“Okay.” Shaking my head, I walk across the kitchen toward the doorway. “I guess I’ll go get it and be out of your hair then.”
“Sounds good to me,” she says curtly and resumes cooking.
Rolling my eyes, I disappear into the foyer and hurry up the stairs to my old room. This has always been the extent of our relationship: she says how much she dislikes me being around and I try my best to ignore her. It was easier to deal with when I couldn’t get pissed off, but now it takes a lot of control not to scream at her.
The once tan walls of my room have been painted a bright red, the shelf in the corner is stripped of my music collection, and the dresser drawers are open and empty. I walk over to the stack of boxes near the foot of the bed and I run my finger along the label. Memories stab at my brain like sharp nails.
Empty.
Lonely.
Hopeless.
I’m broken inside.
“Gemma’s junk,” I read the label out loud. “I guess it’s probably true… none of this stuff ever really meant anything to me.” I wish it did, though. I wish I had a connection to something—anything.
Sighing, I backtrack to the door and peer out into the hallway, making sure no one is there, before shutting the door. Kneeling down beside my bed, I reach underneath it and run my fingers along the bottom of the mattress until I find the papers. Fumbling with the tape, I peel off the photo. It’s ripped in half, faded, and frayed, but from what I can tell, it’s a picture of a woman with flowing, long, brown hair, blue irises, and a snow-white complexion. I once found it while cleaning under the stairway and kept it because I believe it’s my mother. I’ve hidden it under my bed because if Sophia found it, she would have taken it away. She hates it when I bring up my parents. The only thing I know about them is that my mother’s name was Jocelyn and I only know that because it’s on my birth certificate, which doesn’t list my father’s name and Sophia refuses to give me an explanation as to why.
I haven’t looked at the photo since I’ve been able to feel. It’s strange, the idea that it could be her. It makes my chest compress and I forget how to breathe. As tears threaten to spill out, I quickly get to my feet and tuck the picture into my back pocket. Sucking in a deep breath and forcing back the tears, I pick up a box and carry it down the stairs.
Marco is no longer in the kitchen and Sophia is taking off her apron. “Are you all right carrying those out by yourself? Marco’s back has been bothering him again.”
I nod as I observe a silver-framed photo of Marco and Sophia hanging on the wall next to the kitchen table. They are standing on the shore of a lake. Marco has his hand in front of his face, shielding his eyes from the sunlight and Sophia is to the side of him, smiling. On her collarbone I can see a hint of tattoo. The picture always confuses me because Sophia doesn’t seem like someone who would have a tattoo. She also doesn’t seem like someone who would have children of her own, either. Yet, she my mother’s mother.
“I was wondering if we could talk about that thing I mentioned last week,” I ask, shifting the box onto my hip, hoping she doesn’t notice that I’m lying. “It’s for a history paper I’m working on. I kind of need to know a thing or two about my parents.”
Sophia turns away from the stove. “I thought I told you not to bring them up—that I didn’t want to talk about them.”
“Well, I kind of need you to.” I set the box down on the table. Actually, I don’t. I just want to know for myself. “Otherwise, I might fail and I’m so close to being finished, the last thing I want to do is fall behind schedule for graduation.”
She turns off the stove and narrows her eyes at me. “It doesn’t matter. We are not going to talk about your parents. Ever.”
“Why not?” I ask, battling my anger. “What scares you so much about the idea?”
With her hands on her hips, Sophia storms toward me, her high heels clicking forcefully against the tile. “Do you think it’s easy for me to talk about my daughter’s death? Do you like to make me hurt?”
I hold my chin high, refusing to cower back. “No, but it feels like I should know something about her. About both my parents. In fact, you should have told me about them a long time ago.”
Her skin turns a ghostly white and lines form around her eyes as she gives me a harsh look. “We will not talk about this ever again. Do you understand?” She hurries out of the kitchen and, seconds later, I hear her bedroom door shut.
