by Tracey Ward
It feels so stupid. It’s not enough. The second I send it, I realize how it sounds—like a brush off.
By the time I get on the plane and have to turn off my phone, it’s been fifteen minutes and he still hasn’t responded.
Kyle gave me an opening and I slammed it in his face.
I’m a friggin’ idiot.
***
The night is a long one.
Makena and Scott are adorable.
Ashley’s dog Grace eats my purse, along with my ID.
Kyle goes to the Portland Trailblazers.
He was right, he doesn’t get picked up first but he is in the first round. It still takes hours to get to him, though. I’m exhausted by the time it happens, but I text him to tell him how happy I am for him. I tell him I’m proud. I’m ecstatic. I’m overjoyed.
I tell him I love him.
I didn’t mean to. I had a few drinks at the engagement party, and when it finally came time for his name to be called up, I was buzzed on wine and drunk on the love I watched all night between Makena and Scott. It was a potent combination that made me miss Kyle more than ever. It made my heart bleed through my fingers and onto my phone in the form of a disjointed message that will probably leave him more confused than anything else.
Congrats! You looked so good up there! Very pretty. I know you hate being called pretty cause you’re a dude, but you looked pretty, dude. So did your mom. Tell her I said that. Tell her to like me! JK, don’t tell her that but tell her I’m proud. Of both of you. And that I love you. You. Not her. I like her. Kind of. But I love you. I love you so, so much and I’m so insanely proud of you right now. I hope you’re excited and happy. I hope you’re having fun. I want you to be happy. I wish you would have gone to the Lakers because then we could be together in L.A. but this is good. Oregon is good. You’ll do great there. I’ll come visit you. Or you visit me. We’ll go to the beach and put our feet in the sand and the ocean will be warm and we’ll be happy. I’m always happy when I’m with you. I love you.
Four times. I told him I love him four times in one text message that went on longer than a Game of Thrones novel. And I’m not that drunk. I’m just that stupid in love with him.
It’s four in the morning and I still haven’t heard back from him. I can’t sleep. I can’t close my eyes without seeing his face and wishing I could touch it. Kiss it. My body and soul dream of him even while I’m awake, and I can’t shake the needy, nagging feeling inside me. It’ll never go away. I’ll never get over him. Even with everything that happened, with all the obstacles that still lie ahead of us, I want him. I need him.
I love him.
Feeling restless, I heave my tired body out of bed. The buzz has worn off. I’m stone cold sober and dead tired, but my mind won’t let me sleep. I might as well give up now. I pad downstairs quietly, heading for the kitchen and the ice cream. Dog Grace woofs at me gently from behind Ashley’s door, but it’s a warning shot. She doesn’t go into a frenzy. I’m sure she’s back to sleep by the time I make it to the living room.
Seeing it in the dim light from the moon outside is an eerie feeling. My chest pinches tightly as I remember all the time I spent in here with Ashley in my mind. I remember the way it felt when the water rose up cold over my ankles. I can still see the panic in her eyes as we realized we were drowning. Again.
The room is warm and dry now. The clock ticks monotonously from the wall, counting the seconds. Keeping the minutes. They roll forward seamlessly, one into the next, as my life carries on uninterrupted.
I’m alive. I’m so lucky.
Headlights flash across the room. They reflect sharply over the beveled glass on the clock, making me wince. I go to the big windows facing the street to see who’s up at this hour, but it’s not a car I recognize. I think it’s a cab. It’s parking in our driveway.
When the backdoor opens, my heart falls flat on its face, knocking the wind out of me.
It’s Kyle. He’s wearing the same suit he had on earlier tonight, but he’s missing his jacket. His tie is undone. His hair disheveled.
He slams the door hard, his face determined. As the car pulls away, he strides purposefully for our front door.
I hurry to open it before he can knock and wake the whole house. I get there just as his hand is lifting, his knuckles hovering over my face, but they drop the second he sees me. His eyes are black in the darkness but they’re so warm, I nearly weep with relief. I take an unconscious step toward him.
He kisses me.
There’s no build up or preamble. No words. Just his hands on the side of my face, warm and strong. His lips feel the same. They feel powerful as they pull me up toward him, lifting me onto my toes until I stumble against him, and then he’s holding me. His arms wrap around my waist, pressing me to him. I laugh against his mouth. I thread my fingers through his hair the way he loves, and I feel him start to fall apart. It’s all so familiar, it hurts. It aches inside me as the moment and my memories collide. The Kyle I knew. The Kyle I know. The man who has loved me, always.
He rests his forehead against mine, his breathing labored. “I got your text.”
I laugh, touching his face to make sure he’s real. “You didn’t answer it.”
“Why do you think I’m here?”
“You flew all the way from New York in the middle of the night to answer my drunk text?”
“I’d fly across the world just to see you smile, Grace,” he promises deeply. “Did you mean it?”
“Do I love you?” I sniff, fighting the joyful tears threatening to drown me. “I did. I do. I always will, Kyle. Always.”
Kyle kisses me again. It’s sweet and small, but it’s everything. It feels like a new beginning. “I love you too.”
“You do?”
“Forever.”
