by Oakes, Tara
MY SOUL TO WAKE
Book one
STAIN
TARA OAKES
This is a work of fiction.
Any similarities are purely coincidental and unintentional.
Copyright c. 2015
Published by Twelve Oakes Publishing, inc.
Edited by Laura Classi
Cover art by CBB Productions
FOR MY LABCHOP, MY LOVE
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
ALSO BY THIS AUTHOR
The Kingsmen MC series
A Lil’ Less Broken
A Lil’ Less Lost
A Lil’ Less Hopeless
Bitter Sweet Deception
Bitter Sweet Cravings – coming June 17, 2015
The Chianti Kisses series
Baby V
Boss
Betrayed – coming summer 2015
Badge Boys
A brand new series coming fall 2015
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If you’re reading this, hopefully you’ve read some of my previous acknowledgments and many of these names will be familiar to you. If this is your very first Tara Oakes book. Thank you so, so much for giving me a try. I hope you love the book and continue on to read some of the other stories my fans have inspired me to bring to life.
First and foremost, it’s those fans I want to thank. Their constant support, and encouragement mean the world to me. Next, my personal assistant, Alicia. She’s a pro at what she does and continues to excel and master every task she takes on. I’d be a procrastinating basket-case without her.
My editor, Laura who has done a wonderful job yet again in handling a tight deadline. We should buy stock in red pens for her.
CBB, at CBB productions, is solely responsible for all cover art, and teasers for MY SOUL TO WAKE. She’s a genius at what she does and I’m so very very proud of how the cover came out and claim bragging rights to being her first ever cover.
To my street team, the Trollops, and Kerri, the team leader… you gals are some of the most loyal of readers that have been there since book one. I hope to give you plenty more guilty reading pleasures for years to come.
And last but not least… to my Lambchop. It’s been a crazy ride so far, and I am so thankful for all the support and understanding my wonderful husband has given me as I tried out this new phase to my writing. I don’t think either one of us had expected it to take off the way it has, but it’s just one more of life’s little adventures we get to experience together.
I hope you enjoy MY SOUL TO WAKE. One of my very first vacations with Lambchop was to Salem, MA way back in 2008. I started to piece together the premise for the book back then and can’t wait to visit once more now that Leah and Will’s world has unfolded.
PROLOGUE
The crackling of the nearby torches pop and singe. I can smell the burning flame as the wind catches the wafting smoke, swirling and weaving into the night air around me. I can’t see them. I can’t feel their heat… but I know they’re there.
Each of my senses is heightened, on high alert. My lack of sight has seemed to innately trigger my other faculties, kicking them into overdrive to compensate. I can taste the sweet, metallic tinge of blood in my mouth from biting my lower lip. Fear will do that to you.
Biting my lip was the only way to keep my teeth from chattering… or to call out and beg for mercy. I somehow know it would do no good, other than to bolster their frenzy. My fate is sealed.
The roughness of the cloth that scratches against my cheeks is harsh. I try not to move, so as to keep it from abrading my skin. The quivering of my muscles does little to help that.
I swallow hard but feel a tightness around my throat, a constriction that offers no forgiveness. I breathe in deep, savoring each breath, knowing that it may be my last. My lungs are confined, though, unable to expand far enough.
I muffle my sobs. The tears that fall are not for them. I will not give them anything, let alone my tears, though I know they are wanting something else.
They want my words.
Words that would betray the very essence of my being. Those words could spare my life, but they would also condemn others. Others who may still manage to escape this fate.
I will not give them my tears OR my words. Those are for me alone. They have already taken enough from me, are still going to take more from me before they are through.
Although there is naught but darkness around me, I close my eyes. I clear my mind and remember the things that bring peace and calmness.
Delicate fresh flowers in my memories, swaying in the tiniest of breezes. The beautiful petals each rippling in their own direction, dancing with the wind. The dewey aroma they give off after a cooling rain storm. The grand power they harness to cure ailments and maladies.
My fingers twitch, imagining the feeling of running the tips of them over those wild flowers. My heart breaks knowing that I will never run through the fields of beautifully-colored blooms again. It’s one more thing they’ll take from me.
But it’s nothing compared to the greatest of all punishments they are condemning unto me.
Fresh tears sprinkle my warm cheeks as I finally face the worst of their punishment.
I won’t ever see him again.
I’ll never catch his beautiful brown eyes staring at me. I’ll never again feel the heavy weight of those eyes as I pretend not to notice. I’ll never feel the flush of my concealed skin as I bask in his gaze.
