When Forever Changes

by Siobhan Davis

  An ear-shattering siren rings out, wailing painfully within the confines of my empty house, and I immediately spring into action. Jumping out of bed, I grab my cell and wallet from the bedside table and race to the far corner of my master suite, quickly punching in the code on the wall-mounted keypad. I step back as the hidden door slides open, glancing over my shoulder at the sound of approaching footfalls.

  A loud crash from the hallway alerts me to the impending danger, and I falter for a split second. Anger fuels the blood flowing through my veins, and I clench and unclench my fists at my side while contemplating tackling the assholes who have broken into my house. But my manager’s previous cautionary warning churns through my brain, and I know what I need to do, even if it feels cowardly to run in the opposite direction.

  Emitting a frustrated sigh, I step into the darkness instead of following my instinct and rushing out to the hallway to confront the intruders. Stabbing the large red button on my right, I watch as the door glides shut, securing me behind the wall of my bedroom. Lights illuminate the darkness instantly. Wasting no time, I run, barefoot, down the narrow passageway until I meet the elevator. Adrenaline pumping, I get in, emerging a minute later in the basement of my supposedly private property, nestled deep in the Hollywood Hills.

  I’m going to kick someone’s ass for this. I didn’t just drop over two mill installing the latest security systems to have some fucking asshole break into my house, again, in the middle of the night. That’s assuming it’s the same crew. I was out of town that time, but it shook me up enough to invoke new precautionary measures. Not that it seems to have done much good. How the hell did they get inside the house when it’s like Fort fucking Knox? Anger mixes with frustration as I stalk forward, silently cursing every motherfucker I can think of as I run.

  Still concealed behind the walls of my house, I follow the lit path to the large steel door, relieved to have made it here undetected. Pressing my thumbprint to the digital pad, I only permit myself to breathe freely once I’m safely secured behind the impenetrable steel door of my hidden panic room.

  My fingers are curled rigidly around my cell as I drop onto the couch. Screens flicker to life on the wall in front of me, showcasing different rooms in my vast house.

  My eyes scan the camera feeds, flitting from room to room as I look for signs of activity. A growl builds at the base of my throat when I spot three figures, dressed head to toe in black, scouring every inch of my bedroom. Wondering where the fuck I am, no doubt. A smug laugh rips from my mouth. Better luck next time, dickheads.

  When my cell rings, I answer without taking my eyes off the camera feed.

  “The cops are on their way. Are you okay?” Luke—my manager—asks, his usual calm voice sounding ruffled.

  “Yes,” I say, through gritted teeth. “I’m in the panic room watching three assholes trash my bedroom.” The intruders are ripping through my stuff now. Flipping my bed over, flinging furniture around the room, and dumping piles of my clothes on the hardwood floor, urgently yanking out drawers as they search for who the fuck knows what.

  If they’re looking for cash, they’ll be sorely disappointed. I’ve a few hundred-dollar bills in my bedside table, but the rest of my cash is in here with me.

  I learned not to leave cash lying around my house the hard way. Too often, I woke up after a night of heavy partying to discover I’d been swindled. That’s what happens when you’re too high and too drunk to care. When you invite every douchebag and his granny back to yours to continue the party. When you wake up beside strange girls passed out in your bed, wondering if you fucked one or all three of them or if you were too wasted to even get it up.

  I promised myself never again.

  I’m sick of jerks and sluts taking advantage.

  And thieving assholes who have the nerve to steal into my house in the dead of night.

  My head swivels to the safe on the far side of the room, and I’m grateful I decided to relocate it from my bedroom a couple months ago when this room was being built. They can trash my bedroom all they like. Hell, I hope they get distracted looking for cash and the cops get here before they’ve time to skip off into the sunset.

  I want to find the prick determined to make my life a living hell.

  The police believe the previous break-in, along with other malicious activity, is the work of one individual, someone clever who is pulling the strings in the background and doing a stellar job of hiding his tracks.

  Every celebrity deals with groupies, crazies, and stalkers—it comes with the territory—but this latest crazy genuinely has me concerned. No one has ever managed to break into my house before, and now it’s happened twice in as many months.

  It unnerves me, has me on edge, and I could fucking do without the hassle. It’s not like I don’t have enough shit on my plate as it is.

  “Do you know any of them?” Luke inquires, pulling me out of my mind.

  “They’re wearing masks, so that’d be a no,” I snap.

  “Just hang tight. I’m on my way, and the police should be with you shortly.” He pauses momentarily. “Don’t do anything stupid, Shawn. Promise me you’ll stay in the sealed room.”

  “I’m not a fucking idiot. Just get here already.” Then I hang up, tossing my cell on the couch beside me.

  Man, I would fucking kill for a drink or a hit right about now. I get up and start pacing the room, briefly considering taking a shower to cool off before the cops get here.

  The guys I hired to do the security work did a great job with this space. I have a small living area with a compact kitchen, fully stocked pantry, small bedroom, and bathroom, complete with a shower. With the rate I’ve been stacking up death threats, you never know how often I’ll need to use this place or how long I’ll be trapped here for. I wanted to make sure it had all the necessities, but, still, I think I’d go fucking crazy if I was trapped in here for any length of time.

