The Choice

Chapter 2, The Choice

Chapter Two

Marcie trailed the other passengers off flight 918 into the main terminal of the New Orleans airport. Her eyes were lowered, shutting out everyone around her. She strode at a steady clip, dressed in her favorite Levi's, the jeans that attracted a man's eye to her rounded bottom. Her tan blouse shimmered over her pert, shapely breasts; the size a guy could fit nicely into the palms of his hands. She rubbed her forehead, reminding herself that she had no need to paint her face as other ladies chose to. Marcie rarely shed the healthy glow from her days spent outdoors, but that was where her comfort ended. She claimed a spot in the middle of the pack, behind a wide lady sporting a navy suit, doing her damnedest to blend in.

How low have you sunk? Marcie cut off the cruel, persistent voice prodding her conscience. During the cramped four-hour flight from Seattle, her face had heated each time her toe touched the backpack she'd stuffed under the seat in front of her. She'd refused a drink, but her tightly wound nerves could have used a stiff shot. Instead, she'd suffered in misery, wondering how she'd made it this far. Dan told her it'd be easy—so far, so good.

She needed to shake off her anxiety to enjoy her first visit to this vibrant city, one she'd dreamed of experiencing for years. New Orleans was famous for its mouth-watering cuisine, jazz musicians, and Creole culture. Marcie was, more than a little, intrigued with the voodoo legends that had sparked the imaginations of many a writer, with the unexplained chills and the auras in graveyards and buildings; this was the most spellbinding haunted city. Marcie remained determined to experience all of it firsthand.

How much farther? The drop-off had to be close.

Heaviness weighed down her heart when Dan's face entered her thoughts again. If only he'd come, this trip would have been perfect. She knew he'd share her excitement for the gifts and mysterious secrets New Orleans was famous for. But he hadn't come, and this wasn't the first, or even the second, time he'd gone off and left her alone.

This roller coaster of emotions, one that she experienced only with him, had now left her on the downswing, as was usual when distanced from Dan. She shook her stubborn head to get him out of her thoughts. He wasn't here, but he had a way of slipping in to disrupt her peace of mind at least twenty or thirty times a day. He was an addiction that consumed her, making her want to do anything for him, and she did. But the one thing she wouldn't do was give him Granny's place on Las Seta.

Her days had shifted down a steady slope of turmoil—just so she could have him in her life. This was crazy.

Nevertheless, there were boundaries, and, right now, she knew deep down that she needed to establish them. She could no longer ignore the volatility of this relationship, nor how she had willingly gotten on the plane for him. "Let it go, let it go," she whispered under her breath, keeping her head down while walking with the other passengers through the terminal.

Her heart pounded in excitement when she rounded the bend. She could see the silver luggage conveyance contraption and the back wall of baggage claim. Was anyone watching? She needed to look closer but feared being too obvious. Think of something else ... Emeril's restaurant! She gave herself a discreet high five, and a weight lifted inside her. For the first time since leaving Seattle, she felt lighter. Should she call Dan? No. Why did he continue to slip into her head?

Almost done. Peace, blessed peace, blossomed in her heart. Marcie offered thanks to her angels for guiding her safely through.

She glanced at a magical, jazz mural exploding with vibrant color. It drew her into the rhythm and music that pulsed to life in the vivacity of the art. Marcie loved art, but then, she had grown up around the artists who sojourned on Las Seta.

Overhead, a saucy Cajun lilt announced incoming and outgoing flights, and it melted the tension in her stomach a little more.

Then everything went into slow motion. One moment, she clutched the black and red knapsack over one shoulder, and the next, she felt a cut, a snag and a pull at the same time that a large, rough hand shoved her. Unable to stop the momentum and regain footing, she went down in a hazy blur. Her ears roared. Her blood pounded through her veins. She felt nothing when she smacked her head on the hard concrete floor.

Her ears rang and her vision blurred. She struggled to focus on the maze of faces wreaking havoc on her overloaded senses, but she couldn't think. As she pushed herself up, she started to sway to some indistinguishable hum buzzing in her head. She shifted her bottom on the cool floor and balanced on a shaky arm to keep from tipping over.

What happened? She couldn't think. The downy hairs on the back of her neck spiked with icy unease, adding to her discomfort. Something remained vaguely out of reach, an ache. When it hit, it became a ripe sting burning the side of her head. She couldn't understand what she was looking at—her hand, and it was streaked with blood.

Voices, sounds, chaos existed in slow motion, like a puzzle in her brain. A strong hand grabbed her shoulder. Another touched the side of her face. At first, she gazed unseeing, then blinked. A crowd gathered close behind the rough, unshaven face of a stranger who resembled a fallen angel. He peered into her eyes. His full, firm lips moved, but she couldn't make sense of the rumbling sound. He turned away. This time, she heard his smooth, smoky voice shout out to the crowd of bodies behind him.

What was it about this man with his shabby, light hair? Even his intense blue eyes appeared tired, with lines of life that deepened his godlike appearance. Did she know him? There was something familiar about him. She wanted to trust him.

"Ouch." She flinched when he touched her head. Her brain blanked out. "There's blood on my hand." She hadn't meant to speak, but her voice cleared away the fog and piercing ring buzzing in her ears.

"Your head's bleeding. You've got a big gash. It's going to need some stitches. What's your name, sugar?"

She liked the honeyed richness in his voice, except something worried her, and she didn't know why. "Marcie, ah ... what happened?"

"Don't you remember?" He watched her again in a way that made her want to reach out and touch him. He seemed nice. She liked him. Maybe it was his husky southern drawl, or maybe the concern this good-looking stranger had showered over her.

Marcie reached up to touch her head. The stranger quickly grabbed her hand.

"No, Marcie, don't touch."

"Oh."

He pressed something against her head, bringing on a wave of dizziness. She wanted to lie down and close her eyes, but when the room tilted out of control, she grabbed his shirt instead.