Fallon leans on Carter’s shoulder and closes her eyes, gurgles something about drinking too much.
I’m ashamed to admit I’m a little jealous of Fallon. I was sort of warming to the idea of it just being Carter and me. Back home I had Amber. We didn’t belong to any clique. It was just the two of us, each with our respective boyfriends. But, in all fairness, I really don’t know Fallon. All I know is what I can see, blond roots sprouting like snow against her coal black hair—sort of the opposite of Grayson with her blond on black. They’d look like a checkerboard if they ever got into a fight.
“Hello?” Carter waves her hand in front of my face.
“I guess Kresley thought she would serve up her gossip with a side of battery,” I say, trying to quell a headache from taking flight.
A jolt of lightning fills the night sky, illuminating the room as bright as the afternoon sun.
“You know what they say, payback’s a bitch.” Fallon squints into me. I’m not sure if she means for Kresley or me, but I’m willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, at least until she starts to beat the shit out of me. Then I’ll simply return the favor.
“That’s right.” I lean into Wes. “It is.”
“No revenge, please,” he whispers it warm in my ear.
“Well, you did say please.” I wrap my arms around him and take in that ebony hair, those serious eyes.
I can’t believe I’m spending the entire weekend with Wesley.
Sometimes happiness is the best revenge.
25
Home Bound
The party is still going strong as Wes and Fletch toss our bags into the back of Jen’s car. We leave for the Anderson estate at twelve forty-five in the morning, and as far as I can tell, this all could have been done after the sun came up, not during a midnight downpour. Fletch sits up front with Jen. Rumor has it Blaine will be meeting us in the a.m. I’m guessing he wanted to play a game of Jax before the weekend hit, and my sister put him under another dry spell. I’d like to place him under a permanent dry spell by way of yanking his balls right off his body, and if the mood should strike, I just might.
Wes scoots in. I purposefully sat in the middle, so I could rest my head on his shoulder and lull myself to sleep with the rhythm of his breathing. When Wes and I finally got together as a couple back home, I used to lay my head on his stomach and we’d watch the night sky for shooting stars. His body was as soft as a waterbed. I could listen for hours at the odd sounds and gurgles. Wes was his own universe, and I could hardly wait to discover him. And now there are more layers, more intricacies that I want desperately to unearth. How could he be a Count? How could I?
Wes wraps his arm around me and warms my thigh with his free hand.
“I don’t remember anything about the house or my family,” I whisper directly in his ear.
“I’ll be with you.”
There is no way I could have done this without Wes. I’m nothing but a lost child abandoned on a highway. A locked suite at the Flanders’s psychiatric resort would have waited for me without him—still might.
“I was thinking…” Jen turns down the radio.
Sounds tragic.
Each time Jen invokes the use of her sparse brain cells, a verbal calamity unfolds. It’s like a nuclear facility in full melt down, putting everyone in a thirty-mile radius at risk.
“Tomorrow night we should do our first couples date.” She announces, staring off into the watery night as if the twin yellow ribbons that stain the road inspired her.
“Thanks, Jen, but I don’t date my sister.” Fletch mocks. Something tells me if he woke up from this fantasy and saw her for the underwear model she really is, he’d reconsider his stance on incest.
“Quiet.” Jen shoots him a look. “And you’re next by the way. I’m determined to find the right girl for you.”
“Like Carter?” I lean in to try and read his expression when I say her name. I think they’d be totally cute together. Although Carter, too, is supermodel gorgeous and clearly out of Fletcher’s league, I’d love to have him with someone I like—namely not Grayson. Back home he dated Pamela Richards, Cider Plains own self-proclaimed man-eater. She’d pole vault onto the nearest penis on command as if she were truly in training for the fornicating Olympics. She wore her hickeys like a badge of honor and kept tally marks on her gym locker that either were the sum total of guys stupid enough to sleep with her or the number of spit swaps she partook in. It was a sexual resume the senior girls studied like a graph in the same way archeologists might study ancient hieroglyphics. Fletch was just a tally mark. I guess at the end of the day that’s all I was to Tucker.
