Izzy Moffit's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 1)

by James, Victoria L.

  “Quite the opposite? Mav, what did you do?”

  Both hands fly to my face in embarrassment, covering my eyes and my mouth in an attempt to try and hold everything in place so no more tears fall out. I don’t know why I’m so fucking emotional with this, but since leaving him thirty minutes ago, I haven’t been able to keep my head straight. I’m part blaming the expensive bubbles he made me taste and part blaming the mess that is just unequivocally me. I can’t bring myself to look at her when I say what happened, so I keep my hands in place and mutter against my palms.

  “I inadvertently put him in hospital.”

  “What?”

  “He’s… He’s had an allergic reaction to something I put on his gourmet burger thing. I didn’t know, obviously. I was just trying to make him laugh like he was making me laugh. We were fooling around, platonically, of course - playing practical jokes on each other and just, well, having fun.” The words tumble out in a squashed heap and spill out through my fingers as my hands slowly drag down my face in disbelief. When my eyes pop open, I stare at her and beg her not to laugh. “He’s hooked up to a million machines because I thought it was funny to put a hot chilli on his food, not knowing anything about him or what damage I could do to him.

  “Are you serious?” she asks slowly, each word coming out like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing.

  “Deadly. Shit, I don’t mean deadly. I mean…” I trail off with a sigh. “Yeah, I’m serious, really fucking serious.”

  “Oh my god!” Her hand flies to her mouth, and I can tell by the creasing of her eyes that she’s trying to hold back the hysterics, mainly because a man’s life is potentially at stake here, all because I got so nervous and intent on having a good time that I fucked up royally. Clearing her throat as subtly as she can, she tries to keep me talking, but all I want to do is run up the stairs, hide in bed and never see daylight again. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “I have no idea. Nor do I have any idea whether I will still have a job in the morning, Paris.”

  “I’m sure everything is going to be okay, Mav. Don’t do that thing you do where you just sit and beat yourself up over something that might not happen. You worry too much.”

  My head flops to the side, tired, worn and a little defeated. What I haven’t told her is that deep down inside, I was secretly hoping for a little romance in my life right now. Nothing serious, just someone outside of her who could pay me a little attention, take my mind off all our responsibilities and make me feel alive again. “You think so?”

  “I know so.” Jumping up from her spot, she bats off the imaginary dust from her pyjama bottoms and flicks her head back towards the kitchen. “Come on. Let me get you a hot drink, calm you down, and then we can both go watch some trashy, middle of the night television in my room. What do you say?”

  My efforts to smile at her don’t work. The curling of my lips twists into some sort of a paralyzed grimace as I nod my head and tell her to go on through without me and I’ll be with her in a minute. Closing my eyes one last time, I see poor Max’s face as he started to choke and struggle for air in the middle of the fancy bar and grill he’d taken me to. At first, I thought he had been messing with me to get my attention. We’d been having so much fun, laughing back and forth, before I played that stupid trick on him, and now he is in hospital.

  I feel like every decision I make these days is the wrong one for everyone around me, but I know that sitting here wallowing isn’t going to get me anywhere at all, except slap bang in the middle of a fit of dark depression.

  Groaning out loud as I push myself off the floor and up into a crouch, I stagger backwards when my foot makes contact with something that slides out from beneath it. It takes a moment to regain my balance, given what a state I’m in, but when I do, my eyes stumble upon a blue envelope laying not two feet away from me.

  I instinctively start to shout for Paris, but the second I see that the front has been left blank; something stops me from dragging her into this until I know exactly who it’s from. Gingerly reaching down, I pick it up with the very tips of my fingers and spin it around to get a good look at it. There’s no writing on the outside. No postmark. Whoever this is from, it was hand delivered not long ago. It definitely wasn’t here when Max picked me up earlier.

  The muscles in my stomach contract with nervous tension as I peel it open, slide out the small, once-folded note that lies inside and open it up. The few words on the page stare back at me and fill me with instant terror.

