Kiss Me Awake

by Julie Momyer

  KISS ME AWAKE

  A Novel

  KISS ME AWAKE

  A Novel

  by

  Julie Momyer

  Goody 2 Shoes

  Publications

  Website: http:/juliemomyer.com

  Blog: http://juliemomyerblog.com

  Kiss Me Awake

  Copyright © 2013 Julie Momyer

  Editing by Renee Gray-Wilburn @

  www.awaywithwordswriting.wordpress.com

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the New King James Version of the Bible. Copyright © 1982 by William Nelson, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the copyright owners.

  Published by Goody 2 Shoes Publications.

  For my family

  “As for me, I will see your face in righteousness; I shall be satisfied when I awake in your likeness.”

  ~Psalm 17:15

  Prologue

  Pomona, California

  Spencer Gordon stood alone in center field and decided he was a fool for coming here. He tossed a rock in the air and swung at it with a stick. From behind the tinted lenses of his sunglasses, he surveyed the distance of his line drive. His skills had improved since he was a boy, but considering the magnitude of what he had lost that gain wasn’t much of a consolation.

  He’d come here looking for a way out, or maybe it was a way back in that had him driving fifty miles inland. He wasn’t too sure anymore. He dropped the stick and rubbed gritty palms on his jeans. It was time to go.

  Low and warbling, the arid Santa Ana winds howled. It was the sound of a soul in mourning, and he felt it clear through to the marrow of his bones. He ducked his head against the sharp gusts and started across the field for the parking lot.

  When he arrived half an hour ago he looked for the row of oleanders, but they were long gone. Bermuda grass cropped short and tinged brown from the perpetual drought, grew in their place.

  Spencer leaned an arm on top of his Lexus and stole one last glance over the lot. Everything had changed since he was a kid. This generation played on a ball field landscaped and maintained by the city. Instead of denim jackets or tee shirts, anchored rubber bases divided the ninety-foot chalk line square. It was a far cry from the crude field he and his friends got by with using an eighty-five-cent can of spray paint.

  Another angry gust of wind battered his face and ruffled the open collar of his shirt, the potent blast sending a white-throated sparrow reeling like a drunkard in mid-air. He opened the car door and climbed in, shutting out the elements, the noise.

  He didn’t come all this way to dredge up the past, but the memories tugged, and when he leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes he was eight years old all over again…

  *

  A shrill cry split the air and the hair on the back of Spencer’s neck stood on end. Was it an animal? His arm stilled where he had it shoved inside the oleander bush, his mind racing with images of a wolverine, its razor-sharp fangs bared and ready to strike. His heart pounded hard underneath his dirty tee shirt and he jerked his arm out, rubbing at the imaginary teeth marks it left behind.

  Behind him he could hear the guys yelling, telling him to hurry up. Spencer wiped the sting of sweat from his eyes and looked over his shoulder. They were still holding their positions. They were waiting on him, waiting on the ball.

  He turned back and faced the bush. He didn’t want to stick his arm back inside only to have it gobbled up by a wild beast. Just thinking about it made his heart pound hard again, and this time it felt as though it was in his throat.

  What did it matter? They were losing the game anyway. He should tell them he couldn’t find it. He would tell them that, but he wasn’t a quitter.

  Spencer stood there for a long moment and then gathering his courage he dropped to his knees and crawled underneath the low hanging branches. Inching a little further in he rolled to his side and looked up into the web of leaves and clusters of pink flowers that smelled like Play-Doh.

  There it was, wedged in a grid of branches. He reached up, closed his fingers around the red stitching and crawled back out.

  “I got it!” he yelled, waving it in the air. He turned to run back to the field when another loud cry stopped him in his tracks. Spencer jerked his head around, his gaze traveling the row of bushes, searching for the source, but nothing was there.

  He sucked the inside of his cheek between his teeth and bit down. It was not a wolverine, he told himself. It was probably just a cat. And now that he thought about it, it sounded more like a baby than an animal.

  He tightened his fingers around the ball. He should go now. He got what he came for. But he didn’t move. Still ripe with fear, he squatted down and squinted into the shaded gaps between the leaves.

  The cry was more of a squalling now. He was afraid. What if it was a baby? He couldn’t leave it, but he was holding up the game.

  “What are you waiting for Spence, the grass to grow?” He spun around and Noah Wiley reached for the ball. Spencer snatched it back.

  Noah scowled. “At least give us the ball back if you’re not gonna play.”

  “I am gonna play.”

  The squall had softened. “Did you hear that?” Spencer asked. He stumbled, moving down the line of bushes, and then stopped.

  “It’s just a dumb old cat, let’s go.”

  The front of the bush quivered, and that was when Spencer saw it. Spindly and purplish-blue, stick-like arms flailed and the soles of tiny wrinkled feet kicked at the leaves. “It’s a baby, Noah!”

  “Nuh-uh.” Noah dropped to the packed dirt and shoved Spencer out of the way taking a look for himself. “Wow, it is a baby.”

  “Help me get it out.”