“No, definitely not Carter.” Jen shakes her head vehemently as though I had suggested we give him some hybrid STD for Christmas. Then again, Carter might have the potential to deliver. “Someone softer, quieter. You know, a good girl. Besides, she’s still with Jackson.” Jen twists her lips as if she’s envisioning him.
“I guess I don’t know any good girls.” So there’s that. Technically, I don’t know anyone.
“I do think we should go on a date tomorrow night.” Wes bristles his cheek against mine. “Reacquaint ourselves.”
“I’d like that.” I press into him and feel the warmth radiating from his body like the soft waves from a furnace.
“I hear you two,” Jen chimes. “When Blaine gets in, we could catch a movie. Maybe the late show so Mom and Dad won’t feel bad. What do you think?” Jen won’t let this go. I have a feeling she’ll spend more time watching Wes and me than the screen.
“Movie?” I look up at Wes, and he shakes his head.
“I think I’ll take Laken to the lodge,” Wes volunteers. “Take her out on the water before it freezes over.”
“Think again,” Jen says, annoyed by the prospect of having to hold surveillance over an entire body of water to protect me from Wes and his bout of hormonal fever.
Sounds great to me. Less Jen, more Wes. I’d love to enjoy a perfect moment of solitude with my boyfriend by my side. I hear hormonal fever is extremely contagious. In fact, I’ve got a bad case myself.
I lean my head on his shoulder, watch as the dark hills shine and glitter beneath the beams of a bashful moon. The rain has let up and washed the world anew, beckoning the stars to extend their glory and illuminate the night like a rare sea of jewels.
How the stars don’t fall, how the moon quietly rotates without colliding into the planet staggers me. These strange witnesses in the sky are the supreme testament to a higher glory—some esteemed being who saw fit to litter the planet with people, both good and evil, to blight us with disease and prosper us with riches. Everyone can recite their endless lists of “why me,” and testify to their personal blessings and atrocities, but at the end of the day, we’re a part of it, whatever it may be. And, now, I’m something more than human. Something divine—a God-breathed angel, a minister of light. I have a role, a function—an entirely new reality.
I pick up Wesley’s hand in an effort to have a little fun with his newfound superpower. I press my lips against his fingers and envision the two of us rolling around on a field, naked and covered with chocolate. The visual is so enticing it makes me crave both Wes and a chocolate shake.
He shifts uncomfortably for a moment. “I don’t know about you,” he whispers, “but I’m suddenly thirsty for some chocolate milk.”
I don’t say anything, simply bite down on one of his fingers and continue my foray into mild, sexual perversion with Wes as my sweetest confection. I imagine running my tongue across his body, imprinting long welts in the chocolate slick, his arms creating tracks over my flesh, my body as his own private canvas. I can see Wes hitching my legs over his shoulders, his hungry mouth—
“Whoa,” he says, pulling me up slightly.
“You okay?” I bat my lashes innocently up at him.
His dimple digs in on the right. Clearly I’ve incapacitated him. Lust blooms across his face like a wildfire as his eyes gloss over with
desire. Wes slips me a kiss under Jen’s radar. He plunges in with an all-out assault and dips his hand inside my sweater, runs his fingers down the back of my jeans. Jen is already proving impotent to stomp out his rampant hormones. There’s not a firefighter on the planet that could douse this fire.
The drive continues for what feels like a blissful eternity. Eventually, we pull up to a small gate, no bigger than the one armed guard they barricade you with in parking lots. Jen keys in a number, and we progress through a windbreak of Fir trees that guide us down a twisted trail. We bump over cobbled roads, seeing nothing but green and black bushes in front of us. Then a clearing opens. A behemoth of a structure lies in the distance. A hotel, a mansion, something alarmingly inconceivable to belonging to any family I might have an acquaintance with, let alone am a part of.
Wide wrought iron gates with the effigy of two fighting lions arched on hind legs draw open, slow and dramatic.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, breathing hard as we head toward the colossal building.
