By the time that Tracy reached the massive, plush bed, her eyes were already halfway shut. Before her tousled hair touched the silk pillow case, she was out completely.
The whirling, twisting colors of blue and red over white surrounded Tracy again, though this time the wind was as hot and dry as the Sahara. She put her forearms up in front of her face to shield herself, but not before a few bits of sand blasted her cheeks. The flying specks felt like tiny, little needles assaulting her face.
She tried to speak, but the wind was howling like a tornado. Then, just as before, the painful squeeze of the strange man’s grip seized her wrist and yanked her out of the multi-colored cyclone.
Tracy landed abruptly on the desert sand that extended endlessly in every direction. It was hot, almost too hot to stand on. She shifted her feet back and forth and tried to pry her arm away from the man.
"Why do you keep coming to me? Who are you?"
The man, looking a little older than he had before, leaned down so close that she could see the tobacco stains on his teeth.
"Death."
Tracy turned away from him, but he tightened his grip on her wrist enough to force her to look back. When she did, they were nose-to-nose. She could feel his breath rolling down over her heaving chest. She felt the small bones in her hand and wrist begin to grind together.
"Tell me your name," she commanded, sounding far more confident than she felt.
The man shook his head slowly and stroked her face with his free hand, rubbing his crescent scar against her sand-blasted cheek. Little flecks of red spotted her cheek where the grains had made contact and broken her skin. Now, under the unwanted stroking of the man’s hand, the drops smeared across her face like war paint.
"Tell me," she screamed at him.
He stopped, pulled his hand away, and slapped her. Tracy yelped and felt her knees buckle beneath her. The only thing stopping her from falling to the ground was his unrelenting grip.
She looked back up, but the man had changed. Near the corner of his face, by where his black, stubby hairline began, a corner of his skin looked like it was peeling away.
It reminded Tracy of the old wallpaper in her grandma’s house.
She reached up and pinched the flap. The man didn’t try to stop her. In fact, he had stopped moving altogether. Tracy grabbed the thing and jerked down, only to be blinded by a brilliant flash of white. The man’s old face crumbled to dust in her fingers, but still he didn’t let her go.
"Who the hell are you?"
"What?" a familiar voice called out to her. "You don’t recognize me?"
Tracy opened and closed her eyes, trying to shake away the fog. When they did focus, the smiling face of Gordon Baxter was waiting to greet her.
"Gordon?!"
He let go of her wrist, wrapping his skilled hands around her throat and jerking her up against him. Even through his linen whites, she could feel the outline of a raging erection.
It was getting harder and harder for Tracy to breathe. She tried to push away, but his hand felt like it was glued to her. Her feet thrashed and kicked, but never made contact with anything. Gordon reached down with his other hand and squeezed her mound firmly.
When he spoke, his words came out like a serpent’s hiss.
"I’m going to kill you, Tracy."
Tracy screamed, but no sound came out.
Chapter 21
The weeks leading up to the grand opening of Tracy’s restaurant were a flurry of activity. There was a constant stream of vendors and new employees running in and out of the place from morning to night. At the center of it all was the waitress-turned-head honcho who, at the end of the day, felt about as lost as the day she chose to make it happen. The constant tornado of events made it almost impossible to concentrate on anything for more than a minute or two.
The first few days, she avoided Gordon. After their sexual night together followed by the disturbing dream, she wasn't sure what to expect from him. But, he behaved as if nothing had ever happened between them. He was the complete professional, which was good because Tracy felt like everything was falling apart at the seams.
Fortunately, Gordon stepped in to help, after finding her almost in tears because she got the wrong size onions. From that point on, the two worked seamlessly in tandem in a way that Tracy hadn’t expected. By the time the big night did arrive, Tracy was thanking her lucky stars she'd got him to work for her.
"Tracy!" One of the younger sous chefs ran up to her and pushed the bridge of his glasses up with the back of his wrist. "Baxter wanted me to tell you that we’re ready whenever you are."
Unsurprisingly, Gordon had insisted on his employees calling him by his last name only.