  I don’t do well with confined spaces.

  Reminds me too much of my brief stint in a police cell and the months I spent in rehab, and I’m trying really hard to put all that shit behind me.

  My breath stalls in my chest as I scan the screen again, watching one of the guys scrawl something on my bedroom wall. The other two are hovering in the doorway, shouting at the third guy. I don’t have the sound on, so I can’t hear what they’re saying. Figure I’m best listening to it later. If they say something that incites me, I’ll probably bust out of here and go after their thieving asses. But that would not be smart.

  I can take care of myself; I’ve the height, stamina, and aggression needed to take them on. But three against one isn’t good odds and only an idiot would attempt it. The last thing Mom needs is to wake up to another worrying news report.

  A lump wedges in my throat, but I force all thoughts of Mom aside as I walk up to the screen, leaning in closer, eyes narrowing as I focus on the messy red message spray-painted across my bedroom wall.

  As the words take on a cohesive form, all the blood turns to ice in my veins.

  NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER. VENGEANGE WILL BE MINE.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dakota

  There are moments in time that are forever imprinted on your soul. When you can remember exactly where you were, who you were with, and what you were doing precisely at the point where something catastrophic occurred.

  Like my dad remembers staring in shock at the TV screen, in the lobby of his accounting firm on 9/11, surrounded by his devastated employees, all horror-struck as planes hit the Twin Towers, and my mom remembers crying in the car when the radio confirmed news that Princess Diana had died in a tunnel in Paris.

  I will never forget the day my life changed irrevocably.

  It was exactly thirteen months ago, one sweltering-hot August night, that I received the call that shattered my world and devastated my family.

  I wa
s with my boyfriend, Cole, at his buddy Brandon’s house, enjoying one of the last summer parties before we all started college. I was due to leave for New York—for Juilliard—in two weeks, and our time together was drawing to a close.

  I knew it.

  He knew it.

  But neither one of us had mentioned it. We were going to try the whole long-distance thing, but I knew things would peter out. So, we were making every second count. Cole and I were in the middle of a highly-competitive game of beer pong with Brandon and Miley when my cell vibrated.

  I ignored it. Because who the hell answers the phone when they’re smashed and in the zone?

  But it wouldn’t stop. Vibrating incessantly. And a weird sensation crept over me. Cursing the intrusion, I’d grabbed my cell and answered, not stopping to check who it was.

  Daddy’s words penetrated my ears, but I couldn’t believe them.

  Couldn’t hear anymore over the splintering of my heart.

  And the screaming.

  God, the agonized screaming penetrated my soul, seeping deep, marking me for eternity.

  I screamed until my throat scraped raw. Until my cries and my screams extinguished, giving way to a hazy numbness that hasn’t lifted since.

  Cole was concerned, and the worried expression on his face transformed to horror when he plucked the cell from my stiff fingers and listened to the news with his own ears.

  The rest is a bit of a blur. Cole hugging me. Leading me comatose out of the house and into Jacob’s Jeep. Jacob’s mouth moving, offering condolences, no doubt, but I still couldn’t hear over the relentless screaming in my head.

  A shuddering breath leaves my lips as I recall that horrific moment—the moment when my world was irreparably altered.

  My current surroundings come back into sharp focus as I’m pulled out of my mind, and all memories of the past, crashing headfirst into the present. I stop dancing, crumpling onto the filthy asphalt roof as crippling pain lances me on all sides.

  Fuck. It’s never ending. This torment.

  Waves of grief crash into me.

  Consuming me.

  Devastating me.

  Reminding me how fleeting life is.

  How special those precious moments with loved ones are, and how you don’t realize it until it’s too late.

  Demonstrating how surviving is almost more tragic than death.

  Whoever said grief eases with time was a freaking liar. I’d love to punch that nameless, faceless asshole for filling grief-stricken mourners with such false hope.

  I hug my arms around my waist, rocking back and forth on my knees, while I draw deep breaths, in and out, in an attempt to take back control.

  Breathe, Dakota.

  Live, Dakota.

  Remember, Dakota.

  I repeat a familiar mantra. A frantic attempt to cling to the last vestiges of myself as I drown in a sea of oblivion—my soul, my heart, my will to live, diminishing further with each passing day.

  It’s no wonder Cole did what he did.

  I wouldn’t want to be with my miserable, depressed self either.

  The song changes on my cell, and Adele’s husky tones swirl through the still night air. Strangely, the anguish and emotion in her voice soothes the frayed edges of my nerves. Reminding me that I’m not alone.

  That other people are suffering.

  And surviving.

  And that life must go on.

  It’s what she would want.

  She’d hate to see me like this.

  I lie flat on my back, staring up at the starry night. Wondering if she’s up there. Watching me. Using that no-nonsense tone of hers to tell me to pull myself together. A small smile traverses my lips, and I haul myself to my feet, starting to dance again.

  I sway to the rhythm of the music, closing my eyes and letting my body absorb the emotion of the song, using the heartbreak and sadness to dictate my movements. My limbs are loose, my feet light as I move around the empty roof of the abandoned building, twirling and flying, arching and pivoting. Dancing nonstop as successive songs tumble from my cell.