  When I said forever, I meant it. I know you did, too.

  J x

  I don’t know how long I sit here for, reading and re-reading the same sentence over and over again. The sound of Paris’ feet padding down the hallway as she softly calls my name makes me snap out of my daze, shove the note in my coat pocket and try shaking the nerves out of the tips of my fingers.

  “Hey, Izzy, come on. This isn’t your fault.” Her hand reaches out for mine as she looks nervously between my hands, then back up to my tear-filled eyes. “You’re shaking,” she whispers.

  “I’ll be okay,” I lie.

  “I haven’t heard that before,” she mutters quietly, sliding beside me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder and squeezing me close to her. “Come on. Let’s get you that drink and try to make you look less like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  As she guides me back into the house, the note in my pocket feels as though it’s on fire, burning through the fabric and pressing itself against my skin. I don’t know how to tell her what I’ve just discovered, but I know I will have to say something soon. All I need to try and figure out now is which J it was that sent us the note and which one of us it was for.

  Was it Jack? Was it Jason Dagson?

  I never thought I’d see the day when I hoped, for Paris’ sake, that it was my ghost that wanted to get back in touch and take hold of me and not hers.

  And here I was thinking tonight couldn’t possibly get any worse than it already was.

  Thirty-Three

  Summer 2009

  An omission of truth is often worse than a lie. A half-truth can be more destructive than the whole truth, yet ignorance is most definitely bliss.

  The morning after I find that note, I go down into the kitchen to tell her everything, only to see her dancing around, cooking up a breakfast with a huge smile on her face. The effort she has gone to on this particular morning to cheer me up and make a feast is so overwhelming, the only thing I can do is remain silent and listen to her speak. She’s made phone calls to the hospital to check on Max on my behalf and found out he’s going to be okay. The relief of that alone causes me to stay quiet about the whole letter situation. Now isn’t the right moment, and I can tell her later on today.

  Only later never comes. Not today, not tomorrow, not even a week or a month later.

  Six months of omissions, half-truths and ignorance is what awaits me, but the bliss, for me, is nowhere to be seen.

  Between visits to see how Max is doing, trying to hold down a job that I so nearly lost due to my incredible ability to seek out disaster, the subject just never comes up. After a full week of the note sitting in my coat pocket, I eventually end up scrunching it up into a ball and throwing it in the bin under my desk at work.

  I hope it was a one off - a silly prank set to make both of us scared, but I really should know better by now.

  It's all little things at first, things that most people would put down to coincidence or bad luck, but I know different. Two slashed tyres in the space of two months isn't just unfortunate, it's planned, and heavy footsteps behind me whenever I'm out walking means I’m constantly looking over my shoulder in search of someone who might be ready to pounce.

  Every night when I switch off all the lights and lock the doors, I slyly take a peek out of the windows out onto the main road, just to see if I can see anyone or anything at all. Apparently, I'm hiding it well from Paris. She never once asks me why I insist on being the one who locks up the
house before we retreat to our bedrooms, and she never once asks me why I’m constantly texting her to see if she’s safe or where she’s at. Maybe I’ve always been this way and she’s finally accepting me for what I am.

  Or maybe she’s getting herself so lost in what appears to be her new addiction that whatever I’m doing seems to be fading away into the background. Her constant string of one night stands and meaningless flings has gone through the roof since the moment I caught her spaced out on the couch. While she has kept her promise not to relapse with substance abuse again, I can’t deny the worry at what she seems to have replaced it with.

  Sex.

  It’s not like I’ve been totally innocent in that area myself lately. I may not have the same wild, dangerous, off the wall personality that Paris has when it comes to seeking out things that keep her mind away from reality, but I am a woman - a woman with needs and a desire to be held tight on occasion; a woman who sometimes feels a little weary and needs to lay on a man’s chest and feed off his strength, if only for the shortest amount of time. Luckily for me, I’m a woman who might not be any good at attracting the attention of the opposite sex, but who happens to have a beautiful best friend who has no problems in that department and can grab the spotlight on my behalf.

