One Starry Knight: A Scifi Alien Love Story (The Starry Knight Saga Book 1)

by Carrie Lynn Thomas

  I look for Adam, but he’s not there. Stella is outside the truck, her hands raised and her face red. She’s yelling at somebody. At a man, his back is to me. He’s a foot taller than her with wide shoulders and dark hair and a deep booming voice. She says something and he gestures wildly, hands raising, fists curling.

  I suck in a sharp breath. He’s going to hit her. He’s going to hit her. He’s going to—

  He throws his arm out, and I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them he’s only pointing. To the truck. To me.

  My heart flaps like a trapped bird, and my mouth is drier than the desert I was born in when I see his face. Sharp angles, dark shadows, black hair, gray eyes. I know that face, although we’ve never met, it’s Adam’s father, Laris Knight. His photo constantly graces the tabloids and magazines and news channels. He’s rich, owning several hotel chains and resorts across the world. I think he owns a baseball team too. I’m not sure. I mostly skim the articles looking for any mention of Adam, which there never is.

  The little I do know about him comes from what I’ve read. Adam may spend nine months of the year living in his California mansion, but he rarely speaks of him. He tells me of his private school, his latest friends, his teachers, trips to the Pacific Ocean or into the mountains or to Disneyland. But never his dad. He told me once that summers were the only sun and warmth in his life. And he didn’t want to ruin that by talk of the coldness.

  I see the cold now in Laris’ stare. He crosses his arms, his lips thin and unbending. And I know. He’s somehow responsible. Adam showing up half-dead on the beach, Stella acting crazy, the strange light in the woods. The spinning floating object. It’s all because of him.

  I freeze, my hands gripped to the door, my face pressed to the window, eyes locked with his. Then Stella looks to the truck and like a cord stretched too tight, I snap and duck. I’m on my elbows where they can’t see me, the air heavy and clogged with my sweat and fear. I listen, waiting for them.

  After a few minutes of only my shallow breathing and hammering heart, I take a deep breath. I’m somewhere else. I’m not here. This isn’t real. My pillow is beneath my head, and my bed is beneath me, and this night is all some crazy nightmare. In a few hours I will wake up. My shift at the diner starts at 11 a.m. tomorrow and when it’s over, I’ll stop by Stella’s and she’ll laugh when I tell her the dream. Adam will still be in California for another month.

  Their voices shatter the fantasy. They speak softly, growing louder until I pick up pieces of the conversation.

  “Adam…in the morning…he can decide…”

  “Fine…take her home…”

  The driver's side door opens and Stella climbs in. I don’t wait for her to close the door. “Where is Adam? What is going on? Is he okay?” I lean up between the seats, pushing my face into hers.

  She hesitates. “Not now.” She brushes me away and pulls her seatbelt across her lap and starts the car.

  “Wait,” I say. “Where’s Adam?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Stella. What was that? In the sky? What was that? What is going on?.” I breathe loudly into her ear, and my slamming heartbeat fills the truck. The dashboard lights glow across her cheeks, her nose, and the tiny wrinkles in the corner of her eyes. The keys dangle in her hand and answers flicker across her face. I will her to turn and look at me, to tell me everything, but she stares straight ahead.

  The moments pass with the silence hanging over us like an unexploded bomb. A beep fills my head as it ticks its way down to detonation. I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to grab her shoulders and shake the answers out of her.

  “Stella, please? I- I need to know.”

  “Not now. Later,” she hisses and inserts the keys into the ignition, bringing the truck roaring to life. She throws a hand over the back of the seat and her fingers brush my face. I jump, but her eyes pass over me to the rear window. The truck rattles as Stella backs it up through the trees and branches to where we turned in.

  We pick up speed when we reach the main road. The pavement is smooth beneath the tires, but I’m still shaking inside. The windows fog with the warm breath of our unsaid words, and Stella reaches down to flip on the defrost. The quiet stifles me. I twist words in my head, words that demand, words that plead, words that ache for answers. Words that will get Stella to talk. But I lose them somewhere between my head and throat.

