Maybe I can lead a normal life.
Don't count on it...
Oh, great. There's that intruding voice again.
You think I like that I can hear your thoughts?
Thanks a lot. Who the hell are you?
Nothing. No response. I scrunch my brows together and send out powerful thoughts.
Do I need to hang a Do Not Disturb sign in my head?
Again, silence.
Whoever is invading my mental space needs to back off.
The counselors have their heads bent together, comparing notes, so I don't think it's any of them. Besides, they wouldn't do that. I don't think it's Hailey, because it's not the same voice I heard in my room. Is it another entity that's hanging out here at the Rose Briar Inn?
And why can't I hear its thoughts?
Because I won't allow it...
Then I won't let you hear my thoughts either!
With that, I hold my breath and envision myself inside a large, white, protective bubble of light. A gigamonic sphere of energy that surrounds me in a Force type of way. Obi-Wan would be proud. Nothing can penetrate. Not man. Not spirit.
In annoyance, I lift myself off the couch and jerk open the library door. I jump slightly when I see Patrick sitting there, waiting his turn. He's wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt with Bar Golf written across the front in large, yellow block letters. His headphones are in place, as are his sunglasses, hat, and gloves.
I stop short and ask, "Are you next?"
He tugs the headset off and must have read my lips. "Yeah. How'd it go?"
"Better than I expected," I say. "We've all got a long journey ahead of us and it's just Monday."
He actually smiles at me. "Tell me about it." Whoa. Nice teeth and crinkly laugh lines around the perimeter of his sunglasses. A jittery warmth spreads over my skin, and my palms itch to reach out and touch him. Holy crappity-crap! Where did that come from?
Patrick stands tall and makes for the room I just left. However, I stop him with my hand on his sleeve. His head shifts down to look at where I'm touching him, but he doesn't pull away this time. I wish I could see his brown orbs behind those freaking sunglasses.
A pulse of craving tumbled with good old teenage desire deep down in the pit of my stomach roils all the way through my body at the contact with him. There's an unspoken union of sorts, and clearly this boy is hurting significantly. Information on just what is troubling him appears as mixed-up puzzle pieces in my mind that I'm powerless to assemble.
There are those who can help him pull his life together.
Observing my hand resting on his sleeve, I think about withdrawing it, but instead I lift my eyes to his face. My heart is beating ten thousand times a minute. I sip confidence into my lungs. "Let them help you, Patrick," I say, almost in a whisper.
He sighs and then chuckles. "They may not be able to, Kendall."
"Sure they can. Maybe I could too."
He carefully lifts my fingers away from his clothes with his leather-covered hand, careful not to make any contact. "Don't try to save me, Kendall. I don't know if anyone can"
Then Patrick brushes past me and disappears behind the library door without a glimpse back.
It's then that I know that I will—somehow—save Patrick Lynn.
Chapter Ten
I SLEPT LIKE THE DEAD—no pun intended—last night after crashing hard. I think I've finally adjusted to Wrong Coast time now. Today—Tuesday—has been an information-filled day. Oliver talked to us about the history of psychic abilities; references date back to the biblical Witch of Endor, who gave King Saul insight into the outcome of his dealings with the Philistines. We also talked about the Oracle of Delphi, a priestess who revealed prophecies as she sat in a cavern that may or may not have emitted hallucinogenic gases that gave the Oracle such visions. Of course, there's Nostradamus and his prophecies, but honestly, any obscure quatrain can seem to predict any historic occurrence. That dude has freaked out a lot of people—still does today!
We talked about the "burning times," when people were persecuted for witchcraft or psychic abilities—talk about intolerant societies. I've heard of the Salem witch trials, but according to Heidi, burnings were common throughout Europe and America from the 1500s to the 1700s. Are you kidding me? Two hundred years of killing people just because they had some future knowledge or special abilities?
Oliver spoke about famous psychics that have paved the way, like the Fox sisters, Margaret, Kate, and Leah, who founded the Spiritualism movement. There was also Madame Blavatsky, who founded the Theosophical Society, and Edgar Cayce, who created the Association for Research and Enlightenment, which is still going strong today. Even Oliver's a member. We had a sparked convo about all the television personalities—no disrespect to Oliver and what he does on his show—like Sylvia Browne, John Edward, and Lisa Williams, and are they for real or just hamming it up for the idiot box.