I thread my fingers behind his neck, pulling him closer until we’re breathing together. Until my vision is filled with him and his perfect, beautiful face. “Can we start over? Please?”
“I don’t want to rush you. I know you need time to figure out yourself and what you want in life—”
“You,” I interrupt fiercely. “I want you. You gave me all the time I needed. And what I need is you. I’m a better, more complete person when I’m with you.”
His hold on me tightens eagerly. “I’m going to Portland. And you’re going to L.A.”
“I can be a cop in Portland just as easily as L.A.”
“I don’t want you to give up your life for mine.”
“And I won’t. I promise. I found what I want to do and I’ll do it. But I want to do it with you.” I close my eyes, kissing his full, sweet lips. “I want to do everything with you.”
Kyle smiles with relief. His mouth becomes demanding. Excited. I meet him breath for breath, pulling him into the house with me. We’ll go upstairs. We’ll find my bedroom, my bed. We won’t go too far tonight. Not with my entire family in the house, but there will come a day. There will be nights where it’s just us and the heat between us. There will be a wedding. There will be children. There will be a life lived together. I can see it so clearly it’s like our future is a memory we’ve already made.
My life in three parts.
Before Kyle.
After Kyle.
Forever.
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Keep reading for a preview of SLEEPLESS,
the first book in the Bird of Stone Series.
My name is Alex Mills, and I have a superpower.
Don't be jealous, it sucks. I can't control it. My mind is a mutinous SOB that takes over when I go to sleep. I'm just a girl trying to get some shut eye while it decides to throw a rager that can land me just about anywhere in the world.
The base of the Eiffel Tower.
The shore on the coast Ireland.
The third baseline at Wrigley Field.
Sounds
exciting and fun, right? Wrong. My not so superpower is unpredictable, uncontrollable and annoying as hell. It's also how I met Nick.
Every cloud has a silver lining. Nick is mine.
Nick is extraordinary as well. He can't feel fear. Never has, never will. It's worked out for him as a PJ in the Air Force, one of the most dangerous jobs in the military, but where it's not helpful is with his social skills. Nick is cold, distant and apathetic.
He's also my hero. And if he's to be believed, I'm his.
I first met him when he died and that wasn't even the weirdest moment of our relationship. Neither is this moment here and now, trapped together in an island prison on the Behring Sea. It's a long, strange story between his death and his prison. One full of sheep, docks, Jabberwocks and a very special stone. I could tell it to you'd like to hear it. I've got time...
Prologue
Nick
The first time I saw her I was dead.
I was rolling down the river with two coins for the Ferryman, heading out onto the infinite black sea. Worst of all, I was going without a fight.
How she found me is still a mystery or a miracle, depending on your perspective. Any way you slice it I’m lucky she was there, though showing gratitude for it wouldn’t come easy for a long time after. How she put up with me for as long as she did is pure miracle. No mystery about it. She’s as close to an angel as I’ll ever get and whenever I think of her I remember the way she looked there by the river; long auburn hair, glistening hazel eyes, and a T-shirt that read Zombies Hate Fast Food.
When she reached out and took my hand, it shattered my world. Her eyes and the warm press of her skin against mine changed everything. Suddenly I was gasping for breath, fighting for life, and as she lowered her face to within inches of mine I felt my heart slam painfully in my chest. She parted her lips, making me think she was going to kiss me goodbye. If that had been the last sensation I experienced in this world, I would have died a lucky man. Instead, she whispered one word against my mouth. One word that would press air into my lungs and pull me back from the void.
“Breathe.”
Then she was gone.
Chapter One
Alex
I wake with a start. My eyes immediately find the black sparrows flying across the white of the wall beside my bed, calming my racing heart. I trace one with my fingers, smiling at the familiar feel of its edges, letting it tell me that I’m home.
In honesty, I hate birds. They’re too quick and erratic with their sharp claws and beaks. They’re like flying, disease carrying knives. I don’t trust them.
But more than anything I hate them because they remind me of the Dragon.
“Are you here?” Cara calls.
“Present and accounted for.” I drop my hand just as my bedroom door swings open. My sister stands in the doorway, watching.
“You okay?” she asks apprehensively.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“I’m glad you’re home.”
I wince against the guilt that congeals in my gut. “Me too.”
“Where’d you go? Do I want to know?”
“Transylvania,” I lie.
“Okay, so I don’t want to know.”
I shake my head.
No. She doesn’t want to know.
“I had the Dragon Dream,” I tell her, changing the subject. “It brought me home.”
“The Jabberwocky.” she corrects quickly.
I sigh, rolling my eyes. “It’s not the Jabberwocky.”
“I’ve shown you the pictures. It looks exactly like you described.”
“I know, but— “
“Is it or is it not the spitting image of the Jabberwocky?”
“It is,” I concede, “but how would I have started dreaming of the Jabberwocky when I was four years old? We never had the book.”
“You saw the movie.”
“Stop. We’ve talked about this. The Disney Alice doesn’t have the Jabberwocky in it. There’s no way. It’s not him, it’s just a dragon.”
“You should dream about Pete’s Dragon.”
