by Kristie Cook
If someone had attacked me, though, Mom would know. She wouldn't have dismissed it so easily. She was too protective of me. Even going off to college on my own was never an option. She gave up her job in corporate sales because, she said, she was ready for a change. She'd been in sales for as long as I could remember and was quite successful at it. One of her quirks was her power of persuasion—she could sell a truckload of beef to a vegan. But she had always wanted to own a bookstore and there happened to be one for sale just ten miles from the college I'd chosen. We were both looking forward to this move and the new life it promised for us. I was glad she was coming with me. She was my best friend, after all. My only friend for years. I had to wonder now, though, if she was really coming to protect me.
Hundreds of miles passed under the truck's wheels before I built the courage to ask.
"Mom…are there people who want to hurt us? I mean, because of who we are?"
She gave me a sideways glance. "Alexis, I would not let anything happen to you."
"I know, but if there are people out there…shouldn't I know? Don't you think it's time I knew things about us?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. The corner of her lips turned down in a frown. "I can't tell you, honey. I just can't. Not until the Ang'dora ."
Right. The Ang'dora . The enigmatic "change" that was somehow connected with our quirks and everything that made us weird. I knew little about it. I knew little about us.
"Are you asking because of your dream last night?" she asked. "Because you know it's–"
I cut her off with a sigh. "Yeah, I know. Not real."
I wanted to believe her. That was the easy and safe explanation, but I just knew it was wrong.
Mom held our secrets tightly, even from me, and I'd given up begging for information years ago. She had told me many times she was bound to a promise made when I was an infant. I couldn't know our secrets until I went through the Ang'dora and became more like her. I pretended I didn't care and allowed myself to live behind a façade of normalcy.
Now I did care. Whether I was really attacked or not, it was time I knew who we were and why we had strange quirks. I hated snooping behind her back, but her refusal to explain left no other options.
The move made the first step easy. I volunteered to unpack the house while Mom prepared to open the bookstore. When she took me up on the offer to do her room, I didn't expect to discover anything she didn't want me to. And I didn't. I found false identification for both of us—drivers' licenses, birth certificates, passports and the like—giving us different last names, but they weren't helpful. I grew up with several surnames, a different one each time we moved, though most often we went by "Ames," as we did now. I was pretty sure that was the real one.
I couldn't even research Ames and our other surnames. Besides Sophia and Alexis, I had no first names to go on. We had extended family somewhere, but I'd never met them and Mom rarely discussed them. Without knowing their names, I could have searched genealogical records for years and never known if I was even in the right family. By the time the first day of classes came around, I knew nothing more, but I had a new plan and the college library would be perfect for it.
That was the day the dreams stopped. Until then, I repeatedly dreamt of that strange night, particularly of one of my heroes. Not the one who carried me away, but the other one, the bigger one. I still never saw his face, just a shadowy figure, but it was him. Who are you? My dream-self asked every time. I never received an answer and he stopped visiting my dreams the first day of classes. Perhaps because a very real guy entered my dreams…and my life.
Chapter 2
I dropped two classes before school even started. It was actually Mom's idea. I had a novel to write. When she read the outline I developed during our move, she said school could wait, the book couldn't. An unexpected statement from her, but she had more weird quirks than I did, including her own sixth sense. Mine told me if people were unusually good or bad, as if I picked up on a brainwave revealing their overall intentions. Mom could feel truths—and she was never wrong. She felt the truth my book would be published. She even said, mysteriously, it needed to be written.
On the first day of college, with several hours between my morning classes and my one night class, I took the opportunity to do some research and planted my butt in a hard plastic chair at a library computer station. I wasn't researching for my book, though, and not for class either. This time was for me. I finally concluded that all I really could research were our quirks—I knew nothing else about us. I found a somewhat promising trail on the Internet and spent the entire afternoon researching telepaths.
