When I Needed You Read online

  When I Needed You

  An Unlikely Love

  PART I

  TINA MARTIN

  Copyright © 2020 Tina Martin

  WHEN I NEEDED YOU

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  For Entertainment Only | Only for Ages 18+

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  Cover Design by Novel Tease Designs

  When I Needed You (An Unlikely Love, Part I)

  Synopsis

  Ahmalee Hayes’ world is interrupted when a homeless man loiters around her store – Ivy and Eden Candle Company. Just when the business owner thinks she’s run him away, he shows up at her door – not at the store again. This time he’s at her house! Can she see through the dangerous flames to lend a helping hand to a complete stranger or is the interaction too risky for the small-town candle maker?

  When I Needed You is Part I of a two-part story. It ends in a cliffhanger. Part II, When You Needed Me is the conclusion will be released July 31, 2020. I hope you enjoy this romantic suspense!

  WHEN I NEEDED YOU

  IVY + EDEN CANDLE COMPANY

  Welcome to Ivy and Eden Candle Company!

  Fill your home with the warmth and luxury of our scented soy wax candles.

  Fragrance Menu

  SWEET MORNINGS - coffee + hints of vanilla

  ENCHANTED - clean musk + soft floral notes

  WEEKEND VIBES – lavender + citrus

  TROPICAL STAYCATION – mango + hawaiian pineapple

  BREATHE DEEPLY & RELAX – spearmint + eucalyptus

  PAMPER ME PRETTY – lemongrass and black currant + patchouli and sugarcane

  SWEET SUMMER – watermelon + a splash of citrus

  SOOTHE MY SOUL – vanilla + lavender undertones

  WE LIKE TO PARTY – lime + hints of tequila

  PARTY IN A GLASS – merlot red wine + berry undertones

  THE BLACKER THE BERRY – blackberry

  VANILLA CUPCAKE vanilla bean + sugarcane

  ____________________

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ahmalee

  Out of all the little shops and boutiques sprinkled across this country, or let’s narrow it down even further to a state-level – of all the shops in North Carolina, he had to end up next to a dumpster behind my candle store. My little shop. Who is the he in question? I have no clue who the man is, but I know he’s been here before. I saw him last week, too, and I’m positive it’s the same guy. I looked him square in the eyes, catching their liquidy, golden troubled hue. I wanted him to know I saw him in case he tried to rob me or one of my employees – Sonji and Jamie-Lynn. I’d be able to give the police sketch artist a super-accurate description:

  Black male, late thirties to mid-forties, dirty trench coat (who wears a trench coat in the dead heat of summer besides somebody deranged?), matted hair and a dusty ol’ beard. He wears those fingerless gloves people wear when they lift weights. I’m not one for judging people by how they look, but everything about him screams, “Run for your freakin’ life!”

  And he’s behind my store…

  I don’t need this right now. I don’t need this ever. All I want to do is make candles and mind my business. I’m not bothering anyone, and I don’t want to be bothered. I called the police last Friday to report a strange man on the premises, but it’s the same ol’ thing with the cops. If there’s no crime, you’re wasting their time. I can only call them after I’ve been murdered, in which case that’s one less report they’d have to write up.

  I walk to the back exit of my shop and make sure the lock is secure for the millionth time. I don’t have the nerve to open the door again. He might still be back there. Lurking.

  “Is he still out there?” Sonji asks, bug-eyed. She looks rattled as she moves her dark brown, silky hair behind her ears, but not scared enough that she won’t show up for work tomorrow. In her words, she needs her coins.

  I shrug. “I don’t know if he’s still back there or not. He was back there at five-something. He should be gone by now,” I say, like I know the man’s schedule. I’m really just trying to keep Sonji calm. If her eyes get any brighter, I’m afraid they’d roll right out of their sockets. “He’s probably gone.”

  “Well, it’s time to pack it up, anyway. Let’s get out of here. I already put the candles out.”

  “Okay. Let me go ahead and lock this front door.” I make a mad dash to the door, turn the deadbolt and flip the sign from open to closed. Next, I remove the cash from the register. Customers rarely use cash these days and I used to leave what little cash we had in the register overnight, but since there’s been a lurker consistently hiding behind my store, I’ve been taking the cash home with me. Probably should’ve been doing that all along.

  Sonji has her purse on her shoulders, watching my every move. She’s ready. I’m holding her up. “Ahmalee, you ready, girl?”

  “One sec…let me get an envelope for this money.” I go to my small office at the back which also serves as our break room and take an orange envelope from the storage cabinet. I do a final inspection of what I call ‘The Lab’.

  I place the cash inside and stuff it into my purse. I emerge from the back room to find Sonji peering through the windows at the front looking for signs of the guy. It makes me pause for a moment and reflect on my store. My vision. My company.