Tears sting at my eyes, but I force them back. I won’t let the sadness win. I’m tougher than that. I’ve lived without the knowledge of my parents for twenty-one years for hell sakes.
Opening the back door, I step outside. Even though a blizzard has blown in, it feels warmer than in the house.
***
By the time I pull up to the campus, I’m late for Calculus and there’s a test today. My grade is already nearing the seventy percent mark, so I can’t miss it. Swinging the car door open, I hop out into the snowfall. Deciding to leave the boxes in the trunk, I rush across the campus yard, the snow crunching under my sneakers. I keep my eyes on my watch, watching the minutes tick down. I speed up to a run, but then pause when I approach the salted sidewalk as the prickling sensation stabs at my neck.
Dammit.
I wait for an emotion to rise and take me over, wondering how complex it will be, but a few seconds go by and I feel nothing, so I force my feet to move and step up onto the curb. As my shoe touches the ground, my skin heats and my gaze zeroes in on a guy walking toward me from across the parking lot.
I’m almost certain I’ve seen him before, but can’t place from where. My neck tingles again, little pin prickles, like the day my tears were unleashed for the very first time. I’m flooded with a desire to chase him down, rip off his clothes, bite on his neck, and do all the dirty things I’ve been dreaming about. I might have acted on the impulse, too, but a snowball smacks me in the face and diverts my gaze from him.
I wipe the snow from my cheek and glare at the thrower. “Didn’t you see me standing here?”
A heavyset guy with a beanie on surrenders his hands in front of him as he backs toward the entrance of the campus. “Sorry, I was aiming for him.” He nods his head to my right at a lanky guy with a hoodie pulled over his head.
I pluck chunks of snow out of my hair as I rush toward the entrance doors and catch up with the guy I’ve been having dirty thoughts about right as he swings the door open. He steps to the side and holds it open for me, like a true gentleman. I bite my bottom lip to keep my irrational, lust-filled emotions contained, and walk in; my heart hitting the inside of my chest. Keep moving forward. Don’t stop. My thoughts are weaker than my feet and I halt, peering up at him.
My heart stops as recognition takes over. I know him. Well, too. A faint spark is flickering deep inside my memories, but I don’t understand how. All I know is that I can’t breathe. Or maybe, I am breathing for the very first time. Maybe this is what it is like to feel alive.
Then it hits me. He’s the guy from my dream. He’s even more gorgeous in person; tousled, dark brown hair and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. His long limbs are carved with muscles, and confidence radiates off him from the way he stands to the look in his eyes. He wears a black hoodie and dark jeans that hang low on his hips. I can’t seem to take my eyes of the patch of skin that shows when he raises his hand to run his fingers through his hair, making his shirt ride up a little.
When our gazes collide, I’m shocked by a zap of electricity that fires through my body. The size of my eyes amplify as the feeling expands, coiling into my stomach and burning between my thighs. A gasp escapes my lips as my body quivers from the rush. I’ve felt this before, many times in my dreams, but, God dammit, it feels so much better in real-life.
A look of intrigue and fascination masks his face as he watches me, like he’s waiting for something momentous to happen.
Does he know me? Does he dream about me, like I dream about him? How can any of this be possible?
I extend my hand toward his chest and slide my palm up the front of his shirt; needing to touch him, be close to him. His heart thuds underneath my palm, matching the erratic beat of mine and his eyes widen, his gaze flicking to my lips and for a brief, but earth-shattering moment, he looks like he might kiss me.
“Do I know you?” I ask as my fingers brush the top of his collar and electricity rips from my fingertips to my toes.
Suddenly his expression slips into a scowl. “I’m sorry, but did I give you permission to put your hands on me?” He sidesteps around me and lets the heavy metal door slam into my elbow.
“Ow.” I rub at the pain on my arm as every ounce of my elation cracks, shatters, and falls to the floor. “What the hell was that for?”
He shoots me a harsh look and my mouth drops open. “Next time, hold the damn door open for yourself.”