  For me, it’s only happened twice since she’s been back home. Both those times were ideal in the moment but utterly shameful the next morning. The euphoric feeling of someone wanting you so badly, they can’t wait to get you home and rip your clothes off gives you the biggest natural high. It’s the after effects I refuse to deal with. For Paris, however, it all seems worth it. It’s why I don’t lecture her about this new phase she’s going through too much.

  I understand it.

  If I hadn’t always been an over-thinker, I would probably do the same thing.

  Instead, I’ve turned my attention to exercise. In terms of adventure, it’s about as flat as it gets. In terms of freedom, it provides everything I need. When I tie up my shoes, head out of Casa and feel the slight breeze against my face, my blood starts to pump faster and harder before I’ve even really taken my first step. I have a set route now, one that allows me to discover the nicer side of Manchester and all the places that a lot of people don’t get to see. I start off on the main roads at first; keeping myself along the same paths I always take, before heading out into the more suburban areas.

  It’s a typically mild day, even though it’s the middle of July. England never has been able to co-ordinate the right month with the right weather. It should be warmer than it is but I’m grateful for the slightly cooler than usual temperatures. Running in sweltering heat is about as comfortable as sleeping on a bed of nails.

  I’ve left Paris at home, tending to the mechanics of the one true love in her life – her motorbike. It’s a luxury she can’t really afford to run, but it isn’t my place to say so. If that’s what she wants to spend the fruits of her labour on, and it keeps her away from the crazy life, I’m happy for her.

  I try not to acknowledge the slight buzz of excitement that runs through me as my feet hit the pathway that leads me through the park. It’s ridiculous for me to get like this over a stranger, yet here I am. Every day, for at least the last week, I’ve been running along this track at exactly the same time. It wasn’t a conscious decision to take this route at first; it just kind of happened. He just kind of happened.

  He isn’t anything to me other than a bit of eye candy who makes me smile for the brief ten seconds he’s running towards me and the following ten seconds after he’s run past, but what an amazing twenty seconds those are in my day.

  I don’t know his name. I don’t know who he is or where he’s from. Quite honestly, I don’t need or want to know, in case it taints all the weird and wonderful fantasies I find myself having about him in the quiet of my bedroom at night. All I want for him to do is keep on running.

  As I make my way down the awkward path that runs between the more overgrown part of the park’s woodlands, my ponytail dances wildly at the back of my head and my balled up fists draw higher to my chest to help me keep my balance. I’m on the trail down and, if the last few days are anything to go by, he should be on his way up any minute.

  Bouncing down two steps, I don’t let my pace drop at all. The sweat I’ve already worked up is trickling down my back and my chest. Small pieces of hair stick to the side of my face but I don’t rush to move them. There’s no point; there’s no elegance or vanity in exercise. My breathing is laboured as my feet make contact with the woodchip path at the bottom and I hop back into a heavy run. It’s difficult for me not to keep looking up, given I’m secretly hoping to see him. At around six foot tall with his unshaven face, hazel coloured eyes, short, dark hair and body to die for, any woman in their right mind would be itching to take a sneaky peek if they thought he was nearby.

  The memories of how he looked just yesterday come flooding back to torment me. It was a slightly hotter day than today and I had to remember to keep my mouth closed as I watched him running towards me, his baseball cap pulled down, shadowing his eyes, his jersey shorts hanging loosely from his hips and his bare chest out on display. Every bead of sweat on his skin looked so absolutely fucking delicious that even now, a whole twenty-four hours later, I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s become my secret highlight of the day, even though each encounter is as brief as an encounter can possibly be.

