Keeper vs. Reaper (Graveyard Guardians Book 1)

by Jennifer Malone Wright

  We stood there chest to chest, him breathing hard and me starting to. I looked up into his eyes and he smelled so good, I could not place the cologne, but it was woodsy and not too overbearing. He grinned down at me, a good five inches taller. He was not broad shouldered, but not too tiny either. I would have to say he was just right. Strange for me to even think it. He lifted my hat and I ignored it as I got caught up in his features. Close up he was even more…

  “Here you go,” he said as his voice interrupted my inner monologue.

  I blinked as I took my hat from him, “Thank you…again.”

  He stayed where he was and I cleared my throat. Suddenly, his close proximity to me becoming clear. I felt flustered by how much I enjoyed it. I guess my lack of companionship was wearing on me, or perhaps I am just a tad bit off my game. I would have to guess the second was definitely true.

  “No problem,” he replied as I reached behind me and fumbled with the door handle.

  I opened it and backed up, keeping my eyes on him and grinning. I know I seem awkward, I always do and I cannot help it. I stepped through the door and made my way down the hallway. I glanced back as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. I turned back and made my way along the narrow corridor the best that I could.

  He called out to me, “Thank you, for the hand back up onto the train.”

  I nodded to him and stared for a moment longer than I needed to. I could not help it. He was the cutest thing I had seen in quite some time, not that I was looking…because I don’t. Like I said, I am not good at relationships at all.

  The train was gaining in speed, so I swayed back and forth, trying my best to not look like an idiot as I made my way down the hallway. I glanced back as the anonymous man watched me, I felt my face heat up, my emotions completely out of control.

  I finally saw my door number and slid it open. I peeked in and grinned as I remembered it, just the same as it had been when I was eleven and here with my dad. I slid the door closed behind me and walked to the single bed. I placed my suitcase on it and felt the old dark leather. It was smooth and weathered. Containing memories, as old things tend to do. This was the suitcase I had brought on my trip with him and half the stickers that adorned it were collected by the two of us. We had not traveled to all of these places, in fact, these were simply meant to be a map of all the places we said we wanted to go. A wish list, so to speak.

  I flipped the lid open and pulled out my dad’s picture, it was an old black and white. He was much younger, in fact he was the same age I am now, all of twenty-five. Mom would probably be pissed if she knew I had it, but I snatched it up when I left home for New York and bigger dreams. It was always my favorite one of him. He looked like a writer, pipe in hand, shit-eating grin on his face. As I age I do see him in me, especially my eyes.

  I turned and sat down on the bed, holding his picture and then I leaned back. I closed my eyes and felt the sway of the train as the bed felt soft under me. Some people may not be able to sleep like this, but I prefer to have movement and noise. If it is too quiet, I will lay awake all night. My dad was the same way, he used to get up in the middle of the night when I lived at home and eat a cheese sandwich with a glass of milk. I remember walking into the kitchen one night and seeing him sitting at the island in the middle of the room. He took a big bite and then grinned at me as he chewed. I joined him, I think I was thirteen at the time, and it became a strange ritual we had of cheese and milk at midnight. I don’t think my mom ever knew that he got up at night when the house was quiet so he could spend some time alone. If I had been older, I would have left him to it, everyone needs their personal space and time respected. I understand that, now that I am an adult, but then? Well, I just felt like it was one more cool thing that we shared that no one else knew about.

  I then started to drift off, clutching my dad’s picture to my chest. The words “He is gone, Jasmine,” echoed in my mind. Dad was gone, he had died two days ago while working in the mill. A heart attack they said, sudden…he felt nothing, but how do they know that? How can anyone know what anyone else feels at the time of their death? All I knew is that I hoped he simply closed his eyes and the rest became his greatest adventure, one I would also encounter someday….one we all have to encounter. That of death.

  “Dad,” I whispered as one tear rolled down my cheek.

  Sleep finally came and the dream started out as any other would. I looked up and saw my childhood home, our large, seven room, two story white house. Black shutters flanking rows of windows, with a porch that wrapped around it on two sides. It had two swings, one on either end, in fact, we had two of most things. Two tire swings in the backyard, two treehouses that my dad built and so on. It was a home that was passed down through generations, my mother’s side of the family owned it and she grew up there, as did Gram.

  It was never an issue for my dad. In fact, his family had come from the other side of the tracks, as they used to say, and my mom was from money. Moderate money, but in a small town moderate money was considered well-off. We never had to go without, but we were certainly taught the value of things and the hand-me-downs filled my closet. If my sisters wore it, then I got it and, honestly, I loved it. I still thrift to this day and prefer to shop this way. I guess I just like things with character and a history. The only thing I did not enjoy were the dresses, ironically enough I tend to wear them more now than I ever did as a child. I find it funny how we change as we age.

