Artistikem

The Caregiver (Book 1 of The Caregiver Series) is now available in digital format! *confetti*

Here’s a description:

Scarlett Lang always dreamt of becoming an Interpol agent. When her hard work pays off and she’s given the chance to work as an undercover agent with London’s biggest drug lord, Armand Sayer, she can’t help being ecstatic about it.

She’s employed by Armand’s sister (to aid in his recovery from a gun attack) as both caregiver and bodyguard. Her resourcefulness in both areas helps her win much more than Armand’s trust, to the dismay of both his right-hand man and her ex-boyfriend / colleague.

As she makes her way into the business she swore to help tear down, she’s faced with the dilemma of choosing between being loyal to her profession or her heart. And we all know it can’t be both.

Get it here:

Smashwords and Amazon

Enjoy!

I was driving myself home after class the other night. It was around 9:30pm when I passed by one of those common accidents we’ve all seen happen inside the city: a car hit a lamppost.

As I was driving, I was talking to the hubby on my mobile (I use it in speaker so I have both hands on the wheel) and told him, “Oh! A car hit a lamppost near the FirstBank building in Muñoz Rivera Avenue.”

“Lampposts… those are tricky things. You do know how they work, right?”

“I think I do…”

“They have this thing for jumping in front of cars, right in the middle of the street, then they drag them back to their original place so it looks as if the car got out of the road and hit them. It all happens so fast the human eye can’t see it.”

“They’re kinda evil, aren’t they?”

“Very. I made dinner, are you near?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. See you in a bit.”

I fell very much in love with a boy one day,
he had brown eyes, brown hair, brown skin,
as if the Caribbean sun had painted him
with the sultriest color, if there has ever been.
He taught me how to stare,
of course I only knew I was doing it when he turned angrily at me;
he taught me how to sit,
sideways so I could pretend I was listening to the teacher while admiring him;
he taught me how fast my heart could beat.
Yet there was something he taught me that I can’t forget still,
that when someone hits your food tray from below,
meat patties fly high in the air and when they land on your uniform, they stick.

I’ve been a really bad blogger as of late. Twitter friends know I’ve been up to my head in school work and haven’t been able to blog in a while, so I thought it would be nice of me to post something I’ve been working on, since my brain’s too fried right now to come up with something clever enough to put here. So I’ll leave you with the second chapter of a story I finished some months ago and for which I’m writing a sequel during NaNoWriMo (not that it’ll be happening in 30 days but at least I’ve started it).

I want to thank my wonderful friend @showmyface for her support.