  My eyes follow her fingers curling and uncurling from the wheel, her lips rolling in and out, her head slightly rocking back and forth. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. I want to open my mouth and scream the words so they rip the air between us.

  Silence.

  The truck speeds past the entrance to Stella’s. She’s bringing me home. Home to my mom and to Mark and to long empty hours wondering where Adam is and if he’s okay and what the hell happened tonight. If she thinks I’m getting out of this truck—.

  “He’s going to be okay.”

  “Wha—?”

  “He’s going to be okay,” she says. “I swear to you. He’s okay. He’s with his dad and he’ll make sure he’s okay.”

  “Oh,” is the only response I can manage. It’s as if I swallowed up all the questions I wanted to ask and the words I wanted to say. I look to the window, the whisper of my reflection caught in the glass. Was it really only a few hours ago that I had seen my reflection in Lucas’ truck?

  “What—what happened back there?” I ask her. The question is timid, unsure. It’s as if I didn’t mean to say it.

  “Adam had a little incident. And I needed to get him to his father.” The warmth has returned to Stella’s eyes. My face feels hot, and I look down at my lap where I’m locking and unlocking my fingers. “He’s going to be fine, Sage.”

  “How do I know that?” My voice shakes.

  “You’ll see tomorrow, I promise. I know he’ll be dying to talk to y—”

  “But what about tonight? I mean—what happened in the lake? Why is he here? Why did you leave him out in the middle of the woods? Why is his father here? Stella, what is going on?” Each question, each word comes steadier and faster than the last. “And Stella, what did I see in the sky tonight?”

  “Um.” Stella starts to say, but then closes her mouth and turns her eyes back to the road. The silence slips back in, but I refuse to let it stay.

  “Why?” I say again my voice gaining even more strength. “Why won’t you talk to me? What are you hiding?”

  Stella doesn’t answer. I keep going. “I’m not getting out of this truck, Stella. Not until you tell me. I’ve known you and Adam for a long time—a long, long time. I deserve to know. I need to know.”

  “Sage—”

  “Where is he? Where did you leave him?”

  “Sage—”

  “I have to know. I need to know. I need—”

  “Sage, stop.” Stella’s hands are grasping my shoulders and shaking me. I gasp and my hands fly to my mouth. We are parked in the driveway to my house, and Stella’s forehead is pressed to mine. I see the grooves between her wrinkles and smell the tea and toothpaste on her breath.

  “He’s okay,” she says with a whisper. “Sweetie, he’s okay, I promise.” Her words reach my eyes and tears stick to my eyelashes.

  Anger flickers in me, burns me, warns me. Don’t be soothed by Stella’s lullaby voice. Get answers, lots and lots of answers. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “No. What is going on?”

  “I can’t answer that. Any of that. You’re going to have to wait and talk to him,” Stella exhales and sinks back in her seat. She’s staring out the windshield. Softly breathing, slowly blinking.

  There’s a tug-of-war in the truck, and I’m the rope. My muscles are heavy and exhausted, not wanting to leave until every question I have is addressed. But my heart is a trapped animal, scratching and clawing inside of me, needing to break free.

  I want to run. I want to stay. And I am tired, so very tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of questions and silence and lies. Tired of this night. �
��I can’t do this with you.” I open the truck door and slide down from the seat until my feet touch the ground.

  “Wait.” Stella leans across the seat and clamps my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “Listen to him, Sage. Listen, please. You’ve been friends for a long time.”

  “Then you tell me.” My words drag into a pleading cry. “Please, tell me what is going on.”

  “I can’t. I’m really sorry.” Her gaze drops, but her hand doesn’t. I try to shake her hand off, but her grip is firm. Her eyes find mine. “I wish I could,” she says, “but it’s not my story to tell. Please promise me you’ll talk to him.”

  “Whatever. Just let me go.” She eases the pressure of her fingers, but doesn’t release them.

  “One more thing.” She pushes out each word with an urgent firmness. “Don’t say anything to anybody about what you saw tonight. Anything. This is really important, Sage. Please. Adam’s life depends on it.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Sage, please. Wait to talk to him, please.” She lets go and I climb out, rubbing my arm as I watch her drive away.