As I lie here on my bed, digesting Chris's homemade chimichanga, refried beans, and Spanish rice, I flip through my notes. Although much of the day felt like the lead-up to my SATs, there was invaluable information given by the counselors. Only by understanding the history and past can we comprehend our skills, talents, and abilities and find a way to use them for the good of all mankind—or womankind, hello!
Jessica spits toothpaste into the sink and rinses out her mouth. "You buy into all of that stuff about how everyone is psychic?" she says as she comes out of the bathroom.
I shrug the best I can from a supine position. "That's what everyone keeps telling me. I guess it's how you define the whole psychic thing."
She reaches for her cutoff jeans, slips into them, pulls them up over her curvy hips, and leaves the top button undone. "I know, but I don't have any knowledge about the future—or the past, for that matter. I can't predict things and I can't connect with your aunt Fanny."
"I don't have an aunt Fanny," I say with a laugh. She throws one of the pillows from her bed at me. "You know what I mean. You talk to spirits and can, like, tell people things they don't know. I can only read auras"
I sit up and then lean back into the pillows, adding Jess's to the bunch. "That's a psychic talent too, the fact that you can actually see them. It's an enlightened aptitude."
She throws her hands up. "What do I do with it, though? I want to do Pipe in Hawaii and be on the cover of Surfer magazine. How does reading auras fit into that?"
"What's Pipe?"
"Banzai Pipeline. It's a surf reef on Ehukai Beach Park in Oahu. The waves are sick and I can't wait until I'm old enough to travel there and attack them."
"Don't people, like, die doing that?"
Jess's eyes grow wide. "It's the deadliest wave in the world. That's what makes it so ... desirable. You want to conquer it. Be better than it. You want to sail through it like you're tripping on glass, coming out victorious on the other end in a here-I-am-world fist-raised pose!" She stops and drops her head, her golden hair cascading into her face. "Now, since I'm seeing these mucked-up colors, Pipe looks like, well, a pipe dream."
I swing my legs off the bed and face her. "Never give up on your dream, Jess. No matter what it is." Geesh, now I sound like Heidi, Mary, and Peggy. That's sort of the point, though, isn't it? We're all here to counsel one another and learn from the others' growth. "Read my aura."
"Now?" she asks incredulously.
Hands on hips, I shoot back. "You said you see colors all the time, so what are you getting from me?"
Jess lowers herself to her bed and inspects me. Then she laughs and claps her hands. "I don't know a whole lot about the color definitions yet, but, Kendall ... you are bathed in three colors." She comes over and spreads her hands out around me. "Violet here, which means you're really spiritually attuned. Duh. Then, over here, you're red, red, red. I'm pretty sure that means you've got like this amazing passion for life and for setting goals and accomplishing them." She pauses and does a once-over of me, as if she were assessing the fashionability of my bun
ny-covered Victoria's Secret pajama bottoms and tank top. "Pink. Pink, pink, pink ... all over you, here, here, and here." She points to my heart, head, and face.
"What does that mean?"
She raises her perfectly tweezed eyebrows. "You, my friend, are going to be in a new relationship."
"Right. I just made twelve new friends."
Jess swats at me. "That's not what I mean and you know it. I may not be psychic, but your pinkness reeks of a new relationship. Love is in the air."
I stand up and turn to show her the logo on the buttocks of my pajama bottoms. "You're confusing me with a Victoria's Secret brand. See? Pink. It's written on my ass"
Forming a W with her two thumbs and forefingers, Jess says, "Whatever. You asked"
Before I can sit back down to contemplate whether or not this has anything to do with Patrick and that strange zolt of... whatever ...that passed between us, there's a banging on our cabin door.
Maddie Puckett bursts in wearing a turquoise bikini that hugs her slim hips like she's a fashion model. "Y'all come get in the hot tub with us! We asked Glenn to turn it on. Come on!"
"I don't know..." I begin.
"Oh, get over it, Kendall," Jess says, tugging her jean shorts off and dashing over to the dresser.
"You did bring a swimsuit, didn't you?" Maddie inquires.
