by M. C. Adams
“No, you don’t. I don’t want to know. You pushed me away before. Not this time.” His eyes cut through her.
“Britt, you deserve to know the truth. So you can decide for yourself. . . .”
“I don’t want us to be apart anymore.” His hands clung to hers. “After Jamar, you wouldn’t let me touch you. I tried to comfort you and you pulled away from me, like I was that monster. I stopped touching you because I was afraid of hurting you. I thought I had to leave you. But you’re better now. We’re better. Nothing can ruin this.”
“I don’t want us to be apart, either. But I want you to know the truth. You should hear it from me. If you can accept me for who I am —”
“What are you going to tell me? There was another guy? I don’t care.”
“No. There was no other guy.”
“Did you commit a crime? I don’t care.” His gaze remained firm.
“Yes. Something like that.” Her voice turned quiet.
“You killed someone?” His volume matched hers.
“Yes.” She didn’t shrink from his gaze. She would not be ashamed of her actions.
“Like you killed Jamar?” His face was blank, unreadable.
“Sort of.”
“You killed someone who deserved it?”
She nodded. “Yes. I think so.”
He blinked. “Then I don’t care.”
His reaction didn’t make sense to her. She tried again. “You don’t understand, Britt. I did it willingly. Not in self-defense. I willingly chose to take their lives.”
“Their lives?”
“Yes. There were two of them. I killed two men.”
His face remained blank.
“Why did you do it, Lex?”
“They were dangerous men. They killed innocent people.” She couldn’t believe she wasn’t crying.
“Well, Lex. It sounds to me like you did the right thing.” He took a long sip from his glass of wine. “Just like killing Jamar was the right thing. I understand that now.” He finished off the rest of his wine and set down the empty glass firmly enough to jostle the table. “If I could have killed the bastards in Boston who set off those bombs, I would have done it.”
His words shocked her. Oh God, he is broken like me. Alexa took a deep breath and massaged his hands with her fingers until his grasp softened. “Don’t say that, Britt. Please. It’s not as easy as you think. I don’t know what’s right anymore. I know that I did it. But I wouldn’t say that I’m proud of it. Killing someone is not something to be proud of. If you can accept the things I’ve done, let’s move on. Okay?”
“I can accept it.” His face contorted like a sulking child, and resentment hung on his brow. She couldn’t look at him like that. She lowered her glance and talked into the table.
“The bombers did pay, Britt. I was assured that. They paid, and you never had to dirty your hands in the matter. Please, take comfort in that. Okay?”
When she looked back at him, the lines on his forehead had relaxed. “Okay.” A glimmer of warmth returned to his eye. “Do you really like the necklace?”
“Of course. It’s beautiful!” She changed her tone to help change the subject.
“Then don’t think of those horrible things when you wear it. Don’t think of your scars and what happened. Think of me.”
Just like with the nightmares, Britt was giving her a strategy to try to overcome the pain of what had happened. He was her pillar of strength once more.
“Then I’ll wear it every day.” She smiled, and so did he.
CHAPTER 41
The rest of the dinner was a romantic blur that ended at the hotel room with another moment of passion before Alexa fell asleep entwined in Britt’s arms. Her slumber was interrupted by the sound of her early morning alarm. It was the day of her runway show, and she wanted plenty of time to prepare.
She stood in front of an oversized full-length mirror in the nineteen-forties Hollywood-style hotel suite and admired her outfit. She had opted for a white silk dress of her own design. The one-shoulder neckline concealed the scar on her clavicle, and she complemented the dress with the ruby red choker Britt had given her and a pair of sky-high gold, strappy sandals.
Alexa pressed her lips to her sleeping Britt and patted Gray on the head, and then grabbed a large red leather satchel full of supplies and a cup of coffee before heading out of the door. Although still dark outside, she didn’t have to wait long for a taxi. With minimal traffic, she made it to the museum where the show would be held long before the majority of the designers and earlier than any of her models. She spent her time steaming garments and attacking them one by one with a lint roller.
The building slowly filled with people, and Alexa felt a hustle in the air around her. A middle-aged woman appeared in the masses, shouting Alexa’s name.
“Miss DeBrow? Miss Alexa DeBrow?”
Alexa turned toward the sound.
“Yes. I’m Alexa DeBrow.”
The woman pushed a clipboard into Alexa’s hands. “I’ll need you to sign for your flowers, Miss.”
Alexa’s initial thought was Britt, but when she eyed the bouquet interspersed with red poppies, she knew otherwise. She grasped the flowers and searched expectantly for the card. There it was.
Gonna walk my daughter down the aisle. I wanted you to know.
Warmth spread across her face as she read Mike’s news. She put her face against the bouquet and inