Consequences Read online

  “Now, Anthony, isn’t that what you said your name is?” Claire’s chatty work tone contained the slightest of a Southern drawl, the kind of accent you pick up from being around it so much. Her roots in Indiana with a mother that taught English wouldn’t allow her to drag out those syllables too far, unless on purpose.

  Smiling a devilish grin and flashing those sensual eyes, he met her gaze. “Yes, that’s correct. And if I recall, your name is Claire.”

  “And even though I’m flattered, I don’t usually see my customers outside this esteemed establishment.”

  “All right, what time do you get off? Perhaps we could sit in one of those booths, right here . . . in this esteemed establishment . . . and talk? I would like to know more about you.”

  Damn. He was smoother talking than any of the regular Joes that sit on these stools. And now that his silk tie was in the pocket of his Armani suit coat and the top button of his silk shirt was undone, his casual business persona was incredibly sexy.

  “Now tell me again what brings you to Atlanta. You aren’t from here are you?” Claire said, leaning against the bar.

  “Business, and no, but I think I am the one who wanted to ask the questions.” His tone contained a playful quality and at the same time was focused and controlled. Claire’s intuition told her that he was used to getting his way. Something made her wonder if that was what made him successful in business, because his appearance definitely said success, and if it transcended to his personal life.

  Claire listened and watched as Anthony’s eyes glistened. He was tall. Now that the coat had been removed, she could tell he was muscular, with wide chest and firm waist. Most importantly, his left hand had an empty fourth finger. Claire definitely wouldn’t go there. Against her better judgment, she decided she wanted to answer those questions.

  “Okay.” She smiled charmingly. “But I will’ve been standing behind this bar for six hours straight. I can’t promise I will be the best company.”

  “Then I take that as a yes? But did you tell me the time? Or am I still waiting for that answer?” She found herself absorbed in his eyes.

  “Yo! Hey, sweetheart, how about you give us some service down here?” Claire’s attention suddenly was pulled away from the hold of those amazing eyes. The asshole down the bar needed more Jack and Coke. She started to walk away. Anthony reached for her hand, which was resting on the bar, only inches from his. His touch was warm and made her skin tingle. He didn’t ask again, but his expression did.

  “At ten, I get off at ten.” She removed her hand from under his, shook her head, and walked down the bar, smiling to herself. She needed to find out what the asshole wanted.

  The deep red vinyl seat of the semicircular booth situated on the edge of the dance floor tried unsuccessfully to imitate fine upholstery. Music filled the air, too loud and too fast. In Anthony’s mind, it was the perfect inducement for them to sit close in order to hear each other. He also had a bottle of the Red Wing’s finest cabernet sauvignon. Looking at his watch for the hundredth time, he read the hands as they said 10:30 p.m. It was then that he saw Claire walking across the empty dance floor toward his booth.

  This was definitely a night for out-of-character behaviors. Not only did Anthony Rawlings usually not fraternize with regional associates, he also never waited for anyone. Under any other circumstances, he would have been up and gone by 10:05. His friends, associates, and employees all knew his obsession with punctuality. But tonight was different. As Claire eased herself into the booth, she smiled a fatigued grin and apologized for the delay. There was a problem with the cash register, but all is well now.

  He gently touched her hand. Momentarily, he became transfixed by the contrast—his large and hers small. “I was beginning to wonder if you were standing me up.” His grin hinted toward levity. “But since I could see you across the room, I hoped I might still have a chance at friendly conversation.” Claire’s exhale and upturned lips told him she was relieved. Was it because he was still waiting or merely that her shift was complete? “Perhaps we could have a glass of wine, and you could enjoy sitting instead of standing.”

  “I believe that would be very nice.” Anthony poured the wine and noticed Claire’s expression relax. The transformation occurring before him was from bartender into the real Claire Nichols. He watched as she took the glass, placed her lips on the rim, closed her eyes, and relished the thick red liquid on her tongue. Anthony fought the urge to think too much about her actions.

  “So what’s a classy girl like you doing waiting on stooges like us?” Anthony’s rich voice refocused Claire’s attention. Her eyes twinkled with emerald lights as she turned to face him.