Fucking asshole. It’s amazing how one second I feel like I’m in an eternal state of ecstasy and the next I’m boiling in a pot full of rage, all because this sexy stranger opened that delicious-looking mouth of his.
He turns his back on me and strolls down the hall without a glance back; leaving me angry, irritated, and totally turned on.
Yep, there is definitely something wrong with my head.
Chapter 2
For the rest of the day, I try to make sense of what happened in the entryway with Mr. Sexy Douche Bag. I shouldn’t have just reached out and groped him that way, but his reaction was still surprising. Maybe he’s just naturally a jerk, but why have I dreamt about him? Plus, there is that strange electric connection. None of it makes sense.
The next morning, after a very rough night of nightmares, I head off to Astronomy, relieved I can finally relax. I love learning about the stars. Even back in high school, during my emotionally detached days, I would stare up at the night sky and appreciate the beauty of each one; how they seem to be separate but whole. The first time I ever experienced happiness was when I had been lying in bed one night, staring out my window at the stars shining harmoniously. The prickle showed up and I smiled as the warmth of happiness swelled inside me. Ever since then, I’ve felt this strange bond with the night sky, like somehow I’m connected to it.
The classroom is empty when I enter. Taking a seat at the back corner desk on the upper row, I set my book on the table and take a pen out from my bag. Although I don’t have any future plans for my life, I hope that one day I can do something with the stars. I’m working on a General Studies degree because nothing seems to fit right. Whenever I look forward and try to envision my future, all I see is light.
The winter semester has barely started; there are a few extra students who show up and some who drop out over the first few weeks. I notice a girl I’ve never seen before around campus walk into the classroom. Her golden-brown hair is twisted up in a clip that matches the shade of her pink sweater. Her eyes are a fierce green, traced with brown liner and there’s something familiar about her.
She smiles at me as she takes the seat in front of me and sets her purse onto the desk. “Hi, I’m Aislin Avery.”
“I’m Gemma Lucas.” I feel strange because people rarely talk to me. Around sophomore year, I started to believe that perhaps I was invisible and that people couldn’t see me. “Is it your first day in this class?”
She nods and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she begins rummaging around in her purse. “I just transferred to UW.”
“Are you a senior?”
She nods. “What year are you?”
“I’m a senior too.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” she says, retrieving some lip-gloss from her bag. “It’s nice to meet a fellow soon-to-be graduate.” She turns around and directs her attention to her phone.
I stare out the window and watch the snowflakes drift down from the sky as people begin to wander into the classroom. There is a little yellow light flickering near a cluster of leafless bushes, like a lightning bug spazzing out. The longer I stare at it, the more it blends into the snow and fades away.
Strange.
I click the cap of the pen off as my thoughts drift to the guy I ran into yesterday. For most of my life, I’ve never thought of guys as anything more than people, figures that filled up the school hallways and ran over me like I was nonexistent. And in my past that was fine. I never felt sad, lonely, or depressed. It was as if I was an object that filled up space, moved without cause, and served no purpose. Things changed when I started to feel emotions. It isn’t like I want every single guy I come across, but I do have a very vivid imagination that is fed by my loneliness. If I had actual friends, then maybe my dreams and thoughts would tone down a little.
As I put the cap back on the pen, my hand begins to tremble and my gaze automatically dashes toward the doorway. My jaw drops. The guy from yesterday is walking inside. He moves like a cat with measured stretches of his long limbs and every muscle in his body flexes underneath his grey Henley and jeans. His hooded eyes are fastened on me as he climbs up the steps toward me and my fingers nearly strangle the life out of the pen in anticipation.
Is the strange, electric heat going to appear again?
He veers down the aisle in front of me, then flings his gaze off me and drops down into the seat beside Aislin. “Did you get your schedule all worked out?" he asks, reclining back in the chair and biting at a pen.