"Sure I did." I just think about how white I am. Though I live in the South, I've been hidden in basements and attics and cemeteries and dark buildings, not an ounce of sunlight touching my skin. There was no time to visit the tanning bed to get that pre–spring break base coat so I wouldn't burn when I went to Tybee Island with my friends. "I'm just so ... white," I admit.
Maddie rolls her eyes. "You should see Harper. Girl glows like she's been swathed in Liquid Paper."
"I heard that," Harper calls from out on the porch. She enters the room and stands behind Maddie with Erin in tow. Yeah, Harper's a very pale chick, so I don't feel as self-conscious.
I move over to the dresser and tug out the hot pink—again with the pink?—bikini I'd bought at Mega-Mart on wicked-cheap sale for Tybee. If there's a new relationship in the air, as Jessica's aura reading implies, I might as well look my best.
"Scoot over, y'all, or else I'll cannonball in," Greg Swanner shouts.
The Pucketts are spread out in the steaming and bubbling Jacuzzi like the points of a perfect equilateral triangle with Jessica, Willow, and me separating them.
"I don't know how many more people we can fit, Gregory," Maddie says flirtatiously.
Doesn't matter though because Greg jumps into the large tub, displacing the water onto the wooden deck surrounding us.
"My hair!" Erin cries out. "It's in a ponytail for a reason, y'all."
"Sorry," Greg says with an evil grin.
Carl, Micah, and Ricky slide in as well, and the pleasurable relaxation of the steaming water is now more like a crowded bowl of alphabet soup.
"Where's Josiah?" Willow asks.
"TF's back in the room meditating," Carl says. "Evan Christian went to bed."
TF? Oh, right, Talking Feathers. I bite my tongue to keep from asking where Patrick is. He hasn't exactly bonded with the other boys, so they may not know or care. More to the point, I don't quite see him as the hot-tubbing kind.
Jess shifts through the water to sit by Micah, and suddenly it seems as if this night is destined to be a pairing-off if someone doesn't stop it. No one wants to, though. I read their thoughts and desires so clearly it's like I'm holding a newspaper with their lives in the headlines. Micah thinks Jess is a blond bombshell of a cutie and Jess thinks he's majorly fine. Maddie, while boyfriended at home, is clearly flirting with Greg. Erin and Harper are whispered up with Ricky and Carl, and that pretty much leaves Willow and me.
I scoop some foamy water onto my arms and watch as it trickles back into the tub.
"Sooooo..." I say, glancing about. Awkward anyone?
Yep. Quite.
Willow shifts in the water, scooting away from Erin and Carl as they giggle next to her. Can't say I blame her. She flattens her lips and lifts herself out of the tub.
"Whoa! Where are you going?" I ask a bit too dramatically.
She slices her eyes around at the ferocious coupling and says, "I think I'll go meditate with Talking Feathers."
Another one bites the dust. No one pays any mind to her as she glops off leaving wet footprints behind. For that matter, no one pays any mind to me sitting here. Great. What am I, chopped liver? No, it's just that I don't fill out the top of my bikini as well as Jessica and the Puckett triplets do. Not that I'm interested in any of these guys.
I let out a long sigh and lay my head back onto the rim of the Jacuzzi. I try to focus on the massaging action of the jets pressed up against my kidneys as they work their aquatic fingers into my skin. I think of the hot tub in my room and consider slipping away quietly to the cabin to enjoy a long whirlpool session on my own.
Yeah, that sounds like the best idea.
I ease out of the water and wrap myself in the large emerald green towel with Rose Briar Inn embossed into the fabric. Oh yeah, I'm totally taking this home with me as a memento. No one seems too brokenhearted that I've vacated the tub; they just spread out more to enjoy the bubbly sensation. I tamp down the itch at the back of my throat that tells me I'm odd man out, which is fine. I didn't fly all the way across America to flirt. I shove my feet into my pink (what's with all the pink?) Reefs and walk across the deck with a thwap thwap thwap sound, toward the path back to my cabin.
Coming from the distance is the soft strum of an acoustic guitar. There's only one person here with a guitar: Patrick.
