Eyes Unveiled

by Crystal Walton

  eyes

  unveiled

  Unveiled Series

  Book One

  Crystal Walton

  Impact Editions, LLC

  Chesapeake, VA

  Copyright © 2014 by Crystal Walton

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Published by Impact Editions, LLC

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2013 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Cover Design © 2014 damonza.com

  Author Photo by Charity Mack

  Eyes Unveiled/ Crystal Walton.

  ISBN 978-0-9862882-0-3

  Contents

  Suspended

  Unraveled

  Center Stage

  Collision

  Forfeit

  Competition

  Falling

  Liability

  Uncomplicated

  Runaway

  Defenseless

  Expression

  Walls

  Untamable

  Preservation

  On Loan

  Crumbled

  Second Chance

  Paralyzed

  Shattered

  Wreckage

  Numb

  Dance

  Letting Go

  Stirred

  Fingerprints

  Borders

  Unhinged

  Time

  Release

  Tomorrow

  Undone

  Always

  Ambushed

  Unveiled

  Chapter one

  Suspended

  Don’t cower. Five years’ worth of reminders filled my academic advisor’s office with the weight of a promise I had to keep. I couldn’t give up. Not now.

  Mr. Oakly shot forward at his desk. The chair squawked into place, the echo climbing across my shoulders. Leaning on his forearms, Mr. Oakly scooted paper stacks aside until I had nothing left to hide behind. “Miss Matthews, what would you like to do with your life?”

  His question pressed in from every angle of the cluttered room. A sliver of Oregon’s skyline flickered through a cracked blind, just as out of reach as a suitable answer. I stared at my Reed College tee and twisted the hair band around my wrist. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  The tremor in my voice hung between us. Raw. Exposed.

  Mr. Oakly laid his pencil on the desk. His taut eyes wadded my confession into a crumpled ball along with the pieces of trash in his wastebasket. “You’re in your junior year of college, Miss Matthews. I would suggest now is the time to figure that out.”

  I yanked the band from my arm and twisted my hair up into a half-bun-half-ponytail mess that sprang long strands down my neck seconds later. He had to know I was trying. I’d taken career assessment tests, changed majors three times. There was no map, no blueprint. And somewhere on that stark canvas, I was supposed to see where my life fit? It wasn’t as easy as he made it sound.

  Slumped back in his padded chair, Mr. Oakly took his time scrutinizing my latest degree plan. All five scratched-through pages of it. The bottom sheet rubbed against his bulging belly every time he wheezed through his nose. He tapped his glasses on a pile beside him. Minutes drifted with the dust particles floating around the stacks of paper mounded on his desk.

  His fingertips drummed over his keyboard, each stroke a passing judgment. “Your grades are impressive,” he finally said. “But we expect more from you the closer you near graduation. Especially if you want to keep such a prominent scholarship.”

  More. The single word slithered down my spine into the sweat gluing my hamstrings to the chair. Was he waiting for a response? Because my mouth seemed to be functioning about as well as my eyelids were. I’d worked my tail off to stay on the dean’s list. Fought my way to the top of my class. I’d given everything to be here. There was nothing more to give.

  I stretched my hair tie to its limit, forced it another time around the tangled knot on my head, and kept my mouth clamped shut.

  “We’ve had many outstanding recipients of the Beasley scholarship through the years,” he said. “Including your late father. He was one savvy businessman. Left quite the impression with his internship supervisor.”

  He moved his keyboard back and leaned on his desk again. “Similar to the other Beasley recipients, he had a certain . . . prestige about him. Something I’m afraid you still seem to be lacking. And if you don’t find it soon, you can count on forfeiting your scholarship to someone more qualified.”

  The guy’s comb-over could outstretch his sensitivity in any race.

  I gripped the armrests, temples throbbing. Losing that scholarship would jeopardize everything I’d fought to gain. “Please, you can’t let them take that away from me. My dad—”

  “Scholarships aren’t based on heredity, Miss Matthews. Reward is about performance. Same as in the job market, you have to prove your merit.” He straightened his bowtie while he glanced at a shelf laden with plaques and photos of prize students. “Which is exactly why securing an internship during your junior year is an eligibility requirement for the Beasley award. Along with receiving a noteworthy performance review from your internship supervisor.”

  As if I hadn’t been stressed enough over that already.

  Mr. Oakly shimmied his glasses onto his square face and shuffled through a handful of papers. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a list of possible internship placements to start with.” He held a page in the air. “And you simply take your pick.”

  Simply? There was nothing simple about it. We weren’t talking about some part-time job to get me through a summer. We were talking about a crucial lead to finding a promising job. We were talking about my future. My identity. Something I couldn’t find on an arbitrary directory limited to the size of a loose-leaf sheet of paper.

  Or maybe those were just Dad’s ideals talking. Always spurring me on to view the world as a dreamer. I shouldn’t romanticize it. You work, you get paid, you hold your own. Mr. Oakly was right. Everything was about measuring up in performance. It always had been.