Chapter one can be found here: The Caregiver, Chapter 1

Chapter 2

    My first evening in Sayer’s mansion passed quietly and without much trouble. Helga came back with his meds, repeated a hundred times how his doctor, Dr. Hart, mandated to keep him in his bed at all times and showed me how he liked his tea made, for whenever George wasn’t available. Of course Mr. Sayer didn’t comply with the staying in bed part, so I let him be and went to sleep early.
    On my second day I met George, or should I say, saw George’s frown float around the house without having more than a “top of the morning” and an about face. The man with long arms and skinny fingers wouldn’t talk to me, or even look at me. At one point I tried to step in his way so he would have to at least stop one second and acknowledge my presence, however, it didn’t work, nothing did. By nightfall I had given up for the day and when Helga came by and asked me if I had met him I told her we had gotten acquainted quite well. If he didn’t want anything to do with me, I wouldn’t push him. He was only ten years younger than Sayer, so I had no intention of starting and argument with any of them.
    Late on the third day Helga brought a list of errands for me that Mr. Sayer dismissed the moment she was out the door. Finding myself without work in my new workplace, I retired to my room and went through my clothes, uniforms and the little things I had brought… for the hundredth time. This was going to be harder than I thought.
    It was around ten in the evening when I was wandering around the house and saw the lights in the office were on. I walked towards it like a moth to find Mr. Sayer sitting behind his desk talking on the phone. As soon as he saw me I tried to make my escape.
    “Scarlett?”
    He saw me. I froze, then decided that since he had called my name I couldn’t ignore him, so I turned on my heels to see him hang the phone and beckon me into the room.
    “You shouldn’t be walking around the house this late, Mr. Sayer.”
    “What other lies did my sister tell you? What else did she instruct you to prohibit me?”
    “Pretty much everything that isn’t you staying in bed the whole day.”
    He chuckled, finding it funny somehow, while I stood behind an elegant leather chair with my hands clutched to the seam.
    “As much as I love my sister,” he walked around the desk, “I can’t let her do this to me. She’s always been very possessive but this has gone too far,” he leaned back on the edge of the desk with his arms crossed over his chest, “that was why I asked her to find someone that could take care of me apart from George, so I could get her off my back.”
    “Whose instructions should I follow, then?”
    “When Helga is around you act as if hers, but really all I need is someone to be around so she stops harassing me about being ill and sleeping all day. You can do whatever you want, really, I have things to do and I must get back to them as soon as possible.”
    “I understand.”
    “Good to know that you do. Now, would you be nice enough to bring me some tea? I know I shouldn’t be asking you this but George is out and won’t be back until early morning.”
    “Yes, sir. I’ll be right back.”
    I ran quickly down the stairs to the first floor and made the tea as Helga instructed me. I took a lot of care on how I placed everything on the tray so I could keep them that way through the flights of stairs back to Sayer’s office.
    He waved for me to come in the moment I reached the door, all the while keeping an animated conversation with someone on the other side of the phone.
    “Call me if you make arrangements for next Thursday, Max. See you then.”
    “No wonder your sister is so worried about you. Making plans already?” I said as soon as he hung up.
    “You brought only one cup.”
    “The tea is for you, Mr. Sayer.”
    “Don’t you like tea? It’s very soothing, helps me sleep when I’m stressed.”
    “As a matter of fact I do like tea.”
    “Then,” he rummaged inside one of his desk’s drawers and took out another cup, “have it with me, it may be the first of many. How do you like this place so far?”
    “It’s a beautiful house. I like it very much,” I felt so at ease as he poured tea in both cups and slid one to my side of the desk that I was starting to talk to him like I would talk to a friend. I straightened my back in an effort to straighten my demeanor.
    “Are you keeping the job? You know you can walk out whenever you want if you don’t like it.”
    “I’ve been here for only three days and so far so good.”
    “I do hope you stay. This house feels so empty sometimes, it makes me want to get out running like a mad man. Sit down, you don’t want to drink your tea standing up.”
    “Yes, Mr. Sayer.”
    A noise came from a floor below, startling us both.
    “It’s too early for George to be back.” Another noise and Mr. Sayer left his seat and went to a window. “Drunk kids in the street.”
    He walked away from the window and back to the desk when another noise, this time louder and closer than the first, was heard. We exited the office together; I tiptoed while he tried to step very slowly so his shoes wouldn’t make a sound, and searched for the source.
    We kept looking down from the third floor to the second but saw nothing. Then I went into one of the bedrooms and saw a shadow by the window. Mr. Sayer tried to pull me back but I didn’t yield. What I did was pull a 22 mm gun from my pocket and quietly sidestepped close to the wall towards the window.
    The silhouette of a man came to view and I pointed my gun at it, ready to confront whoever was outside the glass and crawling on the walls of the house. I could feel my own panting as if the whole room was beating along with my heart, as if it knew that my finger was tightening its grip on the trigger little by little.
    “Don’t shoot the glass, it’s bulletproof,” Sayer whispered to my ear.
    Then the shadow disappeared and we both thought it was gone. When I turned around Sayer was right behind me, his whole body stiff and his hands making fists.
    “The drunken kids, I believe,” I commented sarcastically as I lowered my gun.
    “Where did you get that gun?”
    Then came the bang on a back door and I rushed into my room, pulled my luggage from under the bed and took out another gun, my handy 9 mm. When I came out of the room Sayer was emerging from his office with a 40 mm and was shocked to see me holding a different gun next to my face.
    The noise went off again and all shock was left behind as I hastened down the stairs. He stayed behind. Not that I cared, I had to check on whatever was happening before him.
    I strode across a hall into the kitchen and saw another silhouette through the glass on the back door. It froze, as if it was looking at me, before turning to run away. I shot once and the bullet bounced right off it, hitting a wall, a lamp.
    “Fuck!” I ducked until it stopped. The whole house was bulletproof.
    I unlocked the door and sped through the grass into the backyard while the silhouette kept running in zigzags, dodging my bullets. Then a second silhouette appeared out of nowhere and I could see the shiny metal gun glinting under the lampposts. Before I could shoot it, it was dead on the floor. I instinctively looked up and saw Sayer shutting a window on the second floor. This was my cue to go after the other one, the one that had stopped to see the fall of his companion.
    I ran towards it and managed to close the distance between us before it realized I was near. With its eyes still on the corpse, it pointed another shiny gun at me and squeezed the trigger once, missing me by inches. Not that it cared, because it was still standing in the same spot when I got dangerously near.
    “Who are you? What are you doing here?” It didn’t answer, so I pressed my gun to its temple, “answer me!”
    It dropped the gun, took off the black mask that covered its face and his white skin contrasted the black of his suit. It was a young man, probably in his twenties, the point of his nose was red and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
    “I’m new to this.”
    “Who sent you?”
    “I can’t tell.”
    “For fuck’s sake, just answer the fucking question!”
    “I can’t! They’ll kill my family.”
    I cackled like I hadn’t in a very long time, “they must be dead by now, and you’ll be dead also if you don’t answer me.”
    We both heard the steps of the limping Sayer as he slowly approached us.
    “Scarlett, go back inside!”
    “I’ve got it Mr. Sayer,” I turned to speak to him, “don’t worry,” and was startled by him shooting the guy before I did. The kid had picked up his gun and was about to shoot my flank without me noticing.
    “Get in!” Sayer roared, grabbing me by an arm and pulling me back into the house.
    His face was flushed, his brows furrowed and his eyes didn’t meet mine until we were in a study on the first floor where he pushed me to a chair, took my gun and his, placed them on a table and pulled out his mobile.
    “George, we have two dead squirrels in the backyard,” he said before hanging and turning back to me, “who are you?”
    His enraged eyes were peering into mine and I could feel the trembling creeping up from my feet, through my legs, my torso, down my arms and to my hands.
    He took his gun back from the table, cocked it and pointed it to my head.
    “My name is Scarlett Lang.”
    “Who sent you?”
    “I was recommended by Rafael Cisneros when your sister went to him searching for a caregiver,” I gulped before proceeding, “my grandfather owns the shooting range Cisneros uses to train his men.”
    “Cisneros? You know Cisneros?”
    “Yes. Adrian Lang is his name, my grandfather’s I mean.”
    The canon of his gun cut through the thickness of the air between us, dispersing it and redistributing it around the room as he pulled it away from me.
    “Helga,” he said to himself, “she means good but in her effort she has exposed me. There is no doubt someone sent those kids because she’s being followed.”
    My mouth felt dry, my heart was racing so fast I thought it would drill its way out of my chest.
    “She knows that you handle guns, doesn’t she?”
    “It was one of the requirements for hiring me, that I could help protect you. After the attack on you and your family she’s worried you’ll suffer another one.”
    “That is why I stayed here, to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Now tell me, are you even a real nurse?”
    “Yes, sir, I am.”
    “Well,” his face relaxed and with it my trembling disappeared, “those two were young and inexperienced, it won’t do much to see what the security cameras recorded, we stopped them on time,” he said as he looked round, then turned to me, “and our teas must’ve gone cold. If you ask me,” he gave me my gun back, “it’s time for bed,” and limped out of the room.
    “Night, sir.”
    “You can keep the job, Scarlett,” his voiced traveled through the hallway, “couldn’t have found a better match for this myself.”