  Noah held up the branches, and Spencer crawled underneath. The baby let out another loud cry. They were probably scaring it. His hands shook as he slid the tiny bundle out into the open.

  “It’s a girl,” Noah said, a tinge of awe in his voice. His grubby fingers stroked the golden hair matted to the baby’s head.

  Something inside of Spencer’s stomach twisted. Who would do something this awful? Who would leave a baby outside, naked, and all by itself?

  The baby’s bottom lip quivered and a howl came from the pale miniature face. Spencer pressed his palms against his thighs and hunched over the tiny human being, studying her. The porcelain skin was almost see-through. It looked like a road map with the fine blue lines running underneath.

  He looked up at Noah. “Give me your jacket.”

  “What? No way.” Noah pulled it tighter around him.

  “For the baby. I wanna wrap her in it.”

  “She’s gonna ruin it.”

  “Please?” Spencer begged.

  “Oh, all right.” Noah jerked his arms out of the sleeves and tossed it to him. “Just make sure you wash it when you’re done.”

  Spencer watched her kick her legs and wriggle her arms. His heart skipped and his eyes stung with unshed tears. He rubbed at them, quickly doing away with the evidence before Noah could see.

  Crouching down, he spread the jacket out and lifted the baby up. Her head flopped back and he laid her down on the satin lining, afraid he hurt her.

  “Go on. Take the ball back,” Spencer said. “I'll take the baby to my mom and dad.” They would know what to do.

  Noah ran off and yelled at the guys to come see what they found. Spencer quickly wrapped the front panels of the jacket over the baby’s body and lifted her into his arms. He didn’t want them around her. He just wanted to get her somewhere safe.

 
This was the first time he held a baby. She was so wobbly, and it felt like she was going to fall right out of his arms. What if he broke her? His heart squeezed at the thought.

  Spencer pressed her close against his chest and hurried toward home. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I will always take care of you.”

  1

  “A wise girl kisses but doesn’t love, listens but doesn’t believe, and leaves before she is left.”

  ~Marilyn Monroe

  Jaida Martin sat poised on the edge of the rickety barstool and struck a seductive pose. The smile she wore was a mock one, a working girl’s cover for the disdain that lurked like an evil twin just below the surface.

  She rolled her lips in, working in the fresh layer of ruby lip stain, and shifted on the stool, tugging at the hem of her black leather mini. With every move she made, the shiny red sequins on her halter-top winked under the can lights. She stood out like a flashing neon sign in this get-up.

  She hated this part of the job, hated the atmosphere of the dive she was sitting in, thick with a breed of men several rungs lower on the evolutionary ladder than most of humanity. If there had been any other way…

  “Frozen margarita.” The bartender called her order out then tossed a square-cut napkin in front of her. For the first time tonight she took her eyes off the gold-veined mirrored tiles lining the wall and watched him as he centered the glass on the paper.

  He was young. Barely north of twenty was her guess. Maybe just out of college or still in college. He didn’t smile, not for her anyway. She might not be very good at pinning down ages, but one thing she was sure of. She made the man nervous.

  With a lift of her chin she offered him the pasted-on smile and the last of her cash, a fold creasing the center of Alexander Hamilton’s face. “Keep the change,” she said.

  He slipped it from her fingers and tucked it in his shirt pocket.

  “You manage this place?” she asked.

  He nodded, swiping a damp rag over the counter. “On the weekends I do.”

  She leaned in closer eyes narrowed, elbows on the bar. “You’re not used to seeing my kind in here are you?”

  “Your kind?” he parroted. His brows lifted as if he knew her secret. He shook his dark mop of curls and moved down the counter, abandoning her for a more respectable customer. She spelled trouble and this man knew it.

  Jaida poked the straw around in the lime green slush and settled in. From where she sat, the mirror provided a clear view of the entrance, and she went back to watching the door, watching for him.

  Three days ago he called the agency and asked for her by name. He identified himself as Ray, but if the moniker he gave matched the name on his birth certificate it would be a first. No one ever revealed their true identity.

  But she didn’t care about the name. It was what he brought to the table that counted. And Ray had promised her plenty. The question was: Would he deliver?

  The door swept open behind her ushering in warm night air mingled with exhaust. This was it. Adrenaline surged and her heart beat hard against her ribcage. She scanned the mirror then stopped cold at the gray eyes staring back.

  It wasn’t him.

  She looked over her shoulder and verified what she already knew. There wasn’t one white male in here wearing a plain red ball cap and a navy blue Angel’s jacket.

  He was over thirty minutes late. She couldn’t have missed him. She’d watched the door like a hawk. But even if he had slipped past her there was no way he could have missed her.

  She reached for her drink and took a large swallow. When she looked up again, the man with the gray eyes was still watching her. Mac was his name. She knew this because it was embroidered on the patch, stitched to his shirt pocket.

  Was he a substitute? A stand-in? Eyeing him, she licked the salt from her lower lip and swallowed. Had Ray sent someone else to hand off the information?