An overgrown bronze angel with a fifteen-foot wingspan stands with his feet in a fountain the size of a swimming pool as an unearthly glow emanates from the water.
Jen glides into the mouth of a circular driveway and kills the ignition when we reach the front.
The lights come on as Fletch ejects himself from the car. Wes and I slide out into the damp night air, and I take in the beauty, the amazing chivalry of the museum that is my home.
“You have never lived here,” Wes whispers. “Boarding schools and summer camp. This is just home base, nothing more.”
“Nice.” I don’t bother hiding my enthusiasm as I take in all the majesty.
“Let’s get this done.” Fletch pats Wes on the shoulder as they head back to unload the car.
“Take this.” Jen tosses me a silver toy gun.
“God—it’s heavy,” I say, handling the icy metal. “Feels real.”
I look down the barrel—twirl the piece around my finger like a Western before pulling back the trigger. A loud pop goes off, and the gun recoils in my hand.
A groan emits in front of us, and I look up in time to see a man dropping to his knees. A crimson stain blooms furiously across his shoulder.
“Ah fuck, Laken.” Fletcher strides past me. “You just killed Jones.”
26
Freaky Like This
I didn’t kill him.
I’m only half paying attention as Wes and Fletch perform rudimentary surgery on a stone table in the entry because I can’t get over the fact this place looks like a mausoleum, or the fact that the all of the blood and moaning makes it feel like some sort of demonic ritual is taking place within its opulent walls.
Jen appears wielding enough gauze to wrap a mummy with. Wes takes over and dresses his wound, careful as a skilled physician.
“See?” The mysterious Uncle Jones nods up at me. “No ambulance needed, I’m good as new.” He gives a paternal smile, tilting his head as if he’s taking me in for the first time.
I still think normal people would have called an ambulance, even if it wasn’t a real bullet as Wes explained. Instead, it was some kind of chemically propelled arrow that was supposed to burst open but aborted the effort—or else, apparently, I really would have assassinated my fake uncle, or temporarily paralyzed him in the least.
“Laken—you look beautiful,” he whispers, taking me in like an exotic flower. His footsteps echo as he makes his way over. Jones is tall. He holds a spare tire around his waist, but he’s handsome with graying hair and a pleasant smile. And, as much as I hate to admit it, there’s something frighteningly familiar about him, about this entire place. It’s like a flood of memories, a power surge of vague emotions that were once ignited in this very location, struggle to resurface. I know this house, and I know him.
His arms collapse around me. His chest singes the side of my face. He smells sweet like cologne, the hint of fresh soap clings faint to his skin.
“I’ve missed you.” He pulls my chin up with his finger. “Did you miss me?”
I find this special brand of attention unnerving. He’s not fawning over Jen or Fletch. He hasn’t even bothered to acknowledge Wes who all but performed a healing miracle in his honor.
“Yes,” I lie, but strangely it feels as though I really did. A craving has been satisfied deep in my soul with his simple touch and the attention he gives me. This is real. Our bond feels indestructible. “Are my parents here?” I ask with the soft voice of a child.
“Flight’s been delayed.” He looks around at the lot of us. “First thing in the morning I’ll pick them up. Joy will have brunch for us.” He points over to Fletch. “No sleeping in ‘til noon. Go ahead and get settled. I’ll clean up and come say good night.” He takes off down the corridor before disappearing. His footsteps echo long after he’s gone.
“Let’s go.” Wes races me up the staircase on the left. Another set of stairs are situated on the other side of the palatial entry, and they both land on the upper level at opposite ends of an expansive walkway. “Joy is the cook slash housekeeper. Your uncle lives like a bachelor. My mom’s working on converting him. She’ll be up either tomorrow or Sunday. Casper’s disappearance has the faculty working overtime.”
Creamy limestone walls—an entire string of inset lighting dots the ceiling upstairs. It provides an over bright environment—a sharp contrast to anything at Ephemeral.