  I used my entire savings to open this place – Ivy and Eden Candle Company – and I’m not one to brag but it’s one of the best gift shop boutiques around. I have people from Charlotte, Charleston, even towns north of here just across the North Carolina/Virginia State Line buying my handcrafted soy candles. I make them – come up with the fragrances – all right here in my store. Bottom line – I’m not about to let some criminal destroy what I’ve spent so much time building. I started this company when I was twenty-five. I’m almost thirty now. Ivy and Eden Candle Company is my livelihood. So far, it’s been good to me.

  “Ahmaleeeeee…snap out of it. Let’s go?”

  I come out of my trance. “Okay. I’m ready. Hey, you got your box cutter?”

  “Yep,” she says holding it up like a trophy. I have one in my hand, too, and I keep pepper spray in my purse. One can never be too safe, women especially. It doesn’t matter that it’s still daylight. People are bold these days and sometimes, you get caught slippin’ at the times you’d least expect it.

  I look outside and say, “All right…looks like the coast is clear.”

  After we step outside into a pocket of sweltering heat, I lock up and wiggle the knob for good measure. I scan the parking lot as we walk to our vehicles.

  “I’m in at noon tomorrow, right?” Sonji asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself until then?”

  The store opens at 10:30 and she knows I usually arrive at ten, hence her conc
ern. I’ll be there for two hours alone.

  “Yeah. I’ll be fine,” I tell her, but I’m already dreading it. What if the lurker is back and my box cutter doesn’t deploy properly? What if I end up spraying myself in the face with pepper spray accidentally and lurker dude gets the drop on me because of my own stupidity? There are too many unknowns. Maybe I shouldn’t be opening the store alone.

  From the outside, I take a moment to check the interior of my Sorento.

  Sonji peeps into her car, too.

  We’re doing our due diligence to stay safe. I’ve seen too many movies with killers pulling the hide-in-the-backseat trick to fall victim to that nonsense.

  Once everything checks out, I open the door.

  Sonji opens the driver door at her car and says, “See you tomorrow, Ahmalee. Be safe.”

  “You, too. See ya.” I get into my car at the same time she gets into hers. We leave the parking lot together. On the road, I’m behind her for a few minutes or so until it’s time to turn on the street that takes me to my humble abode in Knightdale, North Carolina.

  I pull up in the gravel driveway at my house. Most people will call where I live the country since it’s outside of the city limits, in an area tattered with beautiful oak trees that gives it a forestry feel. My neighbors own cows and horses. He has acres upon acres of land, guarded by white picket fences. I have a three-bedroom house with beige vinyl siding and burgundy shutters. There’s a one-car garage, a fenced-in backyard with a camper and a shed. I don’t have one of those fancy houses with a living room and a family room that flows into the kitchen. This house was built before the open-concept craze. Every room is closed off to itself and my living room is not a room where I showcase furniture. It’s a room that I use frequently – where I watch TV mostly, eat takeout, light candles, curl up on the sofa for a midday nap or post up with my laptop. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s home – a peaceful home I’ve created for myself – a place where I can shut out the world.

  I’m out of the car walking back toward the road where my mailbox is located. I gather the mail, flip through the bills and junk then walk to the front door. I take the four steps up to the wraparound porch (that I love, by the way) and when I insert the key into the deadbolt lock, I hear a male voice say, “Help me.”

  Startled, I turned back to find the source. Tucked between two shrubs is the trench coat lurker who I saw at my job! I scream in an otherworldly voice that has to be from an undiscovered planet. Mail goes flying everywhere like confetti and I almost break the key trying to unlock the door.

  The pit of my stomach drops. My heart is beating so fast and hard, I feel like it’s outside of my body. Tell you what, though – I’d rather die of a heart attack than get straight-up murdered at my own house.

  “Please, Miss…help me.”

  His voice is desperate and raspy – all the more reason for me to get this door open. When I’m able to – finally! – I step inside and slam it closed, locking the two deadbolts quickly like the next major serial killer is on the loose. I feel like I’m about to faint from fear. This man knows where I live? He knows where I live! He’s at my house? How does he know where I live? Has he been watching me? O-M-G! He’s been watching me!

  I rummage around in my purse for the pepper spray and after blowing the lint off of it, I practice my aim. I’ve never used pepper spray in my life. I don’t know how this thing works.

  Bang, bang, bang!

  He’s knocking on my door. I find my phone before yelling, “Go away! I’m calling the police!”

  “Please, don’t. Please. Miss, I just want something to eat.”

  “Yeah, I bet you do,” I mumble. “You ain’t about to get me with that.”

  “Go away,” I tell him again while trying to put some bass in my voice so he can’t hear my teeth chattering. Instead of calling the cops, I call Sonji.

  “Hey, are you home, girl?” she answers.

  “Sonji,” I say in a desperate whisper-scream. “He’s here!”

  “What?”

  “He’s here!”

  She snickers. “Why do you sound like that?”

  “Sonji, listen to me. He’s here!”

  “Who?”