Steven arrives at the park early the next morning, sits patiently on the same bench, and waits for Giana to show up. Over an hour later, she appears and sits beside him gasping for air.

“Sorry I’m late. I had to run,” she is quick to take two books from her bag and give them to Steven. “I brought two because I didn’t know what kind of poetry you liked best. One is a compilation of classic authors; the other has new ones, so you have a large selection to choose from,” she speaks fast, like in a hurry.

“Is everything all right? You sound aggravated,” Steven takes the books but keeps his eyes on her.

“Yeah, sure. Everything’s fine,” she smiles as her breathing normalizes.

“Boyfriend problems?” he chuckles.

“Nothing like that,” she laughs with him, “I’m better off alone for now.”

“Are you sure about that?” Steven gives her a mischievous smile as he starts sliding his fingers through the pages of the classic poetry book.

“More than sure. But let’s talk about something more interesting. Did you watch the news last night? There was this massive car crash…”

“I don’t watch the news,” he interrupts her, “and don’t want to hear about them.”

“Topic discarded,” Giana raises her eyebrows, “you must not be easy to put up with. People say the same about me.”

“I wonder why,” his sarcasm comes with another smile. “Would you like to join me for a stroll?”

She can’t suppress the huge grin that draws itself on her face. She is pleased to accept, and must contain her excitement when he shows some enthusiasm in their conversation.

“What about that guy? The one with the spike cuffs and biker boots?” Giana asks when the topic of finding her a boyfriend comes up.

“Spikes are a cover up for sissies,” his answer makes her giggle. “Look at that one,” he points at a young man jogging with headphones in his ears and muscular arms and legs, “young and fit.”

“Not my kind. Too much into his personal appearance.”

The trail leads them into an area where the trees get thicker and the shadows bigger.