  Like I said before, we had two of most of everything. I really did appreciate the second treehouse that my dad had built in the backyard. I used that one and my sisters used the other. It was a private refuge for me. Funny thing was my dad never visited theirs. It had handmade curtains in it made by my mom, a table my dad constructed, small chairs and so on. I think it even had a rug on the wood floor, pictures on the walls, very homey. Mine was practical and built for survival. Before you wonder why, just know that I went through a Zombie Apocalypse stage and that my treehouse became ground zero for me. I had maps on the walls, canned food and so on. My dad loved it and I remember he told me how proud he was of me that I seemed to be able to think ahead, even for “unlikely” scenarios. I did not take that as rude in any way, I was just glad he loved it. He would often visit me there, a place I felt more at home than in the house itself sometimes. My sisters were constantly up for drama, not necessarily bad drama, but drama just the same, and I avoided it. All I wanted was to be ready for the proverbial shit to hit the fan, which by the age of thirteen, I was certain would happen.

  My dream continued on as I walked towards the house and then I could hear it. The squeaking of one of the tire swings out back. I walked around the side of the house and saw someone in the swing. As I walked towards them, I realized it was a boy, he had on jeans, a white t-shirt and dark hair. I looked down and felt my palms become sweaty. I wiped them on the sides of my jeans, slowly approaching him with uncertainty. I stepped up behind him, about eight feet out, he stopped swinging and spoke to me. I listened closely, as his voice sounded so familiar and yet I could not place it.

  He stopped moving, his tennis shoes digging into the dirt under the swing as mine had so many times when I was a child.

  “Hello, Jazzy,” he said in a calm tone.

  I started to blink as I heard a knocking...then another and another, until I opened my eyes and the vision of the beautiful boy disintegrated in my mind, but his voice lingered. It merged with the one calling outside of my room. “Room service.”

  I sat straight up and I realized I had drool coming from my mouth, I wiped it away as I grimaced. Drooling was old for me, I used to do it when I slept at home, but not as an adult. I stood up and swayed as the train rocked a little and then settled down. I stepped up to the door and slid it open and there he stood, my new, attractive friend who had helped me onto the train. I blinked a couple of times and he reached up and took a pencil from the side of my hair. I had just enough left to ball it on the side and I had a habit of shoving pencils into
it. It was something I had done my whole life without thinking about it. If you draw on enough maps you end up with pencils and pens in pockets and shoved in your hair. I smiled as he pulled it down in between us and stared at it.

  His eyes looked mischievous and I enjoyed it. “Writer?” he asked me. His lip curling up on the edge and only making him cuter.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Part-time poet… . . . . amateur at best.”

  He grinned. “Mmmm. Interesting, I took you for more of a baker.”

  I tilted my head and then he extended his hand once again and I found myself shaking his. It was another habit I had. Something my dad always did. Even if he knew someone for over a decade, the handshake was a necessary greeting in his mind.

  He glanced down as I shook his hand with some force. His expression told me he was surprised I did it. “I am Cody, Cody Baker.”

  “I am….” Then I stopped and stared into his eyes with curiosity. “Wait, why a baker?” I asked him and he smiled.

  “It’s my family’s name, I really had no say in it.”

  I laughed. “No, you said I looked like a Baker.”

  “Oh, you have…” he reached up and touched his cheek as he stared at mine. I reached up and wiped cream from my face and shook my head. I must look insane.

  “It’s moisturizer. I was in a hurry and I didn’t even rub it in, has it been there the whole time?”

  He nodded yes and tried not to laugh at me. “You have issues with time, I can appreciate that. I have some myself.”

  I rubbed the rest of the moisturizer from my cheek as he stared past me and into my room.

  “You got a nice, big room here, bigger than mine.”

  I looked behind me and he stepped in before I could say anything to him about it.

  He walked up to the window and stared out, as the gorgeous landscape passed us by. The sky was blue and the leaves were changing. Fall was coming and along with it, my favorite time of the entire year. I honestly could go without summer, spring or winter. But Fall…oh, I loved it more than anything else in the world.

  I watched him closely, as I realized how attractive he was. I mean, I had been taken back with him as we stood chest to chest, but I brushed it off as a symptom of the situation and nothing more. He had dark hair, almost black, but with flecks of dark brown in it. I could see them as his bangs fell into his face and the sun from the window danced across them. His jaw was firm, his lips full and he had a light-olive complexion. He looked like the type of man who would have a girlfriend, maybe even a fiancé. I mean, he was too cute to not have someone interested in him. He looked back at me with his blue eyes and I smiled, a little embarrassed that I had been staring at him so hard. He grinned and asked me the logical question.

  “So, what is your name?”

  Oh yeah, man. I am sorry, it is Jasmine, but people just call me Jazz for short.”

  He glanced down at my clothing, of which would probably seem a bit outrageous for some, but I love color and being different.

  “Like a jazz club, I like that,” he said as he walked past me and to the door. He stopped and turned back to me. “Well, Jazz, I am going to go get a drink and a smoke. Do you want to come with me?”

  I shook my head ‘no’ before I realized it may seem rude.

  “Oh, okay,” he said as he disappeared through my door and I ran to it and leaned out as the train's movement made me sway on my feet.

  “I don’t smoke!” I called out to him, he turned around and walked backwards as he grinned at me. He seemed to have no trouble with his balance at all.

  “Good thing, it is a nasty habit.” He turned and kept walking away from me.