  “That man who was hanging out by the dumpster. He’s here, Sonji.”

  “He’s at your house?”

  “Yes! He’s banging on my frigging door like he’s trying to serve a warrant. You don’t hear that? He’s literally hammering at my door, trying to kill me.”

  “Trying to kill you? Call 9-1-1!”

  “No. I gotta do something now. I’ll be dead waiting for the cops to get here. I have to find some weapons.”

  “Weapons? Be real, Ahmalee. What you gon’ do? Hit him over the head with a frying pan? You ain’t got no weapons. Oh, wait! You got mace! Where’s your mace?”

  “It’s in my hand!” I look down just to make sure it’s what I’m holding. This situation is happening so fast I can’t keep track of what’s what.

  “Okay. Aim and spray him!”

  “Sonji, to spray him means I would have to open the door and I’m not about to open the door! Plus, this mace is like two years old. It’s probably just a can of dusty air by now. I know what Imma do. I’m fenna get me a knife.”

  “Ahmalee!”

  “What?” I ask, running to the kitchen. I look through my junk drawer to find the butcher knife I keep hidden there. To my chagrin, it’s a lil’ rusty, but oh well. It can still slice and dice.

  “Call the cops now!”

  “No! I ain’t calling the police so they can roll up here and gun this man down.”

  “Didn’t you just say he was trying to kill you?”

  “Yes! I mean, no. He’s not trying to kill me.”

  “And you think stabbing him is better than calling the cops?”

  “Look—I ain’t trying to stab nobody. He said he was hungry, and he’s banging on the door and—uh—I don’t know what to do. Imma try to run him away somehow. Don’t call the police, Sonji. I got it handled.”

  “You got it handled? Are you crazy? All you got is an expired can of mace and those dull knives in your kitchen.”

  “I’m fine! I’ll call you back.”

  I hang up the phone. More knocks bruise my door. I was hoping he’d just go away. He ain’t showing no signs of leaving.

  Armed with my knife, I slide the pepper spray in my back pocket, return to the door and say, “Go away!”

  “Please, help me.”

  “I don’t know you, Sir. You need to leave now! The cops are on the way!”

  I lied, but he doesn’t know that. I’m just hoping it’s enough to get him away from my house. I assume it works when the knocking ceases. I wedge open the blinds. I don’t see him. Another thing I don’t see is all the mail I left on the porch. Did he take my mail?

  I suck in a breath and unlock one deadbolt, then the other. I drag the door open, looking to the right and the left. The guy is nowhere in sight. Next to the doormat, I see my mail stacked neatly in a pile. What is this? He gathered my mail for me? The gesture seems odd, but I don’t dwell on it. I take the mail, lock up again and call Sonji back. My hands are shaking so badly, I can barely press the dial button.

  “What’s happening? Are the cops there yet?” she asks frantically.

  “No. Calm down. He left. I didn’t have to call the cops. I made him leave,” I say like I’m proud of myself for successfully defending my home without no testosterone backing me up.

  “You should have called the police on him, Ahmalee. There needed to be a record of this incident not just for your safety but for all of us.”

  “Sonji—”

  “No, hear me out. First, this guy lurks around the shop, then he shows up at your house? He’s stalking you, Ahmalee! Shoot, he probably knows where we all live. How does he know where you live if he wasn’t a stalker? Hunh? I’ll tell you how. He’s been lying in wait, watching all of us, waiting to pounce. But I tell you one thing – I’m not about to get s
hmurdered.”

  “You’re not about to get what?” I ask, amused.

  “You heard what I said. Shmurdered. I heard Khalid say that one time.”

  Sonji is half-white and Indian, and she only dates black men. She’s been with Khalid for forever and I’m sure she’s picked up on black culture through association.

  I say, “Well, hopefully, he won’t be back now that he knows I’m not going to stand for this crap.”

  “Yeah and what if he comes right on back? O-M-G. We are so screwed. I bet you he’ll be at the store tomorrow.”

  I strain my eyes, looking through the blinds. My first thought about my stalker buddy is that he’s not a threat to me or anyone else. What kind of killer takes the time to stack someone’s mail in a neat, organized pile? Maybe he was just hungry like he said. I don’t tell Sonji this. I just try to respond with some assurance to settle her down a bit. I say, “He’s gone, Sonji. Don’t worry. If he comes back, I’ll call Knightdale’s finest and hope they show up. Now stop worrying. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Call me back if anything else jumps off.”

  I chuckle.

  “You laugh, but I mean it, girl. Call me back.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen. Go and enjoy your Friday night. Bye, Sonji.”

  “See ya tomorrow.”

  I take another peek, recheck the locks on the doors and windows. It’s only at this point I feel safe enough to take a shower. I take ol’ rusty with me and leave it on the vanity just in case. It’s not until I get out of the shower and apply my face cream that I hear the man’s voice again – only this time it’s in my head. “Help me,” he’d said. He wanted something to eat.