The soft touch of his hand on mine was everything and more that I could have ever prayed for. It was unexpected and gentle and exhilarating. I remember the moment I first felt his caress and knew for sure that I had finally found that which I didn’t even know I had longed for.
The only thing more exquisite than his touch were his words. Words that stirred deep in me to awaken something only he could harness.
I feel the charged energy from those gathered round. He and I connect, something powerful, drawing us to each other. I don’t feel him now. It’s some small mercy in all of this that my last moments won’t be of suffering with him near. I couldn’t bear that.
I want him to remember me as I was. The carefree girl he fell in love with. Those are the memories we shall keep of each other.
Those are the memories I will replay during the next few moments. I know then, that I will die happy.
The crowd now draws silent. The time has come. I think of his smile, just as I had planned. My shallowed breathing is fast, the air coming quick and hard.
The time passes both brisk and slow, measured against the thudding heartbeats strumming in my ears.
I think of his tender caress, and of the lost promise of our wedding night never to be fulfilled.
I feel the ledged platform und
erfoot begin to rattle, the vibration unlocking the hidden despair in my being.
I think of his pooling eyes, searching deep into my own.
Wood begins to scrape against wood, sliding against the grain, offering a terrible screech that sends a chill up my spine. A weightlessness takes hold as I drop, and the once abundant air is no longer available to me. I feel my feet dangle, my hands confined at the wrist unable to relieve the tortuous burning around my throat.
I think of his smile….
CHAPTER ONE
I awaken startled, gasping deep breaths that have proven through experience to help me regain some sense of composure. The first seconds immediately after I wake are always the worst, full of terror. It’s hard to distinguish dream from reality in those first few seconds.
The details of the nightmare are vivid at first, all encompassing, as I remember the sounds, the smells, the feelings. Almost instantly, they begin to fade, leaving nothing but an evaporating impression behind. Before long, there is nothing left but fear and heartbreak, all elements of the dream having been forgotten… until the next time.
Although the nightly ritual has plagued me since childhood, there are times when I am free from its spell. In some ways, those absences are much more cruel than the nightmares themselves.
Those are the times when I convince myself I am just like everybody else, that some phase of all-t0o realistic night terrors has been outgrown. That, finally, I can close my eyes at night and not dread the darkness.
But then after some time, whether it be a night, a week, or in the longest stretch five months, the dream returns, serving as evidence that I am not like everyone else. All the “normal” things that most everyone else does in life aren’t possible for me.
The feeling of a good night’s sleep, rejuvenated and well rested… those feelings don’t come for me. In the rare nights when the nightmare is kept at bay, I sleep with unease somehow, waiting for it.
I’m young, twenty-three years old, but the lack of sleep seems to have aged me. I feel it. I don’t have that same carefree, whimsical manner that my contemporaries seem to effortlessly radiate. One more example of how I am different somehow. But it isn’t only in these later years that my affliction is a barrier to what I yearn for most.
When I was a child, the dreams plagued me, causing screaming fits and endless tears. I didn’t know that I was the only one to have these nighttime fantasies. I thought everyone did. It was a second-grade assignment where we were asked to write a small page about our favorite dream that I realized I was different.
The kitty cats and unicorns that my classmates spoke of were foreign to me. My mom helped me with that homework assignment, convinced she could ensure a good grade. Though, I suspect she wanted to save me the embarrassment and ridicule that the truth would have brought.
For however upsetting the dreams made me, I know my parents were equally affected. There were endless doctor appointments, specialist referrals and testing to determine what ailed their little girl. When no cause could be found, and a corresponding cure no longer a possibility, the diagnosis given was psychological.
There were weekly therapy appointments, nightly melatonin treatments, and finally an arsenal of prescription elixirs to mask the symptoms.
They never worked, though. Short of sedation, there was no barrier that could be put in place to keep the dreams at bay.
I am the only girl I know who has never had the right of passage sleepovers that pre-teen girls subject themselves to. The risk was too high. Mom went to great lengths to keep my torment hidden. Other than relatives, there were never overnight guests in our home, and when there were, creative excuses were given to the rare witness to my calamity.
It’s amazing how adaptive children can be. It became my normal… the girl who had to sleep at home, never inviting her friends to spend the night.
It was successful though. The careful plan than mom and dad had constructed when I was young had helped me to navigate those awkward teen years without any ridicule for my hidden disorder. It was our little family secret.
That privacy and secrecy paved the way for my approach to many things in life. My college years were spent living at home, commuting to and from daily classes at Easton University, while my closest friends dormed in the coed living quarters on campus.
