Outsiders

by Lynn Ames

  For the first time since she’d awakened in the hospital after the accident, Renée hadn’t had a single vision, or even a dream that she could remember. She smiled and sighed happily.

  “Are you usually giddy in the middle of the night?”

  Yazhi’s voice sounded sleep-filled and incredibly sexy to Renée’s ears.

  “Not usually, no. But in this case, I’m making an exception.” Renée lifted her head. She could just make out Yazhi’s exquisite features in the moonlight sifting in through the window.

  “You are, huh?”

  “Oh, yes.” No longer able to resist, Renée traced her fingers along Yazhi’s chiseled cheekbones and full lips. Renée heard Yazhi’s sharp intake of breath and it sent shock waves directly to her center. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “This twin flame thing…”

  “Mmm?”

  “You said we’ve been together in many lifetimes, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does that work?”

  “We are all made of energy. Energy never dies, it merely reconstitutes. Our energies, in whatever lifetime, always have, and always will, seek each other.”

  Renée absorbed that information. “So we were destined to find each other?”

  “That’s complicated. I believe in destiny points.”

  “Destiny points?”

  “Yes, in other words, there are certain events that are outlined in the map of our lives. But because we have free will, once we get to those points, we can choose to take the destined path, or head in another direction. If we head in another direction, obviously it can change the way the rest of our lives unfold.”

  “That makes sense. So, my accident in the canyon and your saving me was a destiny point?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And what happens next is free will?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Just because you find your twin flame, doesn’t mean you cannot walk away.”

  Renée did not need to hear the hitch in Yazhi’s voice—she felt Yazhi’s heart lurch as if it was her own. She scooted up until she was perched over Yazhi, their faces inches apart. “I’ve been walking…no—running—away, all my life. For the first time, I believe it wasn’t what I was running away from, it was who I was running to. I’m not going anywhere, unless you want me to.”

  Afterward, Renée was never sure whether she had lowered her mouth to Yazhi, or Yazhi had risen up, all she knew for certain was that in each other’s arms, they’d both found home.

  The End

  Balance

  By

  Georgia Beers

  Chapter One

  I know it’s there. I feel it the second I open my eyes, and the wave of familiar dread washes in, then recedes just as quickly. I should be used to this by now, but there is always that split second of fear before the acceptance that inevitably follows.

  I swallow and turn my head. Six-forty in the morning. What is it that makes us wake up five minutes before the alarm goes off? Next to the clock is the small piece of notepaper I’m expecting. I inhale deeply, exhale slowly. Five more minutes, and then I’ll deal with it.

  I roll onto my right side, prop my head up on my hand, and watch the rise and fall of her chest as she continues in the safety of slumber. She’ll have work to do when she wakes, just as I will, so I let her sleep, and I watch. Her dark hair is tousled and adorable, the creamy-smooth skin of her shoulder teases me, dares me to touch it with my fingertips, my lips. The heat coming off her never ceases to amaze me; I call her the Human Radiator. It’s why she sleeps naked…not that I mind. Pajamas make her overheat. As I study her, she pouts subtly in her sleep; her full lips pull down slightly at the corners, give me a glimpse of what she might have looked like as a child, and I smile.

  At 6:44, I turn the alarm off before it can sound, and I give in to that teasing shoulder, pressing my lips against it tenderly, marveling, always marveling, at the softness of her. She inhales that deep, just-about-to-wake-up breath, and her eyes flutter open, their color nearly startling me as it does every time. They’re green, not quite a sea foam, closer to the leaves of a delicate fern, and they’re ringed with black and surrounded by lush, dark lashes. I swear I can lose myself in those eyes. I have.

  “Morning, gorgeous,” Hayley says as she stretches her arms above her head.

  “Hey, you stole my line.”

  She glances at the nightstand, a habit she’s picked up from me, and sees the note. “Got work to do today?”

  “I’m afraid so.” I distract us both from the moment by nuzzling the warmth of her neck.

  “Where are you off to?”

  With a sigh, I peel myself away from her and reach for the note, give it a glance. “North Carolina, apparently. Rebecca Cassidy.”

  “Rebecca Cassidy,” she repeats, rolling it around in her mouth like a piece of hard candy. “Good, strong name.” Throwing off the covers, she gets out of bed. “Better pack a bag, sweetie.”

  “You know,” I say as she pads past me in all her unclothed glory and into the bathroom, “it’s really not fair that you parade around me all naked and pretty like that when I’ve got to get up and moving.”

  She responds by giving her tush a cute little shake. “Hey, you had me last night. That should hold you over.”

  “Nothing can hold me over,” I tell her, laying it on so thick that she rolls her eyes and laughs. “I can never get enough of you, baby.”

  “Well, go take care of Miss Cassidy and then come home to me. Maybe I’ll have a present waiting for you when you get here.”

  “Maybe? Maybe you’ll have a present? That’s not much incentive, really.”

  “Pack a bag, whiner,” she orders, then steps into the shower.

  I, of course, do as I’m told.