“Kind of.” Aislin grabs a small paper from her purse, places it on the desk in front of her and runs her hands along it to smooth out the wrinkles. “The office people were kind of jerks.”
He looks over his shoulder as he tips back the chair and the two front legs disconnect from the floor. He arches his eyebrows at me, probably because I’m staring at him with my mouth hanging agape. There’s probably even some drool on my chin.
I discretely wipe my chin with the sleeve of my jacket, relaxing when it feels dry.
Aislin revolves around in her seat and beams a grin at me. “Gemma, this is my brother Alex.”
I extend my hand out to him, wondering what it’s going to feel like to touch him and if it will strike up the spark again. “It’s nice to meet you.”
His eyebrows furrow as his gaze cuts to my hand and then back to my face. He lowers the chair legs back to the ground and shrugs me off as he faces his sister. “So how much unpacking do you have left?”
My fingers grip around the pen until my knuckles turn white and it takes every ounce of energy not to stab him in the back of the neck. Thankfully, Professor Sterling enters the classroom and begins his lecture on sky charting. The interruption calms me down.
I jot down a few notes, but my concentration keeps straying to Alex. He is leaning back in his chair with his arms tucked behind his head and his eyes are half open. His shirt is riding up and his rock hard abs are peeking out. I rest my chin in my hand and focus on the lines of his muscles, his luscious lips, his firm jawline. Every now and again, he bites down on his bottom lip and I picture myself sucking it into my mouth, biting down on it and then sucking it into my mouth again. I imagine my hands touching every inch of his body, feeling how hard he is.
I’m thoroughly enjoying how hot the mental picture makes my body feel when he unexpectedly tilts his head toward me. Our gazes collide and a fire crackles inside me, flaming passionately; full of a need I can’t quite grasp. Then he glares and the fire goes poof, fizzles, and I feel put out; extinguished to nothing more than a thin trail of smoke. He quickly looks away and everything goes back to normal.
As class continues, the silence of the electricity is maddening. In a twisted way, I want to feel it because it feels good, but does it really exist? Just as the thought crosses my mind that maybe I have imagined it, a sharp spark nips at my lips. It is gentle at first, barely a tingle, but it grows stronger as it streams down my neck and my skin, causing a vibration deep inside me. I flex my hands and cross my legs trying to suffocate the tingling between my thighs.
Alex’s jaw is taut as he stares ahead at the front of the classroom where
Professor Sterling is yammering about something that is probably important, but all I can concentrate on is the untamed desire I feel. I want to do things to him, like jump over the desk and peel his clothes off.
Alex jerks his fingers through his hair and cocks his head to the side to capture my eye. His expression is a mixture of emotions: fear, anger, longing; they mirror my own perfectly. It’s becoming harder than hell to keep my hands to myself. I finally have to tuck them between my legs before I end up reaching out and touching him.
Seconds later, Alex breaks our gaze and redirects his attention to the front of the classroom, clicking his pen over and over again through the rest of the lecture.
At the end of class, Professor Sterling assigns everyone to a group to work on a project and my group gets assigned to create a presentation about Gamma-ray bursts. I hate when he does this. I thought after high school that it’d be over, but there are always a few Professors who think it’s beneficial to aid each other in projects. Worst of all, he pairs me with Alex and Aislin, which has to be fate slapping me across the face. Hopefully, I can keep my Goddamn hands to myself, but at the moment the idea doesn’t seem plausible.
I gather my stuff and put my books into my bag before swinging it over my shoulder. Trying not to look at Alex, I start down the stairs, but his shoulder rams into me as he exits the aisle. I trip sideways, slamming my hip into one of the corners of a desk. Something inside my skull pops and images deluge my brain like little pieces of glass.
Alex and I are in front of a glistening lake, crisp with blue ice and encircled by frosted trees. Death is in the air and the sky is opaque and ominous. Snowflakes twirl around us and the temperature is well below freezing.
Shattered Promises (Shattered Promises, #1) Page 2