I creep silently toward the music, trying not to be discovered. The moonlight bathes the way in front of me, nearly spotlighting Patrick. He's sitting on a wooden bench under a large bent tree; branches swoop down to provide a canopy for him. The plucked notes reverb off the nearby mountain, making the music sound like he's playing with others. Oddly enough, he's free of the regular disguise he's been sporting. The knit hat lies on the bench next to him, as do the leather gloves and sunglasses. His jet-black hair is all mussed up, and his bangs fall over his forehead in a cascade, just reaching his charcoal eyelashes. He's concentrating hard on the instrument resting on his thigh. His large hands move deftly over the six strings; his left one twists and stretches to form the precise chords. A small white pick sits between his full lips, not in his strumming hand.
He removes the pick and begins to sing ever so quietly about loving everything that a particular girl does and how he should have known better than to mess around with her. Ahhh ... the Beatles. A favorite of his, I can tell from the stickers on his guitar case. I can't help but wonder if the lyrics are intended for me.
He continues to play, oblivious to my presence. I watch as the moonlight dances over his jet-black hair, setting off that handful of grays at each temple. I squash the desire to sidle up next to him and drag my fingers through its thickness.
I jump at the thought of a tryst with the angsted one. My wet flip-flops squeak against the flagstone, and Patrick looks up with eyes blazing.
"What are you doing?" he asks somewhat brusquely.
Not wanting to react to his terseness, I say, "You're really good."
He shifts his eyes to the strings again, bending his head down so I can no longer see his face. "I'm okay. I only just started playing again and need to get my chops back."
"Well, you sound great to me. I can't play anything but the radio." I wait for him to laugh at my stupid joke—actually my dad's joke. Nothing. "Hmm ... tough audience," I quip and then move toward the bench. Patrick doesn't flinch when I ease down on the other end. "Everyone was in the hot tub. Why didn't you come join us?"
Still strumming, he says, "Water's not really my thing."
"How can water not be your thing?" I press.
"It's just not, okay?"
Unwilling to drop it, I ask, "Then how do you bathe every day?"
He smacks his hand flat on the strings. "I take showers, okay? Would you like to know what kind of soap I use as well?"
"Geesh. Touchy, aren't we?"
He drags a hand through his hair, moving his bangs away momentarily before they return to exactly where they were. "I'm not here to socialize, you know? I'm dealing with a lot of shit."
"We all are, Patrick."
"Yeah, well, being immersed in water isn't something I agreed to do on this retreat. Can't a guy just play his guitar?"
I lift an eyebrow at him. "I suppose so. I was sort of lonely, so that's why I thought I'd come listen."
His eyes shift up to my face and slice over me, not in a judgmental way or anything. A hint of a smile paints his lips and then he continues to sing the Beatles song. I tap my foot along and sing the lyrics in my head, not wanting to disturb him. His voice is deep and melodic and ever so sexy as he sings about a girl he wants to make his. It's almost as if he wants to make me his.
My mouth becomes desert dry.
Swallowing requires an act of Congress.
Reality rushes in like a wave into a tidal basin, drowning me in the salty depths of everything that is Patrick Lynn. I don't know squat about him other than he's an Air Force brat, has a thing about water, and plays a pretty mean ax. I have no idea why he's here or why he's sectioned off from the rest of us. Yet I'm drawn to him.
Patrick twists again and his gaze goes straight through me, like an X-ray into my soul. I didn't realize anyone's eyes could be so ... hypnotic. The rich brown irises show gold flecks out here underneath the moonlight. Or maybe I'm just losing my mind.
He doesn't blink. Neither do I. Who could even move at a moment like this? Does he feel it too? He has to. Something's taking hold of me. Nothing ghostly or evil, not an entity wanting me to channel it. Rather, the swirling sensation encircling me is like the tingly jets from the Jacuzzi. I'm lightheaded from the intense gaze.
My heart stutters in my chest as if I've just been taken off the bypass machine and everything's starting up again on its own. A quiver begins in my fingers and works its way up my bare arms. Chill bumps break out all over me, and they have nothing to do with the mountain breeze that's suddenly whispering. Patrick leans closer, closer, closer. Intrigue of the moment dances about, cloaking me in jittery excitement. Is he going to kiss me?
The Counseling Page 8