  “Why, Anthony, I do believe that self-deprecating statement was a compliment to me in a way.” Her tone held that Southern accent that was far from her native Indiana cadence. He only arched his eyebrows, waiting patiently for an answer. Claire shook her head and fell into his charm. “I’m an out-of-work meteorologist. My news station was bought about a year ago. In their infinite wisdom, they decided I was no longer needed, so this,” she said as she glided her free hand open above the table “is my new glamorous life. Don’t knock it. It pays my student loans as well as multiple other bills.”

  His laughter was deep and nonjudgmental. “Wouldn’t you rather be doing the weather thing than this?”

  “Of course, but honestly, this isn’t so bad. I have some great friends here. There is always something going on, and I meet nice people like you.” Claire took another sip of the wine and leaned a little closer. “So that’s my story in a nutshell. Sir, it is your turn. You said you are here on business. What kind of business do you do?’

  “I am actually involved in many businesses. I came to Atlanta for an acquisition, and some associates convinced me to come here to your esteemed establishment to try the world-famous fried green tomatoes.”

  “Oh, they did. Did you?”

  Anthony nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  Claire’s snicker caused her to look down into her glass. “Did you like them?”

  He likewise looked into his glass. “No, I don’t believe I am destined for Georgian cuisine.” Claire’s laugh made him look up. “Why are you laughing?”

  “Because I think they are awful! Every time someone orders them, I want to whisper, ‘No, don’t do it.’ It is just that they are so . . .”

  “Slimy?” They both said together and laughed. The conversation progressed effortlessly. She asked about his acquisition. Would his trip be successful? Anthony was honestly surprised at her depth and knowledge. It was a shame that her news station had not kept her on. She deserved so much better than tending bar. Of course, that was what he told her. They discussed her career opportunities. Since Anthony was involved in multiple endeavors, he offered the possibility of assistance with more profitable employment. Claire thanked him for his offer, but doubted his ability or desire to truly assist her.

  “You know, your destiny could be as simple as an offer and a signature away.” He channeled every deal he ever made, which would be more than he could count or recall. Placing a napkin on the table, he drew her attention to the center design. “Just imagine if instead of the swirly lettering saying ‘Red Wing’ it was blocked and read ‘Weather Channel.’”

  The bottle of cabernet sauvignon was almost empty. Claire closed her eyes and did as Anthony said, she imagined. Exhaling audibly, she said, “That would be wonderful. It would be the offer a meteorologist dreams about.”

  Closing in on the deal, he said, “Well, Claire, if this napkin were that contract”—

  he reached for a pen in his breast pocket and wrote at the top of the napkin “Job Contract”—“would you be willing to sign? Would you really give this all up for a job offer?”

  She didn’t blink. “In a heartbeat!” Removing the pen from Anthony’s hand, she signed “Claire Nichols” next to the bar’s insignia.

  About midnight, Claire thanked Anthony for the lovely company and explained
that she was very tired from her long day and needed to get home. “I will be in town for a few more days. Perhaps I could call you for dinner? It isn’t proper to offer a lady alcohol and no food.”

  “Thank you. I’m honored, but I believe I will chuck this up to my brush with an amazing gentleman and go on with my glamorous existence. I fear that the Weather Channel will not be contacting me anytime soon.”

  Although her refusal surprised him, he didn’t let it show. In the long run, it wouldn’t matter, but he would play into her chastity. “I truly understand, dangerous man from out of town tries to learn your secrets and offers to help you with your aspirations. You are wise to keep your distance.” Although his grin had sinister written all over it, he assumed she would detect the facade.

  “A girl can’t be too careful. Truly, I am honored, and I don’t think you seem that dangerous.” She began to scoot out of the booth, but he caught her hand. Their eyes met, and he bowed his head to kiss the back of her hand.

  “It was wonderful to meet you, Claire Nichols.” With a smile, she retrieved her hand and slowly slid from the booth. The next minute, he was alone. He took the pen, signed his name, and wrote the date on the same napkin. He carefully folded it and placed it in the pocket of his suit jacket. Then he pulled out his phone and texted his driver: “PICK ME UP NOW.” He always used full words. Text language was a joke. Closing his eyes, he thought, Yes, my acquisition is going quite well. Thank you for asking.