  It’s the only thing that helps.

  The only thing that reminds me I’m still me.

  That hidden inside this shell of a person somewhere lies the real Dakota Gray.

  I tiptoe into my dorm room, not wanting to wake my roommate Daisy. I’m later than usual, having lost myself in the music and dance, not realizing that so much time had passed. Removing my shoes at the door, I pad to the refrigerator, grabbing a fresh bottle of water.

  Most nights, I’m gone until one a.m. max, but it’s much, much later than that now, and I don’t want to disturb her. Especially when she’s most likely happily ensconced in dreamland. No point in both of us being sleep-deprived and tired tomorrow.

  I knock back the water, welcoming the icy cold liquid as it glides down my parched throat. I head toward the bathroom, frowning when I spot a thin glimmer of light creeping under the bedroom door.

  “Kota? Is that you?” Daisy calls out, worry underscoring her tone.

  I curse under my breath, hating that I’ve disturbed her in the middle of the night. Daisy is a total sweetheart, and she doesn’t deserve to get dragged into my shit. Which is one of the reasons why I haven’t told her about Layla or Juilliard.

  I open the door to our shared bedroom, glancing sheepishly at my roommate. She’s propped up in bed, surrounded by her Shawn Lucas posters, with her Kindle lying beside her. “I hope you weren’t waiting up for me.” I perch on the end of her bed, conscious I’m a sweaty mess and in dire need of a shower.

  “You’re late. I was worried.” Her brows pinch together, and my heart swells at her concern.

  It’s been a while since anyone worried about me. Just for a second, I allow myself to feel something other than grief and guilt and despair, and it’s nice. “I’m sorry I worried you. I lost track of time. You should have texted me, and I would’ve let you know I was okay.”

  Crossing her legs in front of her, she studies my eyes. Her expression is soft. “I won’t pry, but I’m here if you ever need to speak about it.” A heavy pressure settles on my chest, making breathing difficult. “But I really don’t think it’s safe for you to be going out so late at night on your own. And that abandoned building gives me the heebie-jeebies during the day. I don’t know how you can go there in the pitch-dark.” She visibly shivers.

  “I’m not scared,” I truthfully admit. “And you know I have trouble sleeping. It’s better to be out there dancing than inside tossing and turning for hours.”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you. It’s pretty isolated down by the river, and who knows what kind of weirdos use that building after dark.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone there, and this is a safe part of town.” Okay, that’s probably a stretch. While Iowa City doesn’t have unusual rates of crime, Daisy is right—it’s not safe for any woman to be roaming the city after midnight.

  I’m not sure what it says about me, but that’s not even a factor.

  I’m not scared.

  I’m the opposite.

  Dancing on that rooftop every night is the only time I feel free of the crippling emotions strangling me. I make sure I’m there for twelve oh three every night. The exact time Dad’s phone call came in.

  And I dance.

  For me.

  For Layla.

  For my shattered family and my lost dreams.

  And I’m not frightened of the dark or unknown terrors. It’s almost symbolic. Like the dark night represents my heavy soul and dancing is the only glimmer of light, a fragile spark igniting the flame. A flame that once burned so bright it almost blinded.

  “There are plenty of dance classes around. Why don’t you enroll in one of them instead?” she suggests, and I know her heart is in the right place.


  I shake my head. “You don’t understand …” My breath heaves out in choked spurts, that pressure on my chest tightening further. “I need to do it alone. And it’s as much about the timing as it is the dancing and I … I need it to breathe.” Averting my eyes for fear of what they’ll betray, I stare at the worn beige carpet.

  “Oh, Dakota.” Her voice is doused in sadness, and I tip my chin up. Compassion fills her gaze, and she scoots out from under the covers, over to my side. She takes my hand in hers. “Just promise me you’ll take extra precautions. And maybe you could text me when you get there and when you’re leaving so I know you’re safe?”

  “If I wasn’t so sweaty, I’d hug the shit out of you right now,” I admit as tears prick my eyes. “You don’t know how much it means that you care. And I pinch myself every day, so grateful I landed you as my roomie. I was terrified I was going to be paired with some nutjob.”

  “Me too.” She smiles timidly. “I was really hoping I’d have a ready-made friend, and I couldn’t be happier.”

  I quirk a brow. “Even if I am a reclusive weirdo who leaves you to go dancing on the roof of an abandoned building at midnight?”

  “We all have our flaws,” she teases, and I laugh quietly.

  “Thank you. For being a good friend.” Although we’ve only known each other three weeks, I can already tell that Daisy and I will be friends for life.

  The next morning, I drag my weary body across town to the Tippie College of Business, joining the throngs of students headed toward the impressive main building. Composed of cream stone and glass, the structure has some funky architectural features that speak to the dormant creative streak in me.

  But it’s about the only appealing thing.

  As I take a seat in one of the smaller auditoriums, I can’t help wondering what I’d be doing if I was at Juilliard like I was meant to be. If I hadn’t postponed my place for a year and then relinquished it.