Don't Ever Tell. Brandon Massey

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СКАЧАТЬ started choking at one point. The whole time, you were screaming at a man. I know it was a man, because you called him a bastard.”

      The crease in her brow deepened. “I don’t remember that at all.”

      “Not at all?”

      She dropped her gaze, shook her head. “I have no idea who I could’ve been screaming at, either.”

      “Whoever it was, you were terrified of him.”

      Cupping the coffee mug in both hands, she shrugged.

      “Dreams are just…well, dreams,” she said. “They don’t always hold a meaning—sometimes they do, I admit, but not always. How many times have you had a dream about something that was totally make-believe?”

      “Pretty often. But you should’ve seen yourself, Rachel. I mean, you were really fighting.”

      “Did I kick the guy’s ass?” She smiled mischievously.

      “I don’t know. I woke you up. I was getting worried.”

      “You should’ve let me sleep through it. I would’ve finished kicking this mystery guy’s ass and then our conversation this morning would be, ‘Baby, you were beating the hell out of somebody in your sleep last night. Hope it wasn’t me.’”

      She was trying to make him laugh, and it usually worked. But he pursed his lips tightly.

      “I don’t know,” he said. “Thinking about how you were acting…it wasn’t funny at all. Even Coco was upset.”

      Sitting between them, Coco glanced from him, to Rachel, as if corroborating his story.

      “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else to tell you,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, it was just a meaningless nightmare that I can’t remember. That happens to everyone sometimes.”

      From her tone, he could tell she didn’t want to discuss the subject further.

      “Sure, okay,” he said.

      Coco whined to be picked up. Rachel plucked the little dog off the floor and cradled her in her arms, cooed to her softly.

      “Since we’re not sleeping in, I’ll get ready for work,” she said.

      “We can go back to bed. I can work later, no biggie.”

      “Nah, I better go.” She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss. “Busy time of year, baby. Sistas are beating our doors down with the holidays coming up.”

      He watched her return upstairs. The room was dull in her absence.

      His thoughts doubled back to their conversation about her nightmare, and the dream assailant. He didn’t know who the nightmarish figure might have been—but he knew one thing for certain.

      She had lied to him.

      4

      Rachel had lied to Joshua. Again.

      As quickly as possible, she left home. The longer she stayed in Joshua’s presence, the worse she felt about what she’d done.

      She backed her silver Acura TL out of the garage and drove away from the house, winding through the subdivision of spacious homes and winter-browned lawns. It was a quarter to seven, but the December sun was still in hiding. Although she loved the holiday season, she disliked the late sunrises at that time of year. A shower of sun rays as she drove to work might have lifted her spirits.

      Or perhaps not. She was burdened with such heavy thoughts that nothing might have improved her mood.

      Why had she lied to Joshua—again? He was kind, honest, and loyal, the kind of man she’d longed to meet and had doubted she would ever find. He deserved the best she could give him of herself. He deserved the truth.

      But the truth would break his heart.

      Last night’s dream was fresh in her mind. After she’d awakened, Joshua believed she had fallen back to sleep, but when he shut off the lights she’d lain awake for almost an hour, worrying.

      Worrying about him—the man whose name she dared not voice, not even internally, out of an almost superstitious fear that doing so would conjure him out of the ether like an evil spirit.

      But she’d received very disturbing news about him yesterday. News that had almost certainly brought about her nightmare.

      Don’t think about it, girl. Worrying never solves anything, does it?

      In typical Atlanta fashion, traffic was already heavy on Camp Creek Parkway, the four-lane road that snaked past their neighborhood all the way to the marketplace where her salon was located. Cars poured onto Camp Creek from intersecting streets that supported an ever-increasing number of residential communities.

      In her three years living in Atlanta, she had watched the south side transformed from vast acres of silent fields and undisturbed forests of pine and elm into the metro area’s hottest slice of real estate. Some people complained about the rapid pace of growth, but she welcomed it.

      It was easier to stay hidden in a heavily populated area.

      Stopping at a traffic light, she flipped down the sun visor and examined her face in the mirror. She wasn’t looking for flaws, and she wasn’t planning to apply makeup. She had been blessed with a blemish-free complexion that required only a light touch of cosmetics.

      Instead, she was inspecting her new look.

      Before moving to Atlanta, she’d worn contact lenses, instead of the thin frame glasses she now sported. Auburn was her natural hair color, and her lush mane had previously hung to the middle of her back. Upon relocating, she’d dyed her hair black and trimmed it to a cute, curly ’do.

      If someone who’d known her before she came to Atlanta saw her today, they wouldn’t recognize her. She hoped.

      Ten minutes later, she parked in front of her salon, Belle Coiffure. The name was French for “beautiful hairstyle.” She and Tanisha, her business partner, had opened the salon two years ago, and business had been booming from day one.

      Certain individuals from her past had doubted her abilities, had told her she’d never amount to anything on her own. As the saying went, living well was the best revenge.

      The Open sign was already aglow, the interior track lights shining brightly. When she pushed through the glass double-doors, she heard a gospel song by Mary, Mary rocking on the radio. Tanisha was organizing magazines in the waiting area—copies of Essence, Hype Hair, Gospel Music Today, Ebony, and other glossy periodicals.

      “Morning, Tee,” Rachel said. “I didn’t expect you to be here already.”

      “Hey, girl,” Tanisha said. “I’ve got a seven-fifteen. Otherwise, you know a sista wouldn’t be rollin’ in till eight.”

      Tanisha was a tall, light-skinned sister in her mid-thirties, with a sprinkle of chocolate freckles across her cheeks and a hairdo that changed weekly. This week, her brown hair was styled СКАЧАТЬ