  To look backward for a while is to refresh the eye, to restore it, and to render it the more fit for its prime function of looking—forward.

  —Margaret Fairless Barber, The Roadmender

  Chapter 3

  She contemplated her situation as she ate. She didn’t take the napkin discussion seriously. Anthony probably expected that. She didn’t prepare to move from her Atlanta apartment or even consider the possibility. His recollection of a document that legally bound them was a complete surprise. Claire’s gut told her it wasn’t legal, but what recourse did she have to fight from this room? She searched high and low for a telephone, computer, or some way to call for help—nothing.

  She actually thought she would walk out of this twisted nightmare. However, it wasn’t a nightmare, twisted or otherwise. It was her reality, and her mind searched for a way to survive and escape.

  Claire relished the warm oatmeal, fruit, bacon, perfectly brewed coffee, and juice. She devoured every ounce, even checking twice for more coffee in the carafe. Yesterday she hardly ate. She was thankful that starvation wasn’t part of his plan.

  Standing to go to the shower, she moved carefully, experiencing the same aches and pains of the day before, except intensified. Claire wasn’t sure if she wanted to see herself in the mirrors as she cautiously stepped into the generous bathroom and slowly approached the dressing table. The reflection that looked back was scary. Her hair messed and tangled, and her face sported various shades of red and blue. The worst image had to be her lips, looking as if she had received Botox injections. This time, there were no tears. Instead, she stared and considered.

  Grandma Nichols told her more than once she was an unusually strong young woman. In Claire’s mind, Grandma was always strong. Grandpa’s work in law enforcement took him away from home, and Grandma never complained. Instead, she was the heart of the family—always there for everyone and often giving advice such as, “It is not the circumstances that make a person a success. It is how that person responds to those circumstances.” Grandma believed every situation could be made better by the right attitude. Claire dropped the robe. Looking at the vision in the mirror, she believed Grandma never anticipated a situation like this.

  After the shower, Claire decided to not dress appropriately in expectation of an Anthony visitation. If he were to walk in her suite, he would find her in jeans, a T-shirt, and fuzzy socks. Furthermore, there would be no makeup and no hair primping. It may be a small act of rebellion, but Claire didn’t have many rebellious options, and every bone in her body told her to fight. She tried to fight during the past two nights, but that didn’t work out well.

  Entering the grand closet/dressing room, Claire realized that she hadn’t truly appreciated all it had to offer yesterday. First, she began to look for underwear but remembered that it didn’t exist in any of the drawers. So Claire searched for jeans. There were multiple pairs, different shades of blue with different leg styles. Wearing jeans must not break any rules; if it did, they wouldn’t be there. The brands she read on the labels she had only seen in stores like Saks: Hudson, J Brand, and MIH. She never in her life tried jeans like these on. They were soft, amazingly comfortable, and fit perfectly.

  Now she wanted a T-shirt. Feeling a chill as she removed the robe, she decided a sweater would be better. The choices were countless and fashionable. She decided on a Donna Karan pink fuzzy cashmere sweater. Before putting it on, she looked for a bra. Apparently, bras were against the rules too because she couldn’t find one. However, she did find a drawer full of various colored camisoles; she chose pink.

  Searching the drawers and cabinets of the closet was like a treasure hunt. Still rummaging for fuzzy socks, she found multiple drawers of lingerie. The silky black and red negligees in multiple lengths reminded her of a Victoria’s Secret fashion show. Finally, she discovered socks. Claire couldn’t comprehend that all of these lavish and extravagant clothes belonged to her. Truthfully, she didn’t want them.

  Driven by curiosity, she read the labels on the evening dresses: Aidan Mattox, Armani, Donna Karan, and Emilio Pucci. These dresses alone could pay her rent in Atlanta for six months. Fleetingly, she wondered about last night’s dress. Its tag would remain a mystery. It disappeared when the room was cleaned.