“So,” Giana breaks a short silence, yielding to her curiosity, “do you still use your powers?”

“I’d prefer not to talk about that,” Steven walks with one hand in his pocket and the other holding the books, his sight on the ground.

“I suppose you do. I mean, you used them when my laptop slid off my lap.”

“That was just a reflex,” he tries to cut the conversation short, “and I would appreciate that you never mention it again.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that… it must be great to…”

“No,” he snaps, stops, and turns to her “it’s not good, it’s not great, it’s been a curse.” Steven’s face is flushed with anger, “I knew this would happen,” he mutters and starts walking away.

“What? That what would happen?”

She follows him through the field of trees. His long strides make it difficult for her to close the distance between them. She struggles to keep up with him until she can’t anymore. He is nowhere to be seen, everything around her is either brown or green. Looking round, she decides to walk back the same path they came when someone calls her name. Steven is there when she looks back but there is something different about him. The trees, the sky, even he looks brighter.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she smiles in relief.

He smiles back. “Thank you for the books, I will start on them as soon as I get home. They will be of great help to feel less lonely at night. But you know nothing about that.”

“I do. A lot actually.” His sudden change of mood, the new lightness in the atmosphere, his smile, it takes a moment for her to process it.

They start their way back through the woods, their steps landing softly over the beds of leaves.

“How come? Such a beautiful young woman?” he walks beside her, holding the books behind his back.

“I don’t consider myself to fit into the beauty standards.”

“You do for me. Many young men don’t have the slightest idea about real beauty.”

Giana glances up at him as soon as he says this, her spirit lifted by the moment. “Why are you suddenly so charming?” She stops when she’s able to see the bench in the distance.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been rude to you. There are things that I don’t like to talk about, things I’d like to forget.”

“It’s my fault. I won’t mention them again.”

“I know you won’t,” he puts a hand on her shoulder, sporting a tender look on his face. “After twenty-eight years of not having contact with people, you are the first person I’ve talked to. Now I seem to know why.”

“Why?” the obligatory question comes up her throat like an arrow.

“Because you need a friend,” his smile is warm and bright. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he adds, taking his hand back to his pocket.

All of a sudden, Giana feels as if she had been floating and her feet have landed back on the ground. Steven was touching her forehead with the tip of his fingers and is now pulling them back.

“Wait. What was that?”

He starts walking away.

“Wait!” Giana calls him back but is ignored.

At that precise moment, she remembers his most controversial superpower: the ability to project fantasies into people’s minds. Now she can’t make out what was real and what was a fantasy.

She lets him go with a sigh and watches him disappear in the horizon before heading to the park’s exit.

I proudly bear your fingerprints as scars on my skin. Scars of a war I didn’t know I was fighting, and couldn’t win. Your essence wrapped itself around me like a cloak, tied me in a thousand ways, with knots no one could ever undo. And yet, I wasn’t trapped, I walked freely.

Now you are sitting here, in front of me, sip by sip drinking your coffee, and I envy the way your lips touch the foam cup. I envy it to the point of wanting to rip it from your entwined fingers and throw it away into the loneliness I am sitting on. I want the cloak back on me, I want the knots to be tied again.

You sneer at me like I’m a stray animal you want to scare. I’m not a child, I know you too well. You sneer when you are uncomfortable, when someone is reading what is inside your mind. You sneer at me because you want me back, yet it is your pride that is building the wall between us, brick by brick, until I have to climb to get a peek of you down there, on the other side.

Climbing, a rope between my hands, pulling my weight upwards to get to the top. When I make it, you are casually sitting on the edge, one leg hanging, a burning cigarette in your hand. But there is no place for me on the ledge because your pride is already there, and it sneers at me, and it takes its foot to my head and pushes me down. You take the cigarette to your lips, like the coffee cup, and take a sip. Meanwhile, I’m kicked numerous times by your pride. I lose my hold on the rope and fall.

“Are you going to finish that?” You ask.

I feel the cup and learn my coffee is already cold.

You grunt. “We are finished. Get it in your head.” You sneer at me once more.

I nod, tears welling up, and watch you take off while your pride holds the door.

 

Oh dear, it has been too long since I posted something here. I am working on a story for posting, I am. I’ve just been really busy lately and unable to sit down an write a full story, just been doodling ideas and calling it a day.

But last night I got really good news! My first ebook ‘Four Short Stories by Artistikem’ is now available at Barnes and Noble. It was very exciting news I had to share with all of you. :D

Oh, and the book is free! So, if you live in the US (B&N download not available for International, US territories. Bummer.) you can get your copy there. If not, it is always available at Smashwords.

Koi