Page 1 of Double Obsession

Chapter One

The hissing felines and whispers from her Savior quieted once Arkansas Buchanon became absorbed in the scroll.

She’d liked and commented—sometimes a half-dozen times—on every photo in Hunter Stone’s InstaFriend feed. It wasn’t his fault he hadn’t responded with words. He had so many fans to attend to—one point eight million, to be exact. So, she’d forgiven him for ignoring her each time he’d clicked the little red heart on her comments.

She smiled, recalling the three times she received his likes on her likes. The man was double Gs—gorgeous and generous.

The two-month-old post of him in a cowboy hat was still her favorite. The red and black flannel shirt hanging open, exposing his shaved chest, was to die for. She DM’d a message.

@HunterStone.You should do more cowboy photos.

She opened her journal, recorded the date, and wrote:Hunter Stone: It has been twenty-eight days since he liked my message on his cowboy photo. I sent him another message today.

She put down her pen and zoomed in on the post. First, she expanded and stared at his sapphire-colored eyes. His smile was next. Then his neck and shoulders. Her index finger caressed his tanned skin and freckles before touching the crescent-shaped scar on his chest.

Like clockwork, she examined his photos dozens of times a day, and still her body tingled. She tapped the matching birthmark on her cheek, giggled, then returned her attention to him.

Something smacked the kitchen window. Oh, well. She would not allow stone-throwing neighbors to distract her work.

She puffed on her cigarette, formed her lips into a little O, exhaled, and her troubles mixed with the smoke, dissipating into the air. Luckily, the aroma lingered. “Mmm.” If she closed her eyes it was almost if Grandmommy was still there.

She propped the cigarette against the rim of her grandmother’s old ashtray and moved on to a photo of Hunter with his black and white Border collie, Buddy. The measure of a man’s humanity was how he treated his pets, and he was so good to his pups.

Crocheting Lizzie, his Australian shepherd, a blanket for her second birthday was a fabulous idea. It would be pink and purple and so soft. She had already crafted a blue one for Buddy. Once she messaged Hunter that she had presents for his dogs, he would notice her. Maybe if she worked all day, she could finish the pastel-colored one before the next sunrise.

Crack!Another rock hit the window.

She closed her eyes and growled. Why did the rotten heathens insist on tormenting her? Something soft brushed her hand. She opened her eyes to swat a fluffy Persian from her work area.

The cat hissed and its claws scratched her forearm.

She didn’t have a chance to slap the beast before it jumped off the table. Its hair formed spikes, and it screeched as it skittered across the orange linoleum.

Crack!

Arkansas took her time pushing her arthritic body to stand. She lifted the lace curtain, scanned the street, growled, then lumbered to the front door.

Normally she peeked through the peephole before opening to the outside world. There were a lot of crazies out there, so one couldn’t be too careful. At that moment, anger overrode caution, so she flung the door wide.

Three monsters carrying skateboards stood in her front yard.

“Hey, psycho bitch, I know you have my cat,” called the pre-teen in the baseball hat and baggy jeans.

“Get off my lawn. I’m calling the police if you don’t leave me alone!” The spittle flying from her mouth landed on her cheeks, chin, and forehead.

“Call the cops, you fucking nutball. Maybe they’ll lock you away.”

Her teeth and fists clenched, she slammed the door. It had been an idle threat since the police tended to side with the riffraff destroying her neighborhood.

Which cat was his?

She’d been a bit inconsistent with her pills the past week. Why pay extortion-high prices when they messed with her body and destroyed her concentration? Besides, she was brilliant and creative the days she wasn’t drugged.

Limping around the living room, she checked on her companions.

The white cat perched on a yellowed doily that her grandmother had draped over the back of the couch. A scrawny tortoiseshell-looking thing purred from the broken recliner. Her favorite was the fat Figgy, who made eye contact, then yawned and stretched. The one with silver eyes strutted across the coffee table, pawed at the video game controller, then hopped right over it. The leap was so graceful that Arkansas clapped.

These four had been with her since they were kittens. Hadn’t they? The evil pharmaceuticals chipped at her memory.