  Two hours later, she’s dropping me off at the airport, my boarding pass printout to Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina, gripped in my hot little hand. The routine has become old hat to us, as it happens two or three times a month on average, and we’ve become quite efficient. She pops the trunk, and we meet at the back of the car where she kisses me tenderly on the mouth, hugs me tightly, and tells me to call when I land. Then she’s off to the office to start on her research, and I’m off to a hotel room in the South, wondering how long it will take me to locate Rebecca Cassidy and what kind of help she needs from me.

  Chapter Two

  The first time it happened, I was fifteen. I woke up one morning and there was a small notebook on my nightstand that hadn’t been there when I went to bed. It was opened to a sheet of paper. In my handwriting, the note said, “Janine Barber, Poughkeepsie, NY.” The name was vaguely familiar, and I lived in Poughkeepsie at the time, so I was nothing more than mildly confused by my inability to remember writing it. I have learned since, that as we get older, we forget things constantly, so I suspect that’s why it began when I was young. Otherwise, I might have simply considered myself scatterbrained and never thought about Janine Barber again. As it turned out, hers is a name I will never, ever forget.

  First things first. You really need to know a few things about me. My name is Norah Ellison and I’m thirty-one years old. I grew up in Poughkeepsie and my family is, to put it bluntly, filthy stinking rich. I’m not exactly certain how my father and grandfather made their fortunes, but I suspect it wasn’t all on the up-and-up, which is a big part of why I do what I do. I am not close to my parents. My father isn’t a warm and fuzzy guy, and his acquaintances are questionable, as is the way he bends things to his will. My mother was a sweet woman once, I believe, but I think she’s had to look the other way when it comes to my father on so many occasions, her gaze has ended up permanently focused on the bottom of whatever bottle she’s drinking from. I still worry about her, but you can’t force help on those who don’t want it, can you? My big brother, Porter, is following in my father’s footsteps, which I suppose was to be expected, given that he’s the eldest son of the eldest son. It will forever disappoint me because I’ve always wanted to believe that
Porter is a better man, but maybe I’m wrong. I just don’t know any more.

  When I turned twenty-one, I gained access to my trust fund and my inheritance from my grandparents so, like my family, I am also filthy stinking rich. But gaining access to all that money also gave me something I’d been waiting for since Janine Barber’s name showed up on my nightstand: freedom. I took my money and moved upstate, knowing my parents would have no desire to visit me there. Upstate? I might as well have moved to the slums! All visitation would be my responsibility, just the way I wanted it. That’s when I began Balance, Inc.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Let me get back to Janine Barber because she’s the starting point. After her name appeared on my nightstand, and after I puzzled over it for a morning or so, I forgot all about her…until a week later when I happened to be walking by my father’s study and my stride was slowed by the sound of heated voices from behind the closed doors. I stood there with my popcorn and Diet Coke in hand and eavesdropped like any teenager: without a shred of guilt.

  “She’s a nobody, Dad,” I heard Porter say. “She’s only at our school because her mom’s in administration so her tuition’s free. She’s white trash.”

  “White trash can make just as much noise as anybody else, Porter. Sometimes more.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s her word against mine.”

  My father’s voice became hard as granite, a tone that told you if you took one more step, you’d cross the line with him. “You’re not listening to me, son. I have no intention of seeing my name dragged through the mud because you couldn’t take no for an answer.”

  Porter started to speak, but was cut off mid-word, and I could absolutely envision my father holding up a hand and, with one glare from his ice blue eyes, killing Porter’s voice before it even left his mouth.

  “There is one language that trash speaks better than most other people…the language of money. I will handle this problem, Porter, but mark my words. This is the last time I clean up your mess for you. Next time, you’ll be on your own. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now. Do you know her father’s name?”

  “Bill, I think. Bill Barber. He works in a factory or something.”

  “Good. Good. I’ll take it from here. You do nothing. And I mean nothing. Keep your mouth shut, your pants zipped, and stay away from the girl. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Porter’s voice was suddenly closer, so I knew he was approaching the door. I scooted up the stairs and into my room before I was seen. Once there, I lay on my bed, staring at the notebook paper. Janine Barber. Bill Barber. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

  It didn’t take me longer than a day or two to figure out exactly who Janine Barber was. Solving the mystery of what had happened to her was even easier, judging by the way she carried herself through the halls of school, her arms wrapped tightly around her books, her books held in front of her chest like body armor, her head down, her pace rapid. Her auburn hair was stringy, her clothes so baggy they must have been three sizes too big. The whispers and snickers as she passed were so obvious, they might as well have been shouts and finger pointing.

  I watched her scurry past my locker one morning and felt a pang of sympathy for her. My friend Amy was standing next to me and gave a snort before I could say anything. “She’s such a loser. She should consider herself lucky to have been with somebody like your brother instead of crying about it.”

  And I knew. Just like that, I knew exactly what had happened.

  I was a smart fifteen-year-old; I could add two and two, and if I knew anything for sure, it was how my brother operated. He saw, he desired, he took. Simple and base and completely justified as far as he was concerned. After all, he was an Ellison and Ellisons got what they wanted. Always.

  My gaze stayed on Janine Barber’s back, and I felt ill as she hurried down the hall, her shoulders hunched like some sort of shell, as if she were trying to shield herself from the gossip, the stares, the blame.

