home defenses. But her own senses told her the green light couldn’t be trusted. Was lying.

“Peaches,” Cloey clapped her hands, “come girl. Peaches?”

There was a scratching, coming from somewhere. Upstairs.

Cloey threw off her wet jacket and took the stairs two at a time. “Peaches?” The sound came from the bedroom. The closet door was closed and there was a thump, like the little puppy had thrown herself against the inside of the door in an effort to reach Cloey’s embrace.

Cloey pulled on the door handle and Peaches sprung free like a greyhound from the starter’s gate. She yelped in delight at the sight of Cloey and danced a tight circle up on hind legs, begging to be picked up.

Cloey stooped for her and smothered the puppy in her arms. “You little whirling-dervish. How in earth...” Peaches lapped at her chin. Cloey straightened and looked about the room. Little Peaches was always chasing about her legs in the morning while she dressed for work. Could she have accidentally closed the closet door on the pup? She tried to think back to the morning. Had Peaches followed her into the front hall to see her off? Cloey couldn’t remember.

Peaches suddenly sneezed and struggled from Cloey’s grasp. The puppy bounced to the bedroom carpet and was out the door.

Cloey turned, tasted the air again. It was stronger here, in her bedroom. Terror bloomed in her chest then spilled over. Her eyes had landed on the top drawer of her dresser. Her underwear drawer. It was halfway open. She held an image of her panties, carefully stacked and sorted by color, her matching bras nested and lined up opposite. And of the man, standing over them and spewing his filth.

The odor was strong, fertile, and she took a step closer. The panic building. But did she really want to see? She would have to burn them. All of them. Could never again stand to have the silk and lace next to her skin.

God! Was he still in her house?

Cloey wheeled, looked toward the en-suite bath. Was he standing just there, behind the closed door with his p***s in his hand, listening to her staggered breathing? She slowly backed away, expecting him to come charging out. But had he anticipated her move? Was he waiting outside the bedroom, in the hall. Cloey whirled around to look, her eyes peering, desperately trying to penetrate the darkness. She looked to the window. It was a straight drop, two stories down to the lawn. Could she manage it without breaking an ankle?

But a broken ankle would be preferable to being wrestled down onto her own bed by a man she didn’t know and having her legs forced apart.

The pressure was building again, straining, threatening to burst out of her throat. The puppy was scratching at the side door, whimpering, needing to pee. The sound galvanized Cloey. With a cry of recklessness, she bolted.

She was into the hall and down the stairs before she allowed her mind to comprehend the foolhardy madness of her actions. In the kitchen she scooped the little puppy up and raced to the front door. Outside, it was raining harder now, but she wasn’t about to go back for her jacket. When she leaned forward to put the key into the front door lock, once again Peaches squirmed out of her arms and disappeared around the corner of the house.

Cloey contemplated going after the pup but an overriding fear drove her to the car. Peaches could sleep in the kennel that Nick had spent a weekend building. By the time Cloey reached the Lexus, she was drenched, soaking through with icy rain. But still she took time to check the rear seat using the tiny flashlight on her key ring and tried to squelch the image of a man hunched over her underwear drawer.