  I bit my lip and then spoke up. If it was the grief guiding me, I didn’t care. I felt compelled to not allow him to simply slip away from me. “I could use a drink.” I called out to him. He stopped and turned back. I knew from his expression that it made him happy and it felt good, I will not lie.

  He looked me over. “I would be happy to buy you one.”

  “I have money, I can buy my own.” I said as I relaxed against my doorframe.

  He laughed. “Oh good, because I don’t have any money, at all. I was banking on you saying no, you seem to be pretty feisty.”

  I laughed and narrowed my eyes. I slipped back into my room and ran to my suitcase. I opened it up and pulled out a fresh shirt and jeans. I slid my dress off and slipped the t-shirt over my head. The jeans followed as I ran to the bed and laid down on my back, buttoning them up and tapping my fingers on my stomach. I glanced over at the picture of my dad and smiled at him.

  “Did you send him here, Dad?” I asked him as he grinned back at me from the black and white photo. I sat up and walked back over to my open suitcase and grabbed a hot pink scarf with white birds all over it. I wrapped loosely it around my neck. I ran to the bathroom and shook my head, as my hair looked ridiculous. I quickly fingered through it and watched it stick up every which way but the right one. I grabbed some gel and messed with it until it looked presentable and stopped. I stepped back and shook my head, suddenly weirded out by caring so much about how I looked. I shook it and let it get messy again and grinned. This was me now, a bit messy and wild. I hesitated as I stared myself down.

  “Why? Just go and have a drink damn it,” I whispered. I ran back to the door and slid it open, only to stop dead as Cody stood there waiting for me. I bumped into his chest and he smiled down at me. I rubbed my nose and laughed.

  He looked down into my eyes, his bright with anticipation. “I don’t think I have ever been on a date so fast in my life.”

  I held my hand up to him. “This is not a date.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, what do we call it then?”

  “A chance encounter.”

  He laughed and I stepped back from him. “What?” as my right eyebrow rose. Another common trait in my family.

  He rubbed his neck. “Are you sure you are not a writer?”

  I swallowed and placed my hands into my pockets. “Well, maybe a little.”

  “Novelist?” he asked me and I shook my head.

  “No, newspaper. I write articles that no one gives a shit about, in the back…way back, like almost off the end of the paper itself.”

  He laughed and then parted his lips. I noticed his white teeth and his tongue behind them. I blinked and collected myself. Yeah he was cute, so what? I need a drink. I walked past him and out into the hallway as he followed me. The train rocked and I stumbled. His one hand going to my waist and the other under my arm. He steadied me as I once again felt him close to me. I sighed and he let me go.

  I turned to him and nodded. “Thank you, again. I am fine, really, I am. I just have crap balance.” He looked me over and I liked it. His expression soothed me. It was odd to meet someone that I immediately felt comfortable with. I had heard about it happening with people, I had just never experienced it for myself.

  He smiled, without saying a word. I followed along and then ended up next to him. I glanced over at him and felt grateful. I know it may seem simple, but he was helping me not think about what I needed to do when I got home.

  It was not going to be pleasant and I already knew that all of my sisters would be as annoying as ever. Asking me a million questions as to why I was not with anyone, when would I be getting married and be settling down. All things they did with ease. It was not easy to find someone who fit me like that. Marriage was important, it was a commitment to another human being that should be forever. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I am not naïve. I know people change and things happen, but finding the puzzle piece that slips easily into your own life is not something I take lightly. I also wasn’t even sure who that would be. Would it be a girl or a guy? I had no idea. I was not avoiding it, either. I mean, if I meet a girl and she is the one, then that is how it is and I guess telling my mom and sisters would have to happen then, but without it happening, there was no need to say it. Not yet. My dad was the only person I had ever told that I was bi. Well,
him and the one girlfriend I had when I lived at home.

  We sat at the table and our drinks vibrated. The bumps beneath the train were causing ripples in the liquid as if something was coming. I looked up at him and his eyes looked even prettier in the light of the bar car. I leaned back and fingered at my drink and he took the initiative to talk to me. I needed him too. I need to just NOT think about my dad and the inevitable fact that I would be attending his funeral. I touched my chest as my heart fluttered and hoped like hell I was not going to have a panic attack. I had had them a few times in my life, normally when the stress of things became too heavy to bear…or, when my sisters would surround me and bombard me with their opinions. I fingered at the small space at the base of my throat and Cody noticed.

  “Drink,” he said to me and I looked up into his eyes. “It will help,” he added, as if he knew.

  I narrowed my eyes. “What? I am fine.”

  He nodded and leaned back in his seat. He glanced out the window and then began to speak in his calm tone. He was just one of those people who seemed to be completely relaxed and in turn, it would relax you too. I sighed and took a drink, thinking maybe he was right. I swallowed as he reached up and brushed his hair back, exposing his whole face.

  He cleared his throat. “I had panic attacks up until I was seventeen and then they stopped.” His eyes lingered on me as I tried to accept that he noticed. I sipped at my drink and didn’t say a word.

  He leaned up and interlocked his fingers on the table and I saw his hands, they looked soft, unlike my dad’s, which were dry and cracked from years of manual labor.