  Chapter Eight

  My house is still, the white siding a shadowy gray in the night. The front windows gape like empty black eyes. Stella pulls out of the drive before my shaky legs can reach my porch. Not like her. Usually she waits until I’m inside.

  I try the front door, but it’s locked. Not that I’m surprised. My mom often locks up and goes to bed whether I’m home or not. There’s a spare key in the garage, and I pass Mark’s truck in the drive on the way. I’m guessing they made up. At the door, I press the four digit code that operates the garage door opener. Nothing happens. I try again. Nothing. One. One. Two. Nine. My dad’s birthday. I press the rubber numbers hard. Nothing.

  Damn Mark. He changed the code.

  The faded plastic lawn chair toppled on its side next to the garage is the perfect height to hoist myself through my window. I’ve used it before. The week my mom lost the spare key. The month the garage door broke. I flip it over and begin to drag it across the yard to the far side where my bedroom is, stopping to retrieve my phone from where I dropped it earlier and stuffing it in my damp pockets. A few steps from the bushes, I notice the paperback and stop. Even in the dark I can see the orange and blue on the cover of the Harry Potter book. When my dad wasn’t flying across the country for his job, we would read together before bed. He took the even chapters and I read the odd. On the night before he died we read through chapter fourteen. I never finished the book.

  I walk over to it and pick it up, rubbing my thumb along the edges of the wrinkled pages. I close my eyes and think of my dad making the voices of Professor Lupin and Hagrid. I wonder if Buckbeak ever made it. I sigh and open my eyes. The cover is bent and there’s a tear in the spine, but I can’t leave it out here.

  With the book in one hand, I drag the chair with the other to my bedroom window. I press the back of the chair against the house, set the book down, and climb onto the seat. My window screen is torn on the left side, far enough for me to slip my hands through and slide the pane up. It creaks and groans and fights before it finally gives. When it’s wide enough, I retrieve the book and toss it through the window first. Then I brace my hands against the wall and slide through on my stomach, landing on my bed. The mattress bounces and the headboard bangs against the wall. I freeze. Oh god, please don’t wake them up. Mark’s loud snores penetrate the walls and I breathe in relief.

  I trade my damp and gritty clothes for a clean red t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms covered in yellow ducks. The broken locket and cell phone are rescued from my pockets before I drop the jeans on my floor next to the book. I grab the book and toss it along with my phone on my bed, but I keep the locket in my hand, the chain cool against my palm. The broken heart hangs open, revealing the tiny picture inside. My dad holds a three-year-old me in his arms and kisses my cheek. My thumb is in my mouth, my head against his shoulder. I pick up the book and open it, pressing the locket between the pages. This is what I have left of my dad. When he was alive, everything was normal…normal and safe. I hug the book to my chest, a deep ache filling me with each heartbeat.

  Buzz. Something is vibrating. My phone. I lunge for my bed. It has to be him.

  My sweaty fingers fumble across the buttons until the glowing screen appears. One text message and five missed calls. All from Adam. All before I pulled him from the lake.

  I press the voicemail button, and my phone is filled with his voice. Are you okay?…Call me…Please pick up, I’m getting really worried… Sage, where are you?…

  The phone slides from my fingers to the floor. It bounces loudly against the carpet, just beneath my bed. I bite my lip. Mark snores, and I breathe again.

  I pick up my phone and read the text message.

  Are you ok?

  It was sent hours ago, before I pulled him from the lake, but I thumb a reply, No I’m not. Tell me what’s going on?

  I lie back on the bed, balancing my bare feet along the edge and stare at the ceiling. The phone and the book rest on my chest, my hands clinging to both. He’ll write back. Any minute now. He’ll write back and tell me he’s at home in California and this was all some crazy dream. I’ll tell him how I dreamt of him and the woods and a UFO and he’ll laugh and tell me not to watch so much TV. My breathing slows and my fingers wrap even tighter around my phone. Heavy eyelids, heavy heart. Any minute. Any minute and my phone will vibrate.