  The sound of heavy breathing approaching alerts me that he’s nearby. My body reacts instinctively and I’m suddenly trying to run like I’m as amazingly perfect at it as he is. Each step I take is made with extra bounce and I before I know it, I’m pushing my chest out that little bit more to… to what, Izzy? Fuck knows. Catch his attention? Sure. There’s out of my league, and then there’s out of Jessica Alba’s league. This guy is above even that.

  My eyes flicker up to take a cheeky look at him, and I’m grateful he isn’t close enough to hear the small gasp of appreciation that gets lodged in my throat. He’s wearing the same grey shorts as yesterday, but a white t-shirt covers his chest today. Every muscle in those arms of his is flexed to perfection as his body works overtime to maintain its thud-worthy form. He’s so focused on what it is he’s doing, I doubt he even notices me drawing closer to him, so I reluctantly let my chin drop back down to my chest and pick up speed. Within a few seconds, I’ve run past him and the glorious smell of his exercise-tainted aftershave clings to my nostrils. If I could bottle that, and him, up, I’m pretty sure I’d discover my weakness and addiction, and I’d never want anyone to allow me to recover from it.

  Unable to stop myself, I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to try and get a fleeting look at him from behind. The one thing I’ve not yet had chance to assess is his arse and, man, am I a sucker for a nice tush. As I look back to check out the Adonis running in the opposite direction, I see the one thing I never expected to see.

  He’s doing the exact same thing as me. He’s peeking over his shoulder, never once stopping or dropping his speed, but allowing himself to take in something that’s behind him, rather than in front. Completely embarrassed at having been caught out, I snap my head back around and widen my eyes in disbelief.

  “Oh my god,” I gasp through heaving pants. “Oh my fucking god, shit! He saw me.”

  I’m so focused on looking down and the overwhelming fire-like heat in my cheeks, I don’t think about what or whom he could have been checking out. Quickly glancing up and surveying my surroundings, I try to find a younger, fitter, more attractive version of a runner than myself, but the path through the woodlands is empty apart from him and me.

  Which means…

  No. No, he couldn’t have been.

  My mind is racing with inappropriate thoughts. My face is struggling to contain the smile that’s desperate to break free. My chest is tight as my body fights to keep up with the challenge I’m presenting it with. My feet ache and the underside of my ribs suddenly starts to collect a cluster of pain that feels an awful lot l
ike a bloody stitch. A stitch! I haven’t had one of those since I was in school, when the only running I ever did was the type that got me away from my family.

  Something has to give and it has to give quickly. Finding the nearest tree, in the densest part of the woods, I raise a hand up to the rough bark and stop where I am. My body folds over as my other hand grips onto my shaky knee. Every reaction I’m having is forcing my emotions to battle it out with one another. My brain is screaming at me to grow some metaphorical balls and chase after him and ask him out on a date. My heart is backed up in a corner saying don’t you damn well dare. My body is shaking like a leaf and begging for some water, a hot bath and twenty four hours of non-stop muscle rubs. My mouth however… That’s just desperate to open up and release the biggest fit of laughter of its life.

  Crouching down, my hand falls limply between my bent knees and I let it all out. Sweat trickles from my forehead, down onto the floor. My skin is slick from the exertion I’ve just put myself through, but I feel good - so fucking good, it’s ridiculous. The endorphins have kicked in big time and taken over my body. So much so that all my senses seem to shut down, and all I can see is the vision of him looking back over his shoulder at me, which is probably why I don’t hear the crunch of a stranger’s footsteps as the soles of their shoes make contact with the broken twigs and weeds behind me. The only thing I can hear is my own laughter and struggle for breath.

  I don’t hear the subtle growl that comes from the back of their throat as their body comes to stand over mine, and I certainly don’t see the shadow they cast on the floor to my right.

  I don’t smell their odour turn the air around me from something natural and pleasant to something far too masculine and rotten for it to have come from anything other than danger.

  I don’t taste the musky aftershave that, under any other circumstances, would have clogged my throat and caused me to gag from its overpowering, nastiness.