When I was done, I stared at my notes and felt like an idiot. Telepaths?! I seriously wasted hours on telepaths ? I shook my head at the absurdity. Mom and I had quirks, but we certainly couldn't read minds. Besides, telepaths, well, didn't exist . Did they?
I sighed and glanced at the clock, then bolted out of my seat, grabbing my bag and papers. Communications started in five minutes. I rushed through the library, rounded a corner and slammed right into a large, hard body. Sweet and tangy. Mmm…mangos, papayas, lime, sage…and a hint of man . Having a powerful sense of smell was often unpleasant, but it was worth suffering through bad body odor and nasty garbage for this. He smelled delicious. But he sounded annoyed or angry as a low growl rumbled in his chest.
"Sorry," I muttered.
I looked up to see the face belonging to such yumminess. Whoa! Talk about yummy! He was absolutely gorgeous. Too gorgeous. I looked away immediately, embarrassed by my behavior. I bent down to gather the papers I dropped—and so did he. To complete my humiliation, I shocked him with static electricity when our fingers touched. I blushed. He chuckled quietly.
"Alexis Ames," he murmured under his breath. If it hadn't been my own name, I wouldn't have even understood—he said it so quietly. His thumb underlined my name on the class schedule he handed back to me. I took it, mumbled "thank-you" and bolted.
I hurried across campus, slipped inside the classroom with a minute to spare and took the closest open seat. A syllabus was already on the desk. The instructor stood at the head of the class, carefully watching the clock above the door. He started his introductions at six o'clock sharp and rudely rebuked a couple of students who arrived late, commenting that tardiness was a sign of disrespect. As if his tone was not. Note to self: Be on time for this one .
I'd felt the burn of eyes on me when I walked in the door and took my seat. Normally I would have disregarded it. I was used to it, especially the last couple months of high school, when everyone was curious about my burn. But as I sat there, trying to listen to the professor as he monotonously listed his credentials, I could feel the eyes again, making the back of my neck tingle. It wasn't the same threatening feeling I felt at the Jefferson Memorial. This was the uncomfortable but familiar feeling of curious eyes. I glanced over my shoulder, pretending to check out the classroom. Oops. I was caught. But I couldn't tear my eyes away for several seconds.
Wow. Beautiful . That was all I could think through the haze filling my brain. I never understood how a guy could be considered beautiful until now. He was stunningly attractive like Mom was—beyond what should be allowed for any human.
His eyes held mine until I finally came to my senses and pulled away. Mr. Beautiful smiled as I slid my eyes to the front of the room. And then it hit me. Oh, no! Why me?! I had barely glanced at him the first time, but I knew without a doubt: he was the same guy I'd run into like an idiot less than five minutes ago. Apparently, he recognized me, too, and found it funny. I wished one of my quirks was the ability to disappear.
"Most of your projects will be done as teams," the professor droned. "You'll be with the same team throughout the semester. Your team number is in the upper-right corner of the first page of your syllabus. Your first project is due next week, so get into your groups now to make introductions and get started."
The professor was the type high-school students fr
etted about when they thought of college—demanding, commanding, condescending, anal-retentive. He was nothing like my other instructors. My calculus teacher would make the subject bearable because at night he was a stand-up comedian and my women's studies instructor was the eccentric cat-woman. Not the superhero, but the crazy, old maid who lived with a bunch of cats.
Based on Mr. Anal's instructions of where teams should gather, I didn't have to move. Two girls—one a cute, girl-next-door blonde and the other a scowling, black-haired Goth—and two guys joined me in our designated section of the room.
Including Mr. Beautiful.
Of course. Just my luck.
He was the last to join us, after switching his syllabus with one on an empty desk—he wanted to be in our group. I figured he knew somebody. When he headed our way, his athletic build straining against his shirt, even Ms. Grumpy Goth straightened up and smiled slightly. But then I caught a quick, but odd reaction from the other three and I knew immediately he hadn't chosen our group because he knew anyone.
