Categories > Original > Romance > A Garrett for Christmas
A Garrett for Christmas
0 reviewsThis is my Christmas story releasing soon in a Stonehedge Publishing anthology to be offered free for the holiday season. The hero is a modern Garrett, a current descendant of the Garrett dynasty ...
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A Garrett for Christmas
Wyland, FL
End of November
CHAPTER ONE
I had become hopelessly, pathetically and perhaps even criminally obsessed.
He moved into the apartment above me three weeks ago. The day Carlos, the complex manager, showed Him the unit, I sat at the window in my ground level place, having the worst pins-and-needles sensations in my legs I had suffered in months. The pain vanished as I watched them, or rather Him, approach the stairs. He towered. I estimated he stood six and a half feet tall, weighing maybe two-sixty or seventy. Wide shoulders, long limbs, narrow hips. All a lean, hard, muscular example of genetics gone so right.
He had the most glorious dark gold skin and hair, pale blue-green eyes. In contrast, the short, neat beard and mustache, as well as his straight eyebrows and long lashes stood out as almost black. His face made me nearly hyperventilate. A high forehead, tip-tilted eyes, slanting cheekbones, a fiercely straight nose and implacable jaw line captivated me. His deeply waving, leonine hair, he wore in a ponytail at his strong nape.
That day he wore black leather pants and jacket. He had shed the jacket and hung it over the back of a big sinister-looking motorcycle. I had shivered seeing the exposed muscles left to the eyes by his gray tank top.
I admitted to my shameful activities, knew my sneaky campaign wrong. As I levered myself from wheel chair to bed, I prepared to conduct my recent nightly ritual. I landed on the mattress with much effort, hauled my disobedient legs closer to my body.
A bicycling accident had injured me at age sixteen. It damaged key nerves in my spine and disrupted communication to my legs. I could stand briefly and move them if the weight of my body did not interfere. But, I could not walk.
Thus, ensconced in my bed, I arranged my ill-gotten documents.
First, the financial group’s offer. Mr. James Langford Garrett’s pre-approved $600, 000 mortgage offer with an additional credit card limit set at $400,000. Then, the postcard from the Caribbean. Cousin Sam, a girl wreck diver.
Lang,
Tangled with a shark bigger than the one that circled you when we dove the Barrier. Miss you each time I’m under, you bastard.
I love you, coz.
Best,
SG
Then the letter from a salvage company based in Miami.
Mr. Garrett,
Your claim on the Loyal Lady is approved and logged. Best of luck with the operation. We shall conduct all further correspondence and relations with your lawyer.
Regards,
Mitchell L. Thesby
Glades Salvage
I moved my hand to the piece of mail from a headhunter.
Mr. Langford Garrett:
Our recruiters have become aware of your experience and success with dangerous underwater recovery projects. We would very much like to retain your services. Please reply with most current contact info, that our team may begin negotiations.
Best,
Frank Wald
HR Department
Worldwide Services, Inc.
Every night I sat and stared at these pieces of the puzzle. Why did this larger-than-life man settle in a quiet, central Florida college town? And, in a quaint apartment complex in an historic district? I longed to know everything about him. Even though, I accepted I would never know him.
I would listen to his steps and agonize over his comings and goings. The engine of his motorcycle would wake me from a sound sleep. How could a human even possess such perfection?
Putting away the precious papers, I reclined and closed my eyes. It mattered little how I longed for Him.
James Langford Garrett operated far outside my limited life.
The following day, I rolled myself out. It required a moment to lock my place. Then, I paused by the mail boxes. His brimmed with envelopes. I gawked at them, wondering what I missed.
From the balcony above, a female voice drifted down. “You suck at stealing, 112.”
I jumped in my chair. Gazing up, I saw the tall, black-haired female I called ‘Gothic’. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She leaned over the balcony. Dark blue eyes trained upon me, she smiled. Her long, ridiculously, thick hair swung forward. “You have filched that man’s mail repeatedly.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “I’ve no idea of what you speak.”
Gothic chuckled. “Yeah, princess. Keep telling yourself that.”
I turned my chair and attempted to roll away to avoid further contact. I heard her gallop down the concrete stairs like a thoroughbred. “Hey, chicken shit! Cripple!”
I froze, insulted and embarrassed.
“Yeah, you, pansy-ass roll girl!”
I spun around, tears burning my eyes, throat closing.
She put her blue-nail polish sporting hands upon the arms of my wheel chair. Leaning close, she demanded, “You wanna bag this man or play the martyr?”
I blinked, suddenly understanding she wished to help. “He’s too far beyond me.” Sniffing, I added, “I don’t even know your name.”
She smiled, offering her hand. “Cease fire with the snivel, crip. Pierce Jordan. Resident enigma and rude neighbor.”
I accepted her hand. “Annie Taylor. Resident chicken shit crip.”
Pierce tossed her black hair over her shoulder. “You know I didn’t mean that crap, 112.”
I sniffed. “Now I do.”
She stood straight and placed her hands on her hips. Pierce had a great body: tall, rich in bone and muscle. I envied her stature. “You just have a tragically wide ‘good girl’ streak. Fixable.”
Unsure of her motivation, I inquired, “You care why?”
She smiled. “No clue. I don’t ask myself those questions. If I wanna, I wanna.” She reached up to adjust the tiger’s eye pendant she wore on a chain around her neck. Black tattoos of sun and stars circled her wrists. More symbolic than artistically correct, they suited her.
Smiling, I replied, “In that case, what can you teach me about stealing?”
Wyland, FL
End of November
CHAPTER ONE
I had become hopelessly, pathetically and perhaps even criminally obsessed.
He moved into the apartment above me three weeks ago. The day Carlos, the complex manager, showed Him the unit, I sat at the window in my ground level place, having the worst pins-and-needles sensations in my legs I had suffered in months. The pain vanished as I watched them, or rather Him, approach the stairs. He towered. I estimated he stood six and a half feet tall, weighing maybe two-sixty or seventy. Wide shoulders, long limbs, narrow hips. All a lean, hard, muscular example of genetics gone so right.
He had the most glorious dark gold skin and hair, pale blue-green eyes. In contrast, the short, neat beard and mustache, as well as his straight eyebrows and long lashes stood out as almost black. His face made me nearly hyperventilate. A high forehead, tip-tilted eyes, slanting cheekbones, a fiercely straight nose and implacable jaw line captivated me. His deeply waving, leonine hair, he wore in a ponytail at his strong nape.
That day he wore black leather pants and jacket. He had shed the jacket and hung it over the back of a big sinister-looking motorcycle. I had shivered seeing the exposed muscles left to the eyes by his gray tank top.
I admitted to my shameful activities, knew my sneaky campaign wrong. As I levered myself from wheel chair to bed, I prepared to conduct my recent nightly ritual. I landed on the mattress with much effort, hauled my disobedient legs closer to my body.
A bicycling accident had injured me at age sixteen. It damaged key nerves in my spine and disrupted communication to my legs. I could stand briefly and move them if the weight of my body did not interfere. But, I could not walk.
Thus, ensconced in my bed, I arranged my ill-gotten documents.
First, the financial group’s offer. Mr. James Langford Garrett’s pre-approved $600, 000 mortgage offer with an additional credit card limit set at $400,000. Then, the postcard from the Caribbean. Cousin Sam, a girl wreck diver.
Lang,
Tangled with a shark bigger than the one that circled you when we dove the Barrier. Miss you each time I’m under, you bastard.
I love you, coz.
Best,
SG
Then the letter from a salvage company based in Miami.
Mr. Garrett,
Your claim on the Loyal Lady is approved and logged. Best of luck with the operation. We shall conduct all further correspondence and relations with your lawyer.
Regards,
Mitchell L. Thesby
Glades Salvage
I moved my hand to the piece of mail from a headhunter.
Mr. Langford Garrett:
Our recruiters have become aware of your experience and success with dangerous underwater recovery projects. We would very much like to retain your services. Please reply with most current contact info, that our team may begin negotiations.
Best,
Frank Wald
HR Department
Worldwide Services, Inc.
Every night I sat and stared at these pieces of the puzzle. Why did this larger-than-life man settle in a quiet, central Florida college town? And, in a quaint apartment complex in an historic district? I longed to know everything about him. Even though, I accepted I would never know him.
I would listen to his steps and agonize over his comings and goings. The engine of his motorcycle would wake me from a sound sleep. How could a human even possess such perfection?
Putting away the precious papers, I reclined and closed my eyes. It mattered little how I longed for Him.
James Langford Garrett operated far outside my limited life.
The following day, I rolled myself out. It required a moment to lock my place. Then, I paused by the mail boxes. His brimmed with envelopes. I gawked at them, wondering what I missed.
From the balcony above, a female voice drifted down. “You suck at stealing, 112.”
I jumped in my chair. Gazing up, I saw the tall, black-haired female I called ‘Gothic’. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She leaned over the balcony. Dark blue eyes trained upon me, she smiled. Her long, ridiculously, thick hair swung forward. “You have filched that man’s mail repeatedly.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “I’ve no idea of what you speak.”
Gothic chuckled. “Yeah, princess. Keep telling yourself that.”
I turned my chair and attempted to roll away to avoid further contact. I heard her gallop down the concrete stairs like a thoroughbred. “Hey, chicken shit! Cripple!”
I froze, insulted and embarrassed.
“Yeah, you, pansy-ass roll girl!”
I spun around, tears burning my eyes, throat closing.
She put her blue-nail polish sporting hands upon the arms of my wheel chair. Leaning close, she demanded, “You wanna bag this man or play the martyr?”
I blinked, suddenly understanding she wished to help. “He’s too far beyond me.” Sniffing, I added, “I don’t even know your name.”
She smiled, offering her hand. “Cease fire with the snivel, crip. Pierce Jordan. Resident enigma and rude neighbor.”
I accepted her hand. “Annie Taylor. Resident chicken shit crip.”
Pierce tossed her black hair over her shoulder. “You know I didn’t mean that crap, 112.”
I sniffed. “Now I do.”
She stood straight and placed her hands on her hips. Pierce had a great body: tall, rich in bone and muscle. I envied her stature. “You just have a tragically wide ‘good girl’ streak. Fixable.”
Unsure of her motivation, I inquired, “You care why?”
She smiled. “No clue. I don’t ask myself those questions. If I wanna, I wanna.” She reached up to adjust the tiger’s eye pendant she wore on a chain around her neck. Black tattoos of sun and stars circled her wrists. More symbolic than artistically correct, they suited her.
Smiling, I replied, “In that case, what can you teach me about stealing?”
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