After a long night of studying, partying, or trying to act like your normal college undergrad, I would then take the forty-minute drive back home to the safety of my own bed.
Those habits die hard. I still sleep alone, although now as a young adult I have the luxury of my own little apartment, carefully chosen with only a nearly deaf little old lady as a wall-sharing neighbor.
The curse has other lasting consequences. Besides my two best friends, no one knows about the nightly visits to hell I endure. To keep that from changing, I take great pains to keep others at bay, a safe distance where my secret will remain secure.
The possibility of sharing a night with a boy is not even an option to me. Because of that fear, I rarely accept anything beyond a second date. It’s easier to make random excuses, however untruthful, to avoid the type of affection that will lead to sharing my bed with another. It would only lead to their discovering my secret and then hightailing it out of there, far away from the mentally unstable freak that has nightly panic attacks.
I convinced myself long ago that I was only protecting myself and my heart from the inevitable.
So now, lying here, awaiting the calmness that will eventually overtake me as the episode passes, I struggle to remember the details as they once again fade.
The damp sweat beading on my skin has long since chilled, slowly drying and disappearing along with the cause of its outbreak. I sigh loudly, thankful it has passed, relieved that the rest of the night will pass uneventfully.
I sip from the glass of water set out on my nightstand just hours before. My throat is raw from the effects of the dream, and so the liquid works some sort of magic on the aching flesh as I swallow.
My breathing has slowed. My pulse evens. I take the ribboned hair tie from the bedside drawer and clumsily tie back my thick wavy hair from the sweat-moistened nape of my neck. A chill has taken over, and I slip my feet back under the crumpled blankets that had been strewn about in my fit.
I smooth the crisp linens, straightening the bedding before settling back into the well broken-in pillows. It’ll be easier now. The threat of dark shadows no longer lingers over my sleep.
~*~
No!
Ring all you want. I will not answer.
I toss over onto my stomach to easily pull up at the sides of my oversized down-filled pillow, covering my head like earmuffs. Another ring. Another curse word is mumbled under my breath into the thick fluffy pillow.
Four more rings to go as I silently count down to when the answering machine will automatically trigger itself to end the torturous sound. I have to remember to change the ringer settings-- three rings should be enough, I think.
The last of the mechanical tolls chime before the listener hears my generic yet specific greeting to leave a message. The possibilities are pretty limited as to who’s listening to my pre-recorded missive.
Mom and dad don’t call before nine unless it’s an emergency. I’m not scheduled to work today, so the chances that anyone at the coffee house is ringing me are slim. I stopped seeing Paul weeks ago. I think it’s pretty safe to say that he won’t be calling after the way I left things between us.
I put my money on Courtney or Nina.
The rumbled clicking makes way through the plastic speaker of the nearby phone base on my nightstand.
“Wake up sleepyhead!”
Yup, it’s Court.
“We’re leaving my place now. That gives you less than thirty minutes to get out of that bed before I drag you out of it myself.”
Ugh. I drop the pillowed corners from the sides of my face. I know her well enough not to underestimate her threat. I do recall a specific morning about six
months ago when she did just that… dragged me out of my bed.
We had impulsively signed up for some boot camp-styled workout course together during a moment of bloated weakness. I wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about the prospect of sweating my pants off by some over-muscled, over-proteined, two-bit drill instructor with a hard-on for making women so sick from exercise that they vomit outside on the sidewalk. No, thank you. I chose to sleep, instead.
Courtney literally rolled me out of bed at 5AM to tumble on my hard wooden floor in order to make sure we got to the class on time. I suffered through the ninety-minute obstacle course and bull horned commands only to stop by the Dunkin Donuts on my way home and officially withdraw from the class on their website later that day.
All it took to convince Court to join me in my boot camp mutiny escape plan was an iced coffee and a jelly doughnut.
“We’ll bring a thermos of coffee for the road. Thirty minutes, Leah!” she warns through my answering machine.
I flip onto my back and exhale deeply into the feathered pillowcase before me. Even if I pretend I didn’t hear the message, I know it will be no use. She has a key to my front door, and the last time she threw me from my bed my knee was bruised for weeks. I might as well face this head on.
Especially if she’s got coffee.
~*~
“We were supposed to be on the road ten minutes ago, Leah. How much longer?” Nina calls to me while I’m half buried under my bed, searching in vain for my old broken-in baseball hat.
The morning sun is rising higher through the bedroom windows offering a fair amount of light, but the far depths of this narrow space escape that benefit, leaving only my blind fingers to do the searching.
I flatten my palm and clap it against the smooth wood as my wrist moves about. “Got it!” I call out in echoed victory.