  Next she inspected the shoes: pumps, sandals, boots, and slip-ons—all with four-inch heels or more. The brands were equally as high-priced as the dresses: Prada, Calvin Klein, Dior, Kate Spade, and Yves Saint Lauren. Never really a shoe person, Claire usually wore casual footwear, Crocs and sneakers—rarely heels and never that high. Of course, every pair was her size.

  Her mind slipped back to high school. Ten years ago, she would have done anything for a closet supplied like the one in which she stood. Back then, her sister helped her fit in despite her parents’ modest income. Emily took her to consignment shops, bargain-hunted, and shopped sale racks. It worked. She was part of the in crowd, wearing the right clothes, shoes, and carrying the right purse. As she turned slowly and took in all the clothes, she wished she didn’t have the closet or any of the memories.

  She heard the beep, and the suite door opened. Her heart raced. Who was here? And how long had she been in the closet? Stepping into the suite, she saw lunch being delivered by the same young man that brought dinner the night before. Claire hadn’t notice last night, but he appeared Latino. She asked him about the food. He smiled and said, “I bring Ms. Claire lunch.” She asked about Catherine, if she would be coming up. He replied, “I bring Ms. Claire lunch.” Other questions seemed senseless. Claire smiled and thanked him for the lunch.

  Each response and smile the young man offered was unaccompanied by eye contact. Claire thought about his job, bringing her food. Obviously with the lack of makeup, he could see her bruises. Hell, he opened a locked door to bring her food. What did he think of her, of the situation? The idea of seeing her plight from someone else’s perspective weighed heavily on her chest. Sadness intensified at the realization that she once again was completely alone.

  Instead of going to the table, Claire sat on the sofa and wrapped her arms around her knees. Staring into the fireplace, she contemplated turning it on. Time passed without record. She didn’t remember sleeping. Her position didn’t change. The unbearable quiet and isolation combined to create a kind of time-and-space continuum. It was after three on the bedside clock before she moved from the sofa. It was then she realized that the food remained on the table, untouched.

  The subtle glow from behind the curtains reminded Claire that she hadn’t
looked out the windows since she awoke yesterday morning. She checked for a means of escape the first night, and everything was locked tight. But then it was dark, and she couldn’t see past her own reflection.

  Of the multiple golden draperies, the largest covered a section of wall near the sitting area. Claire moved toward it, looking for something to pull to make the draperies move and reveal the secret of the other side. After minutes of searching, Claire found a switch. She lifted the switch. The draperies opened and revealed tall French doors leading to a balcony.

  In her hysteria the other night, she didn’t notice that these were doors, not windows. She definitely didn’t see the balcony. Her mind raced with possibilities: maybe from the balcony, she could climb down. Alas no, the French doors were locked and bolted. The key was nowhere to be found. Claire had a good idea who possessed it.

  The view beyond the doors revealed a massive uninhabited countryside, for miles only trees—thousands and thousands of trees—on very flat land. Once she stopped seeing the magnitude of unpopulated land, she realized that the trees weren’t green, and the earth wasn’t red. When she and Anthony made their contractual agreement, they were at a bar, the Red Wing, in Atlanta.

  What she saw from her locked balcony doors didn’t look like Georgia. She yearned for her home in Atlanta. Even though she wasn’t from there, her career path had taken her to WKPZ, a local affiliate out of Atlanta. That path started with a major in meteorology at Valparaiso University in Indiana. Being born and raised in Fishers, outside of Indianapolis, college in Indiana was expected. Her dreams almost ended when both of her parents tragically died during her junior year. Miraculously, she received a scholarship. That, with her student loans and bartending, allowed her to continue her education. After graduation, her path took her to a one-year unpaid internship in Upstate New York. Being in the weather business, she should have realized how much she would hate the weather in Albany. However, it was the ability to live with her sister and brother-in-law that made the offer easy to accept. Recently married, Emily and John were very willing to help Claire any way they could. Emily taught school, and John recently started practicing law with an esteemed firm in Albany. Since the two were high school sweethearts, Claire knew John most of her life. Living with them was easy. In hindsight, maybe not for the newlyweds; but for Claire, they were her only family.