Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

  “Lots of things.” He lifted his eyebrows twice and chuckled. But then he became serious, looking at me intensely. “What makes me craziest is not knowing what you’re thinking or feeling and, even more than that, why you don’t tell me.”

  I looked back into those beautiful hazel eyes, the gold sparkling but not as bright as usual. It made me sad.

  “Do I get points for that?” I asked, trying to reroute the conversation and keep it light. “You just told me something about you.”

  “Doesn’t count. I’ve told you that before.” He smiled but the gold in his eyes didn’t sparkle any brighter.

  “So what’s the score?” I desperately tried to prolong the superficial talk, avoiding the dive he apparently wanted to take into my head and heart.

  “Don’t worry. You’re winning.”

  “Ha! Then you’re a terrible scorekeeper.”

  “I’ll admit to that when it comes to you, but why do you say so?”

  I thought about it for a minute. It seemed we both felt that we knew very little about each other. So how can we have such a strong connection like we do? It felt like more than lust but . . . was it?

  “Let me ask you a question,” I finally said. “If you had to introduce me to someone, how would you do it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what would you say, exactly?”

  “This is my sexy Lexi . . . ?” He grinned.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Ma lykita? Is that better?”

  “I don’t even know what it means.”

  “Right.”

  “And?”

  He shook his head, the smile still on his lips. “Nope. My secret.”

  I groaned. “Fine. Then be serious. I’m going somewhere with this . . . and I promise you’ll get something out of it, too.”

  “Okay . . . I’d say, ‘This is Alexis, my girlfriend.’ Is that what you mean?”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled. I got hung up for a moment on the word “girlfriend.” I’d never been anyone’s girlfriend. Isn’t that what I want? I smiled. “Okay, now what if you were telling someone about me? What would you say?”

  “Ah, that would be easy.” He ran his hand through my hair and brushed it along the side of my face. “Long, coppery hair that shines in the sun; soft, smooth skin that feels like silk; big, beautiful, brown eyes that pull you into their gaze; and a hot little body that I’d like to get to know.”

  His eyes glinted with mischief. I picked up the throw pillow and tossed it at him.

  “Really? If someone asked you what I was like, that’s what you would say?”

  “Oh, no. Sorry. That’s what I think every day about you. But I wouldn’t want anyone else to be thinking about you like that.”

  I shook my head. “If you won’t take me seriously, I won’t tell you what I was thinking.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I mean it.” He took a moment to think. “I would tell them that you’re a beautiful, smart, kind, independent young woman with a good sense of humor and a laugh that makes my heart soft; who likes to go to the beach, cook, read and watch vampire movies but is self-protective. And I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, but I think there is a reason for that shell you have around you, that you have experienced betrayal and have a difficult time trusting people.”

  Bam! Hit the nail on the head! So, although I was good at hiding my feelings and thoughts, I was, at the same time, transparent. I looked away from him, sure he could see everything in my eyes. I stared down at the couch cushion instead, studying the lines and wrinkles in the brown leather.

  That last statement sounded as though it made him sad or worried . . . like he truly cared.

  My heart balanced on a fulcrum, teetering one way and then the other. Which was better? Not sharing the real, whole me with him and enjoying this charade of a relationship, which would eventually end anyway because it was based on lies—his, mine and my mom’s? Or giving my whole self to him and taking the chance he’d run from the freak show? And what if he did stay? Is that what I really wanted?

  “Ah, I think I’m on to something,” he said, again sounding sad. “You’ve been hurt. And I will accept that as part of you.”

  I blinked back the tears pooling in my eyes, refusing to let them fall. I continued staring at the couch cushion and whispered, “You don’t have to.”

  He took my hands in his. “But I want to, Alexis. I want to be with you, shell and all. I hope one day I’ll be the chink that cracks your shell and I’ll know all of you. I won’t push you, though. It’s up to you. But it pains me to think of someone else getting in there.”

  “And if you don’t like what’s in here?” I could hear the edge in my tone.

  “Is that what you’re afraid of? That I won’t like you?”

  I didn’t answer, didn’t even acknowledge the question.

  “Ah, I see.” He leaned his head down, his lips against my ear, and whispered, “It’s a little too late for that.”

  I finally looked up at him and he shrugged.

  “I already know the kind of person you are and that’s all that matters to me. I have my own issues and yours can’t be any worse. Trust me. Unless . . .” He pulled back and lifted an eyebrow. “You’re not really a guy in there, are you?”

  I smiled. “Not the last time I checked.”

  “Because that would cross my line. Anything else . . .” He shrugged again. “I can handle.”

  He must have seen the doubt in my eyes.

  “The last thing I want to do is hurt you, Lex. Please trust me.”

  His eyes delved into mine, searching deep for something buried under layers of betrayal and pain. As I looked back into his beautiful eyes, I knew I didn’t want to push him away. But what he asked for . . . I didn’t know if I had it to give.

  “The problem with trust,” I said slowly, deliberately, “is that you don’t know that it’s broken until it is, when it’s too late.”

  “But you can’t know that you can trust me until you try,” he countered.

  “Everyone I’ve ever trusted has betrayed me in a very big way, except Sophia.”