Mr. Beautiful nodded at each of us as he took a seat and the others shrunk back slightly. A look of fear, or maybe just astonishment, flickered in their eyes. A slight smile played on his lips when he looked at me last. I couldn't figure out what the others saw because I didn't notice anything. Of course, I did notice something , but nothing warranting that kind of reaction. My sense remained quiet.
Then I realized there was something—a strange nudge in the back of my mind. There was something different but unidentifiable about him. I could barely introduce myself before I zoned out through the other introductions and tried unsuccessfully to figure out what the nudge meant.
During a break halfway through class, I bought a soda and wandered outside. The hot, heavy air wasn't exactly refreshing, but it was a nice break from the closed up, conditioned air inside. The sun had officially set and the sky was still a pinkish-purple in the west, the tops of two palm trees silhouetted against it. A couple people sat on the top step, talking. I walked down the stairs and leaned against a lamppost, sipping my drink.
"Alexis, right?" a silky, sexy voice asked behind me, making me jump and slosh soda over my hand. I turned to see Mr. Beautiful. Of course he would sound lovely. I already knew he smelled good, too. Yep . He strode over to me and I could really take in the scents. Sweet mangos and papayas, citrusy lime, sage…and, of course, that hint of man . I could tell it was natural—it didn't have the chemical undertone like cologne or soaps did. It was a fresh fragrance, making me think of sitting in the sun on a warm day.
"Uh, yeah." The lamp over us cast its light directly on his spellbinding face. He took my breath away and made my mind foggy.
It wasn't right for a guy to be so incredibly attractive. Besides how tall he stood—towering at least a foot over my five-two—I noticed his hazel eyes first. They pulled me into their staggering beauty, with a wide ring of emerald green on the outside of the irises and brown around the pupils with gold specks that seemed to… sparkle . They were fringed with such long, dark lashes that it was unfair they were on a guy. His facial features were flawless—a square jaw, full lips and a golden suntan—better than any movie star or model. Sandy brown hair, longer on top and streaked by the sun, topped off his perfection. And then he smiled magnificently and the gold flecks in his eyes sparkled brighter, like when the sun hits gold flakes in a mining pan. My brain slid out the exit door and my insides melted. Get a grip!
I tried to remember his name. He had to have introduced himself to the team. I must have been really focused on that mind nudge, because I drew a blank.
"I'm Tristan…in case you didn't catch it."
I nodded as if I knew. "Yeah, nice to meet you, Tristan. Sorry about running into you."
"I'm not," he murmured so quietly, I probably wasn't supposed to have heard.
We both stood there awkwardly…well, I felt awkward, anyway. I expected him to leave, but, strangely, he didn't.
"So…how was your first day of classes?" he finally asked.
I looked up at him in surprise. Why are you talking to me? No one talks to me.
"Uh, fine, I guess. You?"
"This is my only class today and, so far, it's perfect." He chuckled, as if there were some underlying meaning to his answer.
"Lucky. This is my third."
"Busy day." Another moment of awkward silence passed before he continued, probably thinking it rude to walk off now. "This is my only class this semester, actually. Too much other stuff going on to take a full load right now."
I told him I could relate and, for some reason, babbled through my entire schedule, my hand flitting anxiously between twirling the tab of my soda can and tugging at my hair.
"Women's studies, huh?" He lifted an eyebrow, a gleam in his eyes. "Maybe I should look into that one. Sounds…interesting."
I laughed. It sounded unusually high, anxious. "It's almost all girls…but I'm sure they wouldn't kick you out."
Did I really just say that aloud? I blushed. He laughed, the pleasurable sound making my heart flip.
I struggled to concentrate through the rest of class, replaying the five-minute conversation with Tristan and silently chastising myself for acting like an airhead.
"Which dorm are you in?" the blond girl-next-door asked me after class. I thought someone called her Carlie.
"Oh, I live off campus, with my…" Oops, almost said Mom. I was out of practice. "…with my sister."
"Oh, too bad." She sounded genuinely disappointed. "I thought we could walk back together, maybe hang out. I'll see you Wednesday afternoon for our team meeting."