  Without responding, I stood and reached for the list of prospects, but he held on and stared over the thick rims of his outdated glasses. “You have until the end of the semester to submit your performance review for evaluation.”

  What were the chances one of his navy blue suspenders would snap and slap that smirk off his face? I wanted to jerk the list from his hands, but my intended snatch came out more as a lethargic acceptance ending with my arm drooping to my side.

  “And Miss Matthews?” he called once I reached the door. “Keep in mind there are other candidates competing for those Beasley funds.” His gaze slanted past me to the waiting area.

  I launched off the doorframe and blew by a row of lime-green chairs lining the wall, where a petite Asian girl peeked up from a binder pressed to her stomach. I think she was in my accounting class last year. Miriam Somebody. Maybe it was good I didn’t know her. Competitions were easier if you kept your heart off the battlefield. I’d learned that much.

  With at least thirty paces of speckled tiles distancing me from the office, I loosened my grip around the list and smoothed out the fist-shaped wrinkles. The fluorescent lights glared
over the black ink bulleted down the page. Printer companies, computer services, accounting firms. Could one of these internships be enough to keep my promise to become someone Dad would be proud of? Someone who could stand on her own?

  It had to. Prove my merit? Watch me.

  The double doors ushered me into a cherry wood-scented breeze outside Eliot Hall and right into my brother’s brawny shoulder. He lifted off the limestone siding. “How’d it go?”

  “Jeez, Austin, you have me under surveillance or something?”

  He scanned side to side and lowered his sunglasses. “Can’t reveal all my secrets.”

  I nudged him down the walkway. “Not sure a computer graphics major qualifies you to be an MI6 operative.”

  “Hey, never underestimate a big brother’s covert skills.”

  Covert? More like overprotective. Especially after Dad’s battle with cancer had taken a turn for the worse. Not surprised Austin would stick around to check up on me.

  “Listen, I appreciate you driving me up and staying the night, but I’m all moved in now. Think I can handle it from here. You’ve got a long trek back to Cali.”

  Already a step ahead of me, he motioned toward the Malibu parked at the curb. My stomach squeezed.

  A few feet away, squeals erupted from roommates reuniting after being apart for the eternity we all knew as summer break. As thrilled as I was to be back with my friends too, saying goodbye to Austin never got easier.

  The walkway ended too soon. I dawdled in front of him, hands in my pockets.

  He reclined against the passenger door. “You didn’t tell me how your meeting went.”

  Why couldn’t he have missed that? I blew an unruly strand of hair out of my face. “Nothing better than getting an ultimatum your first day back.”

  His jaw clenched. “What?”

  Bad choice of words. “Relax, 007, it’s more of an incentive to keep me on my mission.”

  “So, now you’re MI6 too?”

  “More so than you.” I flashed him the best Bond pose I could.

  Pathetic.

  He straightened, probably buying it as much as I did. “Em, you need to take a little pressure off yourself.”

  Easy for him to say. Senior at the University of California, internship down, job offer nearly in place. His pressures were already behind him.

  He ruffled my hair. “Try enjoying your college experience. Make memories with your friends. Date.” A pack of freshman boys strutted by the girls on the sidewalk, their hormones whirling faster than their footballs. “Okay, maybe you can skip the whole dating part.”

  Like that would be a problem. “I’ll try to be more social. But, seriously, dating is the last thing you need to worry about. I’m too sensible for fairy tales.”

  His mouth pulled sideways. “Sure you’re the same sister I went to high school with?”

  I shoved him against the car. “Yeah, the one who learned her lesson. I’m just saying, why go chasing after something that’s gonna make me vulnerable?”

  “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes vulnerability’s worth the risk.” He shrugged. “Look at Mom and Dad.”

  Exactly. How could he even say that? They might’ve been lucky enough to share the real deal while it lasted, but it didn’t matter. It was stripped away from them anyway. Love abandoned. It always had. Why would I put myself in a position to depend on someone who’d end up leaving me? Not to mention I had a career to focus on. Well, if I didn’t blow it, I’d have one.

  My stomach churned as it had in Mr. Oakly’s office. Stop overreacting. It’d be fine. I’d made it this far on my own.

  I let out a breath, stretched my neck from side to side. “Thanks again for staying, Aust, but you really should get back. You’ve got your internship evaluation this week to prep for.”

  Ankles crossed, he rested his arm across the car door rim. “Piece of cake.”

  “You aren’t nervous?”

  He spun his key ring around his finger. “Nah. Pretty sure it’s in the bag.” His grin expanded with each syllable. “Clearly, now that they’ve seen how talented I am, how could they not offer me a full-time job?”

  My eyes circled up to the sky and back down. “Clearly.” I’d never admit he was probably right. He’d always been too smart for his own good.

  Austin pushed off the car and tapped my chin. “Aw, don’t be jealous ‘cause I’m older—”

  I swiped his hand away. “Barely.”

  “—and smarter,” he said, ignoring my objection.

  “Ha.” I whipped my hair back and crisscrossed my arms over my gray Reed tee. “Haughtier is more like it.”

