SPOILER ALERT: This is a story that occurred between the time Kate Lipton, the “heroine” of the Tyler thriller Damsel, was shipped to the middle east, and when her original abductor reclaimed her. Frustrated by the loss, the stalker sought compensation, and used his equally evil ward to seal the deal (careful readers can spot the time line)….Remember, the new novel DAMSEL is out and can be purchased to read right now by going here.....
"Excuse me, can you help me please?" cried the tween girl. “I’ve been robbed!”
Any normal New Yorker would have ignored her at best and yelled at her at worst. But Eve was not a normal New Yorker. She was a recent transplant from the north, a fresh-faced beauty with a bright, concerned face, and an incredible body.
It was, in a word, perfect. Her height was 5'5", her weight 111 pounds, and her measurements a heart-stopping 36-24-35. She stood on the landing of the east side brownstone apartment house where she lived, wearing a tailored blue miniskirted suit with a form-flattering, bone-colored, button-up shirt. Her supple, stockinged legs ended in elegant feet, nestled in fine blue high heel pumps.
Eve looked down at the miserable young woman with her big blue-green eyes, set in a lovely oval face complete with an elegant nose and curved, rich, smiling lips; surrounded by the dark red hair, cut is a flowing, lightly curled mane which swept down to her shoulders. Then she looked around her tree-lined street, amongst the parked cars, trying to catch a glimpse of anyone who might be able to help the tween.
"Don't worry, dear," the lady Eve said, her voice a sweet lilt with just a touch of honeysuckle. She placed a dainty hand on the teen’s shoulder. "We'll call the police." She pulled up her cellphone, then frowned at it. “Oh well. Lucky I still have a land line. Come on.”
And that was that. If she had known that the local police station was only a few blocks away, she might have led the girl to it, but she didn't. Like many transplanted New Yorkers, she only knew her own Manhattan—the routes she took to and from work.
The man in the van knew the way even better than she did now; he had been following her for weeks, trying desperately to find a way to take her.
Kate Lipton’s stalker had found her in his victim’s pocketbook – specifically the small, old-fashioned address book in it. He had researched every female listed within it, hoping that women of the same basic looks gravitated toward one another. And that’s where he came upon Eve Arnold.
He had studied her daily, marveling at her wardrobe: waist-cinching, cleavage-revealing, mini-hemmed, invariably high heeled fashion. But no man ever accompanied her...no man ever went in to partake of the pleasure she promised.
She was the ultimate "look but don't touch" cocktease—especially since it was clearly not mean-spirited—even innocent. She simply enjoyed being a citified farmgirl—an often stunningly sweet beauty of flaring nostrils, curving lips, and perfect teeth. Tracking her was no problem. Getting her alone in New York without being seen was.
There didn't seem to be a way to get into her apartment house without someone else knowing. There wasn't a centimeter outside her own apartment where she was alone for more than a nanosecond. So the answer had to be: either take a chance grabbing her off the street...or get into her apartment.
But how? Actually gaining entrance to the six story building wouldn't be that great a problem, despite its two locked front doors. But getting in without being seen would. And then, to get imprints and keys for her two locks without creating suspicion and possible witnesses would also be chancy.
He toyed with the idea of asking the gray-haired or bearded man back at the brown and orange house for possible assistance, but then remembered his "wards." He had smiled: he didn't mind sending either into a situation where they might be spotted.
But the older one didn't want to help. "I've got my own fish to fry," he said mysteriously. The younger one, however, was excited. Ever since she had screwed the gagged young lady wired down to her daddy's cellar work table, she was practically obsessed of exploring the "relationship" between girls further.
So Wilma really threw herself into her performance, and was now reaping the reward: Eve was taking her up to a second floor apartment, her hand lightly on Wilma’s shoulder. Eve took a moment to smile reassuringly down at her.
Wilma drank in her shape and how she moved. She imagined the sleek flank moving her smooth thigh along her curved hip into her firm rump. Wilma filled her head with Eve’s jasmine aroma, and stared at how her arm fit into her shoulder, then curved down to her sloping breasts beneath the riffling neck of her suit shirt.
Then they were at her door at the left of the second floor landing—across from one other—and her keys were coming out of her simple, demure, purse.
Wilma put her hand in her deep, loose-fit jean pocket as the door swung open and Eve motioned her politely inside. Wilma smiled benignly back at her with a great show of thankfulness. But she thought: Stupid bitch. You asked for it.
Wilma took it all in immediately: a simple studio apartment with small bathroom and kitchen off to the left of the door and the living room and bed area off to the right, with closets on the opposite wall in between.
Only two, grime-covered windows on the front wall, grated over, further obscured by a fire escape, a television, and an air conditioner. Table to the right. Old sofa bed to the left. Bureau beyond table. Cabinet with stereo and mirror beyond sofa. Piles of mail, papers, laundry, and containers strewn around. Costume jewelry on all surfaces. Books and knick-knacks around. Plain wood floor.
Wilma stood amid it and only snapped out of her examination when Eve moved closely by her, the very edge of her right breast touching Wilma’s elbow through the shirt.
Her eyes followed Eve sharply in the gathering, early evening gloom. She had felt the bra cup...it wasn't just a makeshift, generic, piece of underwear. Wilma recognized the feel of more upscale lingerie...something she might call Kate's secret....
Wilma’s hand clamped in her pocket as the front of her pants unavoidably dampened. She watched Eve go stand beside the sheet-strewn mattress on the floor in front of the television. She saw Eve lean over, the skirt rising in the back, showing more of her shapely, firm, stockinged legs. Wilma saw the shirt’s neckline drop, Eve’s curving, pendulous breasts filling the cloth. Then Wilma’s eyes snapped to Eve’s as she looked back and smiled reassuringly.
"We'll have help in a jiffy," she said, then turned to dial information. She put the phone to her ear, holding it elegantly with one hand daintily cupping the speaker and the other lightly gripping the bridge to the ear piece. Her fingernails were of moderate length and painted medium red.
TO BE CONTINUED