"Yeah, see you then." I thought maybe college was different than high school. People were actually friendly.
As soon as she left, prickles of fear trailed down my spine. I realized I'd have to walk to my car alone, in the dark, and that scared the crap out of me. It felt like the opportune time and place for another attack. My attackers probably didn't even know where I lived now, but I had no guarantees. They found me once. I was sure they could find me again.
I stuffed my books in my bag and retrieved my keys. I gripped them with their points jutting between my fingers to use as a weapon, clutched the bag's strap in my other hand and took a deep breath.
"I'll walk you out to the parking lot," Tristan offered, slinging his own bag over his shoulder. "You shouldn't be alone on campus at night."
I exhaled with relief. "That'd be great."
Though I'd just met him, I felt safe with Tristan. Not that I wanted him or anyone else involved, but I hoped those strangers wouldn't try to attack with other people around—real people, not boys with little pocket knives.
As we walked in silence, I wondered what was wrong with him. There had to be something because he paid attention to me. Of course, I was usually the one avoiding everyone else, only because I knew there would be a negative reaction at some point. But Tristan …I didn't want to avoid him. Something inside me seemed to click with him already.
I knew I was making a mistake, setting myself up for disappointment…or worse. Guys who even had a fraction of his looks could pick any girl, throw her a bone and she'd do anything for him—like his homework. That was the only reason they talked to freaks like me…unless they thought we were an easy score. I didn't want to think that way about Tristan, though. It wasn't fair. But if either were true, he'd be the one disappointed. For now, I'd give him the benefit of the doubt and pretend like it was perfectly normal for him to be talking to me. Again.
"So you live close by?" he asked.
"Yeah. Cape Heron, with my sister, Sophia. She bought a bookstore." Why am I telling him all this?
"The Book Nook? The one on Fifth?"
"Yeah, you know it?"
"I live in the Cape, too. I noticed it was re-opening soon."
"In a month or so. It's been closed for over a year, so it's needed a lot of work."
"Let me know if she needs any help. I'm good with my hands." He waved his hands in emphasis.<
br />
I tried not to think about what his hands may be good at. It made me giddy.
I was glad she'd already hired someone. Mr. Beautiful around Mom? They might meet at some point, considering we had several team projects over the semester and he lived near the bookstore. I thought I would kill her if she didn't make it clear that she's not interested. Although he couldn't possibly be interested in me, I didn't think I could stand for him to date her… to be my mother's boyfriend. Ugh!
"I'm taking a gamble here, but I'd say that's your ride?"
Besides a motorcycle, my 15-year-old, white VW convertible was the only vehicle in the parking lot. The other classes must have let out early for the first night. He walked me to my car.
"Guess I'll see you Wednesday?" he asked as I opened the door and dropped my bag on the back seat.
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Be careful." He paused, then added, "Driving home, I mean."
"Um, you, too." I eyed the shiny motorcycle. I didn't know what kind it was, but it definitely wasn't a Harley-Davidson, the only kind I really knew. It looked more like a racing bike, the kind seen screaming down the highway at ninety miles an hour, the rider hunched over the handlebars, dangerously weaving around traffic. He had a risky side. Maybe that's what the mind-nudge detected.
"You don't like bikes?"
"I like Harleys." I hoped that didn't offend him, if it was a Chevy-versus-Ford kind of thing.
He chuckled. "My other one is a Harley."
My eyes widened. "Your other one?"
"I like toys." He shrugged with a grin. "See you Wednesday."
I sat in my car and watched him walk away in my rearview mirror. About halfway across the parking lot, his whole body seemed to shift, to relax. I hadn't even noticed he was tense—he'd seemed so cool and casual. I wondered what made him anxious. Surely someone like him couldn't be nervous talking to someone like me. As he fired up the bike, he glanced over at my car and I started my own engine so he wouldn't think something was wrong. Don't mind me. Just ogling.