  But it doesn’t.

  Chapter Nine

  Sunlight streams through the window and finds the cracks in my eyes. I rub away the sleep and sit up on my elbows, squinting and blinking. Even through my fuzzy brain something feels off. It’s my room and my bed and my ceiling I’m staring at, but something’s different. I blink back more sleep and feel an aching throb through most of my body. I lean on one elbow freeing my other arm and run my hand across the back of my head. There’s a tender baseball sized lump above my neck. Something falls to the floor, and I roll onto my stomach to peer over the side of the bed.

  The sleepy haze dissipates. My locket, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and dirty clothes litter the floor. These were the clothes I wore yesterday, wore last night. The clothes I had on when Adam…

  The light, the forest, the spaceship. The images fill my head and I leap from my bed to pick up my shirt, crusted with dirt. Something slips from the sleeve. My phone. My heart thunders as my hands close around it and my fingers turn it on. No messages. I glance at my clock. I have time—not much, but enough—to stop at Stella’s before my shift at the diner.

  I tear through my room, grabbing clothes, brushing teeth, bearing the assault of the shower spray on my bruised neck as I scrub the lake from my hair. I pull on the black pants and burgundy blouse that make up my waitress uniform and sweep my wet hair into a high ponytail. I skip the makeup—it’s not really my thing—and sneak past the kitchen, where my mom and Mark are talking.

  “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Mark grins and shakes a spatula at me. He’s standing over the chipped brown stove in a blue and white ‘Never Trust A Skinny Chef’ apron. My mom is at the small oak table with her hands on her elbows, a glowing clueless smile painted on her face.

  “Sit down,” she says. “Look what Mark is making for us. They’re heart-shaped.” She holds up her plate to show off several lopsided, doughy pancakes. “Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Only the best for my love.” Mark smiles widely at my mom.

  “Yeah, I can tell,” I mutter under my breath, noticing the bruises Mark left on my mom’s face yesterday have tripled in size.

  “What was that?” Mark asks.

  “I can’t sit down,” I say. “Got to get to work.”

  My mom’s smile fades, and her lips sag. She looks at me with longing, like the stray cat that Stella unofficially adopted several years ago. Every year after the first snowfall, the cat shows up on Stella’s porch with dirty marbled fur and a persistent meow. I call it
Tabby, but Stella refuses to name the thing. Every fall she insists she’s not letting the cat inside, but it usually only takes one soulful look into Tabby’s yellow eyes and suddenly there’s a ball of fur spending the winter on Stella’s living room loveseat.

  If I stay I’ll never make Stella’s before work. I need to make Stella’s.

  “You can stay,” Mark says glancing from her to me.

  “I—”

  “You can stay.” He wraps his hand around my wrist. His fingers are tight, squeezing into my skin as if he’s speaking through his fingertips. My mom watches with those Tabby-like eyes, her teeth rubbing along the top of her lip. I don’t want to leave her, but I don’t want to stay. I need to see Stella—I need to know if Adam’s here.

  Mark’s hand clamps even harder, wrestling the choice away from me. I sit down next to my mom, and Mark sets a plate in front of me, two pancakes, soft and golden, with a circle of steam swirling above them.

  “Thanks,” I frown.

  “Isn’t this lovely?” My mom bubbles, and Mark leans over her, his arms circling around her, his head leading down and planting a kiss on her cheek. She leans into him until their lips meet creating moist, smacking sounds. I want to vomit.

  Instead I pierce the pancakes with my fork, imagining it’s Mark’s head.

  Stab. Stab. Stab.

  “Don’t you want some syrup?” My mom, who finally pulls herself away from Mark, holds the bottle out to me. Her swollen lips are curled into a dreamy smile. I nod and take it from her, flipping the cap open and spilling the golden brown liquid onto my pancakes until it pools on the side of my plate. I’m drowning them.

  Drowning Mark.

  “Orange juice?” Mark leans over me like a doting server. I don’t want orange juice. Especially from him, but I let him fill the glass in front of me. The less I fight this, the faster I get out of here. And maybe I can still make it.