Her Nocturnal Lover (Chapter Two, page 1 of 3)

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Eighteen hours later, Linda recovered from her hang over and took in her surroundings. She was in her bed.

'Goodness! How did I get in here?' She exclaimed as she jumped of bed immediately. She looked for her pass only to find it on the table with a lamp on. She switched it off and looked around in bewilderment. As far as she remembered, she possessed no memory of bringing herself home the night before except the fact that she'd take a cab and had a few drinks at the club Delavigne. Yes, only few drinks of course. She figured out in self-mockery. Surely they must have been vodkas instead of drinks and she frowned at the idea of it. Her parents must be mocking at her actions as well. She thought as she sat down in self-pity. What about last night? Had she blacked out? She wondered. Surely there must have been no way she returned home alone and even changed to a night dress. No memory of how she'd boarded a cab home, no memory of herself removing those stilettos, and no memory of herself removing the very sparkly dress she'd wore and going to bed. She caught of her shoes next to the table. Clean and organized. No! This was not her. She figured it out as her heart pumped more rapidly. She'd never entered this far with the shoes. She did not even keep them close to her bed. At least she would rather have left them at the door. The way everything was organized worried her. Her eyes shifted gaze in more bewilderment. There it was. A glass of water on the table covered with a serviette. This was surely not her! She lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip. Surely if this was a hater, he or she might as well have taken her life earlier when she'd blacked. Whoever it was anyway, she admired their courage.

"So if I am to die, I would rather die lucky! With a new admirer guardian angel trying to push my life in order."

She mumbled sarcastically, kicking her way around the room.

"Is anyone in here?"

Linda called as she moved down stairs, checking each and every other room for any traces of humanity.

Bill Mayan looked at his hand book as he sadly paced around the room. He was mad at himself. Mad for spending the last eight hours of his life thinking about last night's incidents and trying to erase the memory. The memory of a self-murdering beauty. He could not get the picture off his mind. He replayed the events in his mind while his feet paced around his twenty-four million-dollar corporate reading room.

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