  Mac’s hands hung limp at his sides. They were empty. No folder or briefcase. A slight bulge pressed against the striped fabric of his shirt pocket. It was the right size, the right shape for a flash drive.

  Their gazes reconnected and held; hers burning with the question: Are you him? But something other than recognition, a look she’d seen too many times tonight, flickered behind the glassy sheen of gray fastened on her. Jaida pressed a hand to her brow and ducked her head, a flush of embarrassment warming her face. This wasn’t what she was here for. How could she have misread his intentions?

  She pushed her full glass aside and toyed with the strap of her purse. She should leave. She moved to stand when an arm grazed hers and she drew back. It was Mac. What did he want? She tensed, preparing to defend herself, but without a word he left his card beside her drink. And to her relief, he vanished like an apparition into the din and dusky light of the main floor.

  She exhaled the breath she’d been holding and settled back on the seat, rethinking her escape. If she were here for the indecent purposes these men supposed, she would be walking away with a big fat bankroll tonight. She smiled at the irony. It was a real smile this time.

  Jaida spun on the stool and faced the door of Hank’s Tavern. The brown tint on the glass was bubbled and peeling like sunburned skin. When Ray named this location for a meeting place she assumed it was one of his haunts. But this place, these people, they just didn’t fit his grandiose sense of self. Not the one he portrayed over the phone.

  Maybe he’d selected it randomly, or perhaps strategically. Whatever his reasons, the confidence she had in him was beginning to fade, apprehension trickling through her veins like a slow IV drip.

  He’d called all the shots right down to the clothes she wore, satisfying what was a clear need for control. So where was he?

  From the far right corner, red and yellow lights flashed and “Should I Stay or Should I Go” blared from the jukebox. Jaida sighed, rested her elbows on the edge of the bar and wondered the same thing.

  She mouthed the words to the first line, her foot bobbing in time to the beat then glanced down at the pink dial on her watch. She would give Ray five more minutes.

  “Hey, blue eyes.” Jaida frowned. It wasn’t Ray’s voice. The tenor standing beside her had an accent that was honeyed, a southerner who’d gone west.

  She didn’t look up right away. Didn’t want to deal with another one. Maybe he would take the hint and move on.

  “Not much of a talker, are you?” he asked.

  “Is that what you want? To talk?” She looked up into his craggy suntanned face then down to the layers of gold chains tinkling against his chest. The wide lapels of his powder-blue polyester suit were edge-stitched in navy blue. Was he for real? He looked like a throwback from the seventies, a John Travolta wannabe.

  “Maybe I do,” he said. He smoothed his hand over a thatch of matted brown chest hair, preening like a cat and grinning down at her as though he was a prize and she’d just won him.

  Uh, not interested.

  He sipped his drink then planted himself on the stool beside her. She turned and gave him her back. I just want to get out of here.

  Startled, she shrieked and reared back, slapping at the hand that gripped her thigh. “Hands off!” she warned. What did he think he was doing?

  Travolta grinned. “It was only one hand.” He held up the guilty hand as proof, making a clicking sound as though she were a horse. “And I always squeeze my apples before I buy. I ain’t payin’ for no woman ‘til I do the same.”

  “What in the…?” The question vanished on her lips when she spotted the fifty-dollar bill crumpled on the counter. Her anger burned hotter at the sight. Ray, Ray, Ray. What have you gotten me into?

  Jaida sat up straighter. She was dressed the part. She might as well play it. “Do I look like I’m on clearance?” she snapped.

  In one swift move, she snatched up the fifty and tucked it into the V-cut of her top. “I’m no apple, and fifty bucks is a considerable discount for the privilege of touching me.”

  He threw his he
ad back and downed the rest of his drink, the ice clanking in the empty tumbler when he slammed it down. His gaze dropped. “With legs like that, I guess another ten is in order.”

  Thick head, dim wit, he still didn’t get it. “I. Am. Not. For. Sale.” She said it slow enough that even he would understand.

  He laughed. “Honey, if you’re not for sale then why are you advertising?”

  Her mouth tightened. That was it. She was done here. Why should she stick around just to be harassed? Jaida slid from the stool and reached for her purse.

  There was one minute left before the five minutes expired, and her waiting around for the clock to tick off the last sixty seconds wasn’t going to change the fact that Ray was a no-show.

  She brushed past her admirer and out the door, ignoring the curses that followed for taking off with his money.

  “It’s over, Auggie,” she said. “I’m outside.” When her announcement didn’t bring him around the corner, she tapped the transmitter in her ear. Was it working?

  She paced along the curb under the yellow haze of the streetlights, looking up one side of the street and down the other. A horn honked, a man yelled, and tires squealed on freshly paved asphalt, but Auggie was not behind the wheel.

  She looked back the way she had come. The neon Corona sign lit up the darkened window. There was no movement at the door. Yet. She had about ten seconds to disappear before the guy inside was out here demanding more than a squeeze for that fifty.

  She warded off the shudder that came on the heels of that ugly thought then jogged to the corner. For everyone else it was just another Friday night in Anaheim; for her, it was a poorly executed masquerade that she had no intention of repeating.