I throw my pillow at her face. “Jesus, don’t put the idea in my head!”
“What? He’s friendly! And it’s not like you can Slip to Passamaquody.”
Slip is our word for what I do. For my tendency to fall asleep, dream of New York City, and wake up in Times Square in my underwear. My parents called it sleep walking, but it just made it sound normal. It made it easier for them.
It’s absolutely not what I do.
I don’t stand up and walk out the door. When I Slip, I dream of a place, and then there I am. The base of the Eiffel Tower. The shore on the coast of Ireland. The third baseline at Wrigley Field. While it can take my mind a millisecond to raise familiar images of the Las Vegas strip, it will take me days to return my body home from it. I don’t understand how it happens. No one does. It’s mind over matter to the nth degree. It’s unpredictable, terrifying, and most of all, it’s annoying.
“He kicked my ass,” I tell Cara glumly, talking about the Dragon. I rub my leg even though there’s no wound on it. Not anymore. Not now that I’m awake.
“Jabberwocky’s are the worst.”
“It’s not the Jabberwocky!”
“Sure. Hey, what are we doing tonight? Did you decide?”
“Nothing, we are doing nothing.”
“No,” she insists, coming deeper into the room to loom over me. “We were going to do nothing if you Slipped away to Antarctica. But you didn’t. You’re here and we need to celebrate.”
“It’s not a big one. Can’t we just let it slide?” I plead pointlessly.
“Every birthday until your twenty-second is a big one. Your twenty-second is a bust. From there on out you receive no new liberties, other than the right to grow old.”
“That is so depressing.”
“It is, so enjoy the good ones while you can. You’re turning twenty! This is a big deal.” She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it affectionately. “Plus, you got shafted pretty hard on your last few birthdays. They should have been special and I know they weren’t. Let’s use this year to make up for it.”
She’s not wrong; birthdays haven’t been good for me for a while now. Not since my ‘gift’ really started to surface and my parents started to fear me. For my Sweet Sixteen they gave me an eviction notice and a new car.
Worst Showcase Showdown ever.
My sister is eight years older than I am. As a Certified Public Accountant, she was already an established, responsible adult when I got the boot. Lucky for me she was more than happy to take me in. She knew what was wrong with me, knew she’d have to support me because I can’t hold down a job, but she didn’t care. When I showed up at her door – a lost, crying mess – she promised that she’d always watch out for me. Then she went to our parents’ house, took my things, gave them a piece of her mind, and never looked back. She’s fiercely protective of me and I want to say it bothers me, that I can take care of myself, but after growing up with a mother who kept me at a distance, knowing someone has my back is indescribable.
“Can we egg their house?” I ask, imagining my parent’s perfect gray house with the perfect white trim and the perfect red roses.
“No,” Cara replies firmly, releasing my hand. “But I’ll buy a big ass margarita and let you take hits off it.”
“Sold.”
∞
I’m standing on the bank of the Missouri River in Omaha, Nebraska with a churning stomach, wondering why I work so hard to stay here. I should embrace the escape and let my mind Slip me far, far away to a place that’s warm. My hands are freezing and my toes would ache if they could remember what it was like to feel.
Cara brought me here to try and use her old driver’s license to get me into the casinos, but I’m having doubts. Doubts I like to call Mango Margarita: The Devil’s Drink. Or El Bebir Del Diablo? I don’t know, I didn’t do well in high school Spanish. I Slipped to Mexico once and it was a complete
disaster. Turns out hambre and hombre are easily confused and when you adamantly insist in broken Spanglish that you be in possession of one, it doesn’t always get you a burrito. Sometimes it gets you a male prostitute. Who knew brothels had a lunch menu?
Cara is up at the car waiting for her friends to join us while I and my dubious stomach take a walk to the river in case of emergency. I needed this escape. I’m not big on the idea of barfing in the parking lot in plain view of everyone. Just not into it. Then again, at the moment, I’m not into much of anything.
I’m surveying the frozen beach, looking for somewhere to sit and wait out my troubles, when I spot a body. It’s a man, ghostly white and lying in the shallow waters of the freezing river. Before my brain knows what’s happening, I’m rushing down the shore, tripping over mounds of snow and ice slicked rocks until I collapse on my knees next to him.
He looks about my age, his pale skin contrasting sharply with his buzzed black hair. He’s naked except for a black Speedo-esque swimsuit. Even to my drunk mind that seems weird for December in Nebraska.
I quickly strip off my heavy coat and throw it over his chest, shivering immediately in just my T-shirt. I don’t see his chest rising or falling so I grab for his hand to take his pulse. Relief floods through me when I find his skin is relatively warm and pliant. I’m hoping this means he’s not dead yet.
The second I touch him he lurches forward as though I shocked him. His arms and legs spasm wildly before he leans over to cough. He ends up puking almost directly into my lap. It’s all liquid but I smell something chemical in it, something vaguely familiar. I wonder if it’s some kind of alcohol. He drops back down hard onto the rocks, and I only have a second to process the fact that they don’t make a sound with the impact. I watch as he stares unblinking at the sky, lying so still that I think he must be dead now. I might have just witnessed death throws.