  “And when will you realize that I’m not everyone else?”

  I already knew, at least to some extent. But just because he was different than most people didn’t mean he could accept my differences.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I need more proof?”

  “Ah. Okay. So, my goal will be to build your trust in me, one little piece at a time.” He lifted my chin with his thumb so we were looking eye-to-eye again. “Will you let me do that?”

  As I looked into his eyes, my heart stopped teetering and tumbled over. I hadn’t realized it before, but I knew now. He’d already cracked my shell and eventually he’d make the whole thing crumble, leaving every bit of me exposed for his scrutiny. And I would let him and just have to deal with the consequences. I wanted to take the risk that came with trusting him, even knowing if he turned out to be like all the others, it would be the worst pain I’d ever experienced. He’d already settled too deeply into my heart. He’d snapped himself into place with each of those little clicks I’d felt over the past two months.

  It went against everything I knew was for my own good, but I could feel a tugging deep down that I needed to do this. That it was right. We needed to dispose of the lies. If he was willing to do one piece at a time, I could handle that.

  “Baby steps?” I whispered.

  “Baby steps,” he agreed.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So I still owe you.”

  “You just gave me more than I thought I would get in months.”

  Months? Am I really that bad?

  I shook my head. “No, there are rewards I promised and I’ll deliver. Besides I don’t want you to think I was fishing for compliments. I was just trying to understand exactly what you know about me—or what you think you know about me, anyway. So, I’m going to tell you now what I know about you.”

  “A
s if you’re telling someone about me?”

  “Yep. So . . . I would say you are a sweet, funny, considerate, fun, intelligent, multilingual gentleman who is good at math and likes to cook, ride motorcycles and watch sunsets on the beach—”

  “Sounds like a personal ad.” He chuckled. “Except for the math part. That’s not very sexy.”

  I smiled—even that part was sexy about him—and held up my hand. “Wait, I’m not done. I know you, too, have a difficult past that you won’t talk about. But, unfortunately, that’s about all I know about you. And that’s why you’re winning.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but I held my hand over it.

  “But I do know other things,” I said. “Things I wouldn’t tell anyone else . . . things like how my heart dances when you just look at me a certain way or, God forbid, wink . . . or how it feels like an exciting current flows under my skin when you touch me anywhere—” I picked up our clasped hands—my right, his left—and brushed the inside of my other wrist with his fingers and said, “But especially here.” I brought his hand to my neck. “And here.” To my ear. “And here. And—” I slid the tips of his fingers along my lower lip. “Here.” I took a breath and smiled. “Now, for all the bonus points you get for learning what I like, I think you just racked up another fifty or so.”

  He held the back of my hand to his lips as he considered this, the gold flecks shimmering in his eyes. “You’re right. I owe you. Ask me anything and I will tell you.”

  A hundred-and-one questions flew through my mind. The most guarded answers, I was sure, had to do with the conversation between him and my mom, what he knew, how he knew, who he really was. Answering those honestly will be the ones that would truly gain my trust. But those weren’t baby steps and if I expected baby steps, I would give them, too.

  “What do you do? I mean, when you’re not with me or at school. Do you have a job?”

  “Hmm . . . not really a job, but I have plenty to do. I do some, uh . . . consulting . . . and use that money to play the stock market. I’ve built up a decent portfolio. It allows me to buy toys.” He grinned. “And I do some computer programming for a couple of software companies. It’s all stuff I do at home, mostly. And I indulge in Aikido.”

  “Eye—what?”

  “Aikido. It’s a form of martial arts. I use it to practice self-control.”

  “Really?” I thought of the wife-beater. “You have control issues? Never would have thought . . .”

  “Ha ha,” he replied with matching sarcasm. Then he frowned. “Actually, I had quite a bit of control the other day. I was angry, but I was fully aware of what I was doing. Otherwise, I might have just killed the lowlife.”

  A chill ran up my spine and I fought back the shudder. I knew he wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—killed the creep . . . but, with his football-player build, he was fully capable of doing some serious damage.

  “Your Aikido must be working, then. That’s the only time I’ve seen you come close to being anything other than calm and cool.”

  “Hmm. Ironic. Because when I’m around you is when I need more control than ever . . . because I really want to lose it with you.” The tone was serious but a smile played on his lips. I didn’t know what to make of it. Then I remembered the fire in his eyes and the controlled breathing every time we kissed. I had a hint of understanding.

  “But if it’s practicing self-control, how is that an indulgence?”

  “Because I spar and that’s fun.” He grinned.

  “Spar, as in fighting?” I asked, my stomach clenching.

  “You want to come watch sometime?”

  “Ugh. No, thanks, I’ll pass on that one.”

  “So . . .” He lowered his voice to its most irresistible. “Do I get to ask a question?”

  I narrowed my eyes, wanting to tease him about how much I’d given him tonight. But he said baby steps and I had to trust that’s what he had in mind—so, it couldn’t be too bad. I nodded.

  “What do you do when I’m not around? I know you don’t work at the store all that often. So either you’re mooching off Sophia or you’re doing something else.”