  Three days later, she was dead, having slit her wrists in the bathtub.

  Her name still stared out at me from the notebook paper, but this time, it felt less like a mystery and more like an accusation. I felt like I hadn’t paid enough attention. That guilt haunts me to this day. Janine Barber. I wonder if I could have saved her. I wonder if I was supposed to. I wonder if I failed my first test. I still do. Every day, I wonder.

  It was three months later, and I had turned sixteen before the second name showed up on the nightstand. Megan Stevenson, Poughkeepsie, NY.

  Again, a vaguely familiar name, but one I couldn’t place, and I became a little frantic, wondering if Megan Stevenson had been raped by my brother and was about to down a bottle of sleeping pills. I had no idea where to start, and it frustrated the crap out of me.

  Let me pause to add this little factoid about myself: I love books and always have, since as far back as I can remember. I still have my original copies of Green Eggs and Ham and The Velveteen Rabbit on a shelf in my bedroom. This is important because in the early 1990s when I was a teenager, the best way to surround myself with books was to get a job, much to my father’s dismay, at the local library. And in the library, in addition to books, there was a computer system. It was new and slow and a behemoth compared to today’s models, but it stored the names and addresses of everybody in Poughkeepsie who had a library card. Megan Stevenson turned out to be one of them.

  I had her name. I had her address. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with either of them.

  I decided to take a walk by her house which wasn’t all that far from the library. What I would do once I got there was anybody’s guess, but I headed out one afternoon after school. The house was modest, but neat and tidy, a small Cape Cod with yellow siding and a deep green front door. I strolled up the street on the opposite side, watching, not a clue what the hell I was supposed to do now that I found Megan’s home. I continued to pace up and down for the next half hour, wondering how much longer it would be before a concerned neighbor called the police to report an apparently disoriented teenage girl wandering the neighborhood.

  It’s a good thing I gave up when I did. Frustrated, I was heading around the corner back toward the library when I heard voices on the other side of the hedges that ran along the sidewalk. Kids’ voices.

  “But…it’s mine,” a small, female voice said, shaking.

  “Well, it’s mine now.” This one was male, still a kid, but older.

  “No.” The girl’s tears were apparent in her tone. “Give me my bike.”

  “I told you.” Sneered. “It’s mine now. Go home to your mommy and tell her you lost it. And if you rat me out, I’ll sneak into your house while you’re sleeping, and I’ll kill your cat. Got it?”

  The girl’s gasp told me she was as horrified as I was, and I stepped around the hedges to put a stop to the harassment.

  I recognized Megan Stevenson immediately. Her name had rung a bell because her mother had been my English teacher the previous year. She’d brought Megan to school with her for Bring Your Daughter to Work Day. She was about nine years old and was sitting on her butt, her knee skinned and her face tearstained. Her red hair was bowl cut and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose made her look more like a rag doll than the tomboy she was. A large boy stood over her, his hands clutching the handlebars of a very sleek-looking electric-blue bicycle with blindingly shiny chrome and thick tires. He was dirty and mean looking and had to be at least three years older than Megan, if not more. He jumped when he saw me, which gave me a little tickle of satisfaction.

  “What is going on here?” I asked, trying to sound menacing. I had suffered a growth spurt that year and had already reached my current height of five-seven, so I towered over him.

  “I was just taking my bike home, ma’am,” the boy said. Ma’am?Wow, he’s good, I thought, watching his face as he thought up a story.

  “No!” Megan jump
ed up. “That’s my bike.”

  “This?” the kid said, stretching his arms to their full length as if examining the bike for the first time. “No, this is mine. I mean, look at it. Does this look like a little girl’s bike?” He posed the question to me, and I narrowed my eyes at him. It certainly didn’t look like a little girl’s bike. He was right about that.

  “It’s mine.” Megan started crying, which she tried to hold in, judging by the look of embarrassment that crossed her face and the angry way she swiped at her own tears.

  “Well, why don’t we walk around the corner to Megan’s house and ask her parents if this is hers? Okay?”

  The first cracks in the bully’s veneer started to show then, and I knew I had him. “Oh, no. I don’t have the time to do that. I was supposed to be home by now. My mom isn’t going to be happy with me if I’m any later.” He started to turn the bike and wheel it toward the sidewalk.

  “My name!” Megan said with a gasp. The bully whipped his head around and glared at her.

  “What?” I asked.

  “My name. It’s written in Sharpie on the bottom of the seat. My daddy did it in case I ever lost it.”

  I raised one eyebrow and stepped toward the bike. The bully swallowed audibly, and I managed to stifle a chuckle. A quick duck and I saw it, clear as day. “Megan Stevenson” in big, black letters. I could tell by his breathing that the kid wanted to make a run for it, but I grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

  “Megan, take your bike and wait right here for a minute. This young man and I are going to have a little discussion.” I hauled him out of Megan’s earshot, enjoying the fear I could smell on him. There is something about a bully terrorizing somebody younger or less powerful that just makes my blood boil, even back then. I yanked him up onto his tiptoes and brought my face down to his. When I spoke, it was a low growl through gritted teeth.