“Why so many rooms? Why so big?” I whisper.
“Your great, great grandfather built it. He dreamed in dollars and heirs.”
Ironic because with me he gets neither.
Wes pulls me into a small room that’s average in size and quality, which is rather disappointing when you consider the girth of the palace we’re entombed in.
A neatly made bed sits tucked against the wall. A lavender comforter lays flat over the mattress with at least twenty decorator pillows adorning the top. It looks like a display bed from a department store, something too scrumptious to ever own or sleep in.
A giant window expands over the back wall, which faces the rear of the property. I go over and peer out at an illuminated pool as narrow as a walkway that stretches down the center of the yard.
“Here’s the bathroom.” Wes swings open a door near the entry.
“Is this my room?”
“Always and forever.” Wes plops on the bed, and it rises and falls with the weight of his body.
Not one creepy thing about these four walls. Nothing to allude to the fact I’ve been resurrected or lived a past life whatsoever. A photo collage tacked above the dresser startles me. There I am in every one of those pictures. Me huddled with an unfamiliar-looking group of people, mostly girls. One with a guy sticking his tongue in my ear—my eyes averted.
Wes comes over and stands beside me.
“Remember anything?” His sweater brushes up against my back and warms me. It’s only Wes who brings back memories. The idea that I once existed in this world prior to Cooper finding me in that forest seems a flight of fantasy.
“I thought so,” I start, “downstairs—when I hugged Jones, but I’m not sure. These pictures—” I pluck a group shot off the corkboard and study it—me and four girls, all with formal wear on. We each have a leg kicked out in chorus line formation while making crazy faces at the camera. It looks like fun, all nice girls at winter formal or prom, but I have no recall of the event whatsoever. “Looks like a good time was had by all.” At least someone wants me to believe it.
Wes wraps his arms around my waist and sinks his hands over the back of my jeans. This is all I remember, Wes and his touch. I spin around and take in his beautiful face, that strong jaw line, those apple-green eyes. He leans in and brushes his lips against mine, and a faint groan emits from deep within him. Wes pulls back and drinks me down with a glazed-over expression. He gives a long blink as if he were about to dive into a pool of water after a long trek through a parched desert.
We fall into a sea of hot kisses. Kisses like e
mbers that threaten to ignite the room into flames, burn down the legacy my supposed great, great grandfather tried so hard to build. Wes pushes me in by the back of the neck as if he couldn’t get deep enough inside of me if he tried. These were passionate, desperate kisses fueled from a hunger only a lengthy absence could supply you with.
The more foreign my life becomes, the more of an anchor Wes turns into. If only I could coil myself around him, secure myself beneath him—I wouldn’t float away in this nameless, faceless tide of people.
I slip my hands up his shirt and touch the hard waves of flesh as I crest over his abdomen. I want to lose myself in Wes tonight, all weekend, all year. I never want to open my eyes and face this alien world again.
“Crap.” Jen stomps into the room and plucks Wes off me. “Jones is in the hall. He wants to say good night. Wes, I don’t even want to look at you.” She storms back out like a furtive tornado.
“We’ll have to test the lock next time.” He shoots a sour look to the door.
“We’ll create a barricade that can hold off humans and monsters alike I promise.”
Wes looks apprehensive as if barricading himself with me might lead to things he’s not ready for.
The truth is I need Wes. I need for him to scrub Tucker Donovan off me in the most intimate way.
He takes in a breath.
I glance down at our conjoined hands and smile
Jones meets us in the hall, hugs both Jen and me simultaneously.
“I have loved you always,” he says looking right at me. “You both know that.” He kisses Jen first then me on the temple. It felt good to hear him say those words. I longed to hear them from a man who would be my father and something about Jones fits the bill.
He slaps Fletch and Wes on the shoulder and instructs them to get to bed, no video games.
“Jen,” he starts, “I trust you to police the floor. No watching horror movies ‘til six in the morning. I’ll see you kids once I get back from the airport.” He gives a knowing wink on his way downstairs.
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