  Okay, maybe kind of bad. But of all the things he could have asked, this was probably the safest—not about my past, my mom or any big secrets—but it was still uncomfortable. It was one thing for him to know I wanted to be an author. It was a whole different thing to admit I was actually doing it when it would likely be an epic failure. No, not bad, just personal . . . but that’s okay.

  “Actually, both. I’m writing a novel. Sophia thinks it’ll get published and she’s paying my way so I can write and still go to college.”

  “Wow. A novel, huh? That’s impressive.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t get too impressed. It’s not even done yet.”

  “Can I read it?” he asked eagerly.

  I thought of the childhood game, Mother May I, and felt like he asked to take one giant leap forward when he was only allowed baby steps. If I gave him my writing, I may as well give him my whole soul. I didn’t let anyone read most of my writing, not even my mom. Her assertion of my talent was based on essays and short stories I’d written for school. Sharing the outline with her had been difficult. Letting go of the actual book would be a huge leap. I knew I’d have to take it eventually, but not yet.

  “Hmm . . . baby steps, okay?” I answered.

  “Okay,” he agreed.

  Baby Steps was the game we played every day for weeks. He got a question and I got a question. They often led to more questions, but they were generally superficial topics. We discovered that we had similar tastes in music—a preference for alternative and classic rock, but could enjoy anything but rap and country was just bearable. I learned he wanted to be an engineer or an architect. He’d lived in many places throughout Europe, as well as several cities in the U.S., had spent time in Japan to study Aikido and had traveled to every continent except Antarctica.

  He learned I’d never been out of the United States but had a passport because Sophia thought it practical and that I took four years of Spanish in high school and could say maybe five full sentences and count to one-hundred. I told him I could name every Edgar Allan Poe story and recite by heart nine Emily Dickinson poems. I even admitted that I had tried my own hand at poetry.

  I learned he didn’t like Halloween, saying it wasn’t right that little kids wanted to be witches, vampires and other monsters. I admitted I’d always been a witch or a vampire, but always a good one—as a vampire, I carried around a cup of donor “blood.” He guessed correctly it was Mom’s idea. She preferred fairies, princesses and humorous costumes to the gory and scary ones. He asked Mom if my interest in monsters and fantastical creatures was healthy. She just laughed. I talked him into taking me to a couple haunted houses and he growled fiercely at the monster-actors, making them jump and shriek. I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. He admitted it was the most fun he’d had on Halloween.

  By Thanksgiving, we knew all of each other’s favorite everything . . . colors, bands, authors, actors and actresses, food, ice cream flavors, books . . . . All the top-layer stuff that really had little to do with who we were and why . . . the stuff that made us real. Little hints and nuggets could be gleaned from these surface subjects, but they didn’t touch the deep, inner-workings of our hearts or souls and definitely had nothing to do with the secrets we kept and pain we hid. I knew, though, it was only a matter of time before those things came out.

  And when they did . . . well, it certainly didn’t happen in a way I could have ever expected.

  Chapter 9

  “Owen and I could have done that,” Tristan said as Mom and I climbed step-ladders in the bookstore’s expansive front window, a string of Christmas lights stretched between us.

  It was the night before Thanksgiving and Tristan and I had spent the day helping Mom and Owen prepare for the holiday rush. Mom didn’t believe in selling Christmas before Halloween or even Thanksgiving, so here we were, nine o’clock
at night, still decorating. Nearly finished, Mom had just sent Owen home. Not two minutes ago we had two perfectly able—and perfectly tall—men to hang the lights. But this was Mom’s way of making sure everyone (well, Tristan specifically) knew we depended on no one.

  “Alexis and I are quite capable of doing this,” Mom replied. “In fact, you can go home, too, Tristan.”

  “Nah, I’ll stay. Although, we could be done a lot faster if you didn’t do it the hard way,” he said as he picked up empty boxes that had held the decorations.

  Mom mumbled something under her breath, but all I caught was “normal” and “mainstream.” Tristan chuckled as if he heard her clearly, though he was at least twenty feet farther away from her than I was.

  I opened my mouth to ask what that was all about when a pair of headlights racing down the street distracted me. The shops on Fifth Street closed hours ago. I could see lights of restaurants and bars down another block, but our block was deserted, except for this one car. So I didn’t understand when the headlights suddenly swerved, arcing right into the store’s window. Then I realized the car barreled straight for us.

  “Mom!” I shrieked without thinking.

  The car continued racing right at us, way too fast to stop in time.

  “Alexis! Jump!” Mom yelled.

  Before we even had a chance to jump, though, we both flew off the ladders and into Tristan’s arms. I stared wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights—literally—my mind somehow registering several things at once. When the car was about twenty yards away, still going way too fast, a light flashed on something directly to the right of it—the driver’s door, swinging open. Then Owen, who had just left through the back door, stood in the street, but out of the car’s path, and he thrust his hands out toward the car as if willing it to stop. The driver must have finally slammed on the brakes—the tires squealed as it nearly stopped just before crashing into the store.

  And then it hit. Sliding into the window. Glass imploding.

  Mom and I tucked our faces into Tristan’s shoulders. He bent over to shield us. Glass chinked and shattered as it rained to the floor around us.