Lightning Strikes the Soul Chapter One

Lightning Strikes the Soul

Chapter One

My story reads so hot, I'm aroused. My characters are sparring with sexual innuendos. Sparks are flying and I keep writing to see if Ryker walks out on Sybil, or Sybil slaps him. Will they collapse on the floor and do the wild thing? Wait, Sybil's got whipped cream, and she’s...

The doorbell rings. I freeze. I'm perched in the alcove in my kitchen wearing pajamas, a cooling cup of coffee at my elbow. The windows face the front door, and a man holding a clipboard looks harassed. The cable guy; I can’t believe I forgot the cable guy was coming today. I know it's ridiculous, but I dive under the table and crouch there, hoping he never saw me. It’s two in the afternoon—what kind of person is not dressed by midday afternoon? He must have seen me dive, and probably thinks I'm sick or I blacked out. Who knows?

“Miss, are you okay?”

If I don't answer he'll disappear. I creep on all fours to the dining room, curl up like an inchworm, and squirm behind a chair.

“Hello, Miss, do you need help?”

I'm sweating and my heart's jumping; what are Mick and Sybil up to? The man asks one more time before he finally leaves.

Why didn't I peek around the door and ask him to return later? Because I'm an idiot. I return to writing, but Sybil and Mick have disappeared, taking my plot hostage. Ian Stone, Mick's assistant remains aloof, the bisexual Holly turns away—even the dependable Daphne refuses to speak. I've been working this book forever. Wisdom glows from my cat’s eyes.  I know cats see beyond human perceptions. “Come on, Peerless, talk to me.” Tail up, he turns and walks away.

Showering in tepid water distracts me. When it’s twenty below zero, no one wants warmish water. My hair is lathered in shampoo and my body's slick with soap when the phone rings. Why is my phone in the bathroom? I know I left it next to my computer. Who the hell would call me now? Could be Mom. Maybe she's sick. I hop out, blindly reaching for a towel. Hold on; hold on, I'm coming phone. I'm counting rings, six so far, one more before voice mail picks up. Shampoo and soap bubbles spatter the slippery floor, but I catch the phone on the seventh ring. “Hello?” I ask, wiping shampoo from my eyes and wrapping a towel around me—no small feat with one hand. This better be good.

“Hello, Miss Kiska Romanov?”

I hop on one foot—you drip less water that way—and head for my bedroom. I don't recognize the caller. Peerless, my cat, bumps into my foot. He lost his voice from throat cancer, and he turns his head from side to side; that's sign language for “I'm hungry.” I nod up and down. That one's obvious.

“Yes, who's speaking?” 

“This is Ian Stone, administrative assistant to Mr. Ryker. I'm calling to finalize the details for your book before the first edition runs.”

He sounds authentic and efficient. Just like in my story. My story?

“My what?”  I ask Mr. Stone. Peerless studies me. I peer back and promise food with a thorough stroking. He reads minds, too.

“Your book, Lightning Strikes the Soul, is in final stages of publishing.”

“Yes, yes of course, how silly of me. I was writing and lost touch with reality.” That’s true.

“I'm ringing Mr. Ryker now, if you'll hold a minute.” I breathe in the silence—bad air out, good air in.

Mick Ryker, my Mick Ryker?

“Miss Romanov, this is Mick Ryker, owner of Ram Publishing. I’ve been in Europe for the better part of a year, and out of touch with the business.” His voice flows over me like a caress.

“Hi, nice to speak with you.” I trip over my clothes dropped on the floor last night, and find my bathrobe under the quilt. I'm freezing, but at least I'm not naked and freezing. Peerless lifts her left paw. That's sign language for “You're an idiot.” I thumb down with my left hand; that's sign language for “Shut up cat, I'm trying to listen to Mr. Ryker.”

“As I was saying, when I returned from abroad, I found your book on my desk. I read it last night, and I have a few questions. More than a few. First, the editor who worked with you -” Shuffling papers rustle in my ear.  “Jude Morgan? We tried contacting her, but she’s disappeared somehow.”

“Ms. Morgan?”

“Yes, Ms. Jude Morgan, the editor you've been working with for over a year?”

My Jude Morgan?

“That's preposterous, she's—“  I clap a hand over my mouth and cut off my reply.

“You understand what’s bothering me, right?”  He asks.

“Um—”

“Miss Romanov! Have I called at a bad time? Because my calendar is filled until next week, when I might be able to squeeze in a call. Of course by then—” His voice trails off, deep down a dark path of annoyance.

Jerk.

“No, no of course not. You were saying?” Outside the world makes sense. Puffy snowbirds perch on my terrace railing. Innocent snowflakes fall, masking their intention to create a Nor'easter. Nothing Ryker says makes any sense, but I'm listening. I boost up the thermostat and gurgling water percolates through the heat ducts that encompass the apartment.

“I demand to know why my name and members of my staff are characters in your book.”

“No need to be snippy, Mr. Ryker. If you calm yourself, I'll answer your questions.” How will I answer them? A tickle in the back of my brain eludes me. I think of my sister.

“Listen, Miss Romanov, I don't know who you think you are, but— “

“But nobody dares speak to you this way, right?” Provoking him excites me, and my naked body hums to life. I towel off the sheen that's glistening on my body.

A pen is tap-tap-tapping in the background. “I’m still waiting for my answer.”

“Listen, you arrogant—“

“Don't finish that sentence, Miss Romanov. Book or no book, this conversation ends now, unless you answer my questions politely.”

“If I answer politely? You should ask politely.” What can I say that possibly makes sense? The tickling feels more like a nudge.  “I have a perfectly reasonable explanation.” I do?

Mr. Ryker sighs. “I’m listening.”

I cinch my bathrobe's ribbon tight. Gulp. He's publishing the unfinished book I'm working on? I click on the icon for my story and scan it. It’s inconceivable, but the book is completed.  Writer's create on their feet, even if they're tangled in my thong and tripping me. “I’ve never heard of you before. It’s entirely coincidental.” The cell phone slips from my fingers and rushes to meet the floor, but I snatch it mid-air and clamp it against my ear.

“That's unlikely.” I visualize him pacing his office. I hope he's pissed.

“You know, Mr. Ryker, I don't much care for your tone of voice. Exactly what are you accusing me of?” I grab Peerless and head for the kitchen. Food is encrusted in the tiny dip of his saucer. Peerless doesn't eat much, not since his operation. This is good, because Mother Hubbard’s cupboard is bare.

“Why, you're impossible! I'm not accusing you of anything. However, you explain this away as a coincidence? Begging your pardon, but I don’t believe in random events.” He's practically sputtering.

“For your information, Mr. Mick Ryker, King of Publishing, neither do I!” I probably should have tempered my words, but he insulted me. My chilled body is heating up, too much. This guy really gets under my skin. I throw a winter coat over my robe, and step out to the miniscule balcony for a smoke. I light up and continue this inane conversation. He’s running away with this minor issue.

“We’re back to square one. You’re a snippy little author. My questions remain unanswered.”

“Snippy, I’m snippy? Well, guess what, I’m not answering your questions.” Where did that come from?  I clamp my mouth shut and twiddle fingers in the air. That's sign language for, “You're right, Peerless, I blew it.”

“Now you listen to me –“

I swear he almost said “young lady.” A peculiar longing makes me wish he had. My mind starts fabricating fabulous fantasies.

“I could kill your book right here.”

Ugh, that imperious tone, so aggravating, but so arousing.

“Fine, go ahead and kill it. I don't much care for you, anyway.” I snap the phone closed on my successful life—light explodes outside the window, illuminating the apartment like a thousand stars gone rogue. Peerless jumps into my arms. Shielding my eyes, I creep toward the window. A triple bolt of green lightning shears the sky—it’s an impossible phenomenon—snow is falling. One crazed fork hits the transponder, and the explosion knocks me off my feet. From the floor, I watch a spattering of sparks snap and sizzle, and then dim and fade, extinguishing all illumination. I reach for the light switch, but a green snap of electricity zaps me. Shaking the shocked finger, I pop it in my mouth—an instinctive reflex—water subdues pain. The hair on my arm rises. A whooshing sound, like a train passing through, deafens me.

Silence crashes.

Lights flicker and flash—the energy-charged air shimmers. Walls expand and contract, losing definition, and I hear a voice in my head.

“Little.”

My sister’s nickname for me. But she died last year—

“Little, it’s me, Jude. I’m here.”

Peerless bolts from the room.



(working on the last bit of this chapter)



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"Lightning Strikes the Soul Chapter Two"