Finally, after a struggle that felt like it lasted hours, the man sank down between Tracy’s thighs. Leading the way, his massive erection bulged out against his smooth, black slacks. The huge lump settled against Tracy’s pu**y, resting there like an anaconda ready to attack.
The man’s eyes flashed with red and he leaned in so that their cheeks were nearly touching. His lips, a rough as sandpaper, grazed her lips as he spoke on mute. His h*ps began to grind down onto her, rocking his member against her tender area.
He had taken control of her.
Tracy squeezed her eyes shut. The man let go of her wrists and moved one hand down so that it cupped one of her full br**sts. While his thrusts continued, his other hand started to trace a line from the top of her head. With one finger, he dragged across her forehead, over the scar that had been left from her accident, and continued on along the top of her eyebrow. From there, he slipped the single digit over her cheek and came to rest just below the right side of her chin.
The man pressed his finger into the sensitive patch of flesh. Then it went cold, just as cold as the ground beneath them, which had begun to melt from their collective body heat.
The wind stopped abruptly. Now there was no sound at all. No heavy breaths or beating hearts. No hint of Tracy’s protests or the words that the man was still reciting into her ear. Instead, the only thing that broke through the silence was an unmistakable sound: a gun being cocked.
Tracy didn’t have to look, but she did anyway. The man’s icy finger had transformed into a gun and was neatly pressed against the bottom of her jaw. The cool, silver steel that wrapped the body shone like the sun, making Tracy’s eyes water uncontrollably.
Now giving off a glow so bright that it started to melt everything around, the gun started to vibrate against Tracy’s shivering flesh. It was only seconds before it took over everything. The man melted away, as did the freezing ground and baby blue skies.
The last thing that Tracy saw before Mr. Hayes finally shook her awake was the gun’s handle. It had been painted a deep, purple-tinged hue of crimson. In her head, the man’s solemn, monotone voice finally burst through the ether.
"I’ll have his blood."
***
Tracy awoke with a start as the car pulled into the driveway. She was still so tired, and felt like she hadn't had any rest in days. Was what she just saw someone's dreams? Or was it just a bad dream of hers produced by stress? It was all so confusing, and she almost didn't want to go to sleep again. However, as she crawled into bed with Mr. Hayes, sleep claimed her almost immediately.
***
The morning before Tracy’s meeting with Gordon Baxter was a frenzied rush of activity, though not necessarily because she had tons of things to do. She was, more accurately, a nervous wreck. Everything that she did was done with half of her mind elsewhere, leading to more than one disaster. The coffee machine overflowed after she dumped way too much coffee grounds into the basket. Her solitary piece of toast- the only thing that she thought could stomach- burned into a stinky, square puck. Even her lowly hair brush was not immune. Some time earlier, Tracy accidentally turned on a flat iron that she had left out. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t left her brush sitting on top of it. When she stepped out of the shower she was met only by a handle, surrounded by a molten puddle of plastic and rubber.
If this is how today is going to be, she thought to herself, maybe I should just go back to bed.
Mr. Hayes, who had gone down out briefly that morning, walked back into their bedroom and spotted Tracy sitting on the edge of the bed. Her hair was still wet and she wore a look of absolute defeat on her face.
"What’s wrong?" He looked around and sniffed dramatically, "And why does the whole house smell?"
Tracy sighed. She wanted to tell him about her concerns; wanted to be able to talk about her last vision. It was, of course, the whole reason why she couldn’t seem to get her head on straight. Who was that man? Could it have been Baxter? Though he was a famous chef, Tracy couldn’t remember his face. After all, today would be the first time that she would meet him in person.
But if she was to confess to the powers that she had, Mr. Hayes could find out about how their relationship really began, and that was something that Tracy wasn’t prepared to deal with. She stared down at the floor between her bare feet.
"Tracy?"
Mr. Hayes’ words snapped her out of the trance-like state that she was in.
"Yeah?"
He sat down onto the bed next to her and wrapped his arm around the plush cotton towel that she was surrounded in. His hand gripped her waist and pulled her in close without saying anything else. Tracy sighed and let her head fall down onto his shoulder.
The earthy, sweet scent of his cologne filled her lungs.
After several quiet minutes, Mr. Hayes cleared his throat and asked softly, "Seriously Tracy. What is going on? This has to be about more than just the restaurant."
His words made Tracy’s heart skip a beat. Could he know what was going on while she slept? Did he have any clue? She turned her eyes up, though she could only see the bottom of his jaw, and stared blankly at the light peppering of dark hairs. There was a tension growing between them because of the silence- her silence. She could feel it like the impending shock waves of an earthquake rolling up behind them. But, still, she couldn’t relent.
"Work," she said. "It’s just work."
Tracy could feel Mr. Hayes’ shoulders sink down ever so slightly in defeat.
"Okay," he muttered with an air of resignation. "I understand."
He stood up and walked out of the room with a big, damp circle on his tee shirt where Tracy’s head had been. She watched him go and nervously rubbed her thumb nail over the tip of her middle finger.
It was going to be a long day.
Over an hour later, and with only minutes to spare until Gordon Baxter was scheduled to arrive, Tracy stumbled through the restaurant’s back door with one arm full of papers and the other precariously balancing a paper bag of odds and ends. She hustled through and dropped everything on the long, sleek prep table to her left with a sigh.
"What a-"
The paper bag toppled over, sending dozens of glass salt shakers spilling out with an enormous clatter. Tracy reached out and grabbed one before it could hit the floor. Unfortunately, there were about five more that she didn’t have the reflexes- or the spare hands- to grab. They tumbled down, each one smashing down onto the tile in small, glittering explosion.
"Great. Just great."