  He backed up two steps and gave one overhauling glance up and down my arrogant pose. “Clearly,” he said in a perfect echo of my earlier remark.

  I pursed my lips, refusing to mirror his smile.

  Useless.

  Austin’s gaze flitted from me to inside the Malibu. “You know, you should’ve brought Dad’s guitar with you. We could’ve squeezed it in the backseat.”

  My hand glided to my chest on its own. “Are you serious? I’m not Dad.”

  “No one said you were. That doesn’t mean you can’t have a part of him.”

  “Not the artist part.” He changed lives through those guitar strings. I was lucky not to botch changing keys. “Besides, I’m more comfortable with my own guitar. She’s been with me through some rough times.” One candid memory chased another. “There’ve been a few days when it was just the two of us fighting for sanity.”

  “Still haven’t won that battle, huh?”

  I thrust a commendable punch straight into Austin’s gut. He doubled over. More from laughter than pain. Figures. Bracing his knees, he positioned his face directly in front of mine. I shoved him back and wrinkled my nose. “That garlic breath warrants at least three feet of personal space, thank you very much.”

  As if he’d listen. He lugged me into his classic bear hug and rested his chin on my head. “I know there’s a lot of pressure on you, but trust me. You’re braver than you think you are.”

  Was I? After battling between hope and doubt for so long, I wasn’t sure anymore. I grabbed hold of Austin’s T-shirt and his assurance, wishing I didn’t have to let go of either, but his ornery-driven reflexes didn’t give the sentiment a chance to percolate.

  He rubbed his fingers through the top of my hair until the level of static electricity competed with the volume of his self-amused snorting.

  I kicked him around the front of the car. “Be safe.”

  “Always am.”

  Doubt that. I waved from the sidewalk until the old Chevy rounded the corner past the school’s entrance. Like an old friend, a breeze rolled up the walkway and blew an, it’s going to be okay sigh across my face. Maybe it was. With a little determination. Headphones in place, I exhaled. Under Oregon’s gorgeous skies, anything was easy to believe.

  The campus already vibrated with energy. An array of blankets peppered the lawns with students. Some sunbathing. Others squinting at the font on white textbook pages jeering at them in the sunlight. Suitcases and dollies rumbled over the sidewalks leading to the dorms.

  No denying it was the beginning of a new year. No telling where it’d lead. But at least for this tiny moment, it didn’t matter. With my head lifted to the sky and the rest of the world shut out, it was just me, my music, and my private dance with the afternoon’s sun-soaked breeze.

  Until I opened my eyes again.

  Shoulder to shoulder with someone passing in the opposite direction, I froze. The music from my iPod faded. No sound. No movement. Just blue eyes holding on to mine, searching with depths of loss and dreams as if he understood the tug of war Austin and I had just talked about. His eyes held something vulnerable inside them. Something that didn’t let go until he passed and freed me to breathe again.

  Gravel churned beneath my sneakers as I spun around, but it was too late. He’d already disappeared into the sea of faces streaming along the fast-pa
ced current of move-in day. In the midst of it all, I stood suspended—desperate for Austin to be wrong about vulnerability, terrified he wasn’t.

  chapter two

  Unraveled

  Three weeks was more than enough time to forget about some random encounter with a stranger—even if his eyes stood out like the translucent-blue pieces of glass I used to find along the San Francisco Bay. Such a brief connection shouldn’t leave me feeling this captivated. I was twenty-one, not fifteen.

  “Sure you’re not the same sister I went to high school with?” Almost a thousand miles away, and Austin still managed to weasel his obnoxious voice into my thoughts.

  I tossed a highlighter into the crease of my textbook and snatched my list of internships and my cell. Get a grip, Em. Focus.

  I tapped a hole into my desk with my pen cap while waiting for someone to pick up. “May I speak with . . .” I ran my finger across the page. “Mr. Jeffries, please?”

  “He’s in a meeting,” a woman with an overly nasal voice said. “If this is regarding the internship position, it’s already been filled.”

  “Already?”

  “I’m afraid so. Just earlier today, actually.” A second line beeped in the background. “Good luck to you,” she said in a rush to exchange one call for another.

  Apparently, luck’s not on my side. I added a fifth bolded pen stroke to the page. How could they be filling up this quickly? I lurched back in my chair. My textbook bumped into the picture frame preserving my eleventh birthday behind a thin sheet of glass.

  What I’d give to be in Dad’s lap again, sandwiched behind his guitar, drawing from the courage his confident smile and soothing music had always provided—memories I couldn’t lose. No matter what.

  I grabbed my own guitar from the corner and brought it into my lap. Right there, in the middle of unsettled beginnings, I strummed a song Dad had played for me for as long as I could remember.

  The familiar sound tore at the fissure down the length of my heart, prodding one side away from the other. Both too painful to face. Both resounding with the same inescapable question. If I failed to keep my promise to become who Dad saw in me, would I fail to find his promise of a meaningful future?