by Tracey Ward
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 work friends to join us while I and my dubious stomach have taken a walk to the river in case of emergency. I’m not fond of the idea of barfing in the parking lot in plain view of everyone. At the moment, I am not fond of anything.
I’m surveying the frozen beach, looking for somewhere to sit and wait out my troubles, when I spot the 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 beside him.
He looks to be 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 like weird attire 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, but they don’t make a sound with the impact. I watch as he stares unblinking at the sky, lying so still I think he must be dead now. I may have just witnessed death throws.
I rub his hand between both of mine and lean in close, so close our noses are almost touching and my hair falls around us. His eyes latch onto mine. I gasp at how bright they are. How brilliantly green. How utterly alive.
I whisper one word to him, the only thing I can think to say.
“Breathe.”
He vanishes. My coat is lying on wet stones, my hand is holding cold air.
My heart stops beating. My breath freezes in my lungs. I clench my hands tightly, feeling them tingle and itch where my skin met his. He was real. I held his hand and I’m awake. I know that I’m awake. There’s no way that was a dream.
“What the hell?” I whisper, my voice quivering.
This is it. This is insanity taking hold. I’m breaking from reality. I’m losing my mind, though it never fully felt like mine to begin with.
Trembling from the cold, shock and a growing fear, I grab my jacket to pull it on. I can’t get my hands to work right. The zipper feels painfully cold between my fingertips and I abandon any hope of closing it. Standing quickly, I run back across the rocks and up the bank to my sister’s car. By the time I get there I’m nearly hyperventilating.
Her friends have arrived and they’re standing in a halo of streetlight, clouds of warm breath rising around them in the cold air. Cara sees me and my anxiety must be on my face because she rushes over.
“What’s wrong? Were you sick?” she asks, touching my arm. She frowns and pulls her hand back. “Your coat is wet.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you puke on your coat?” she asks, her face disgusted.
I think of the guy leaning over and throwing up river water.
“Yeah,” I mumble.
“Gross. I think you’re done for the night.”
“Me too,” I say eagerly. I nod but it’s more of a convulsion and I practically run for the car.
Cara says a hasty goodbye to her friends who laugh in understanding. Once inside, she cranks the heat and eyes me, watching me shake.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I just want to go to sleep.”
“That’s a first,” she says, but leaves it at that.
Over the years Cara has learned that I don’t like to talk about half the stuff that goes on when I’m asleep. I’ve seen things and been places that I don’t like to revisit, waking or otherwise.
“What’s that smell?” she asks suddenly.
“My dinner’s second coming.”
“No, you smell like a swimming pool.” She scrunches up her nose and glances sideways at me. “Like chlorine.”
This night is getting weirder by the second. I vow to never drink again.
About the Author
I was born in Eugene, Oregon and studied English Literature at the University of Oregon (Go Ducks!) I’m married to my best friend and an Airman in the United States Air Force, I’m the mother of the greatest little boy on the planet and a rescue dog with more soul than most humans, and I’ll read books in just about any genre as long as the story is good. I started writing when I was a kid and finally decided to self-publish when I read one too many books centered around disturbingly Alpha males and the sniveling women who inexplicably love them. There are strong women and gentle men out there, and a beautiful love story can be woven between them. I want to tell those stories.
Visit my website for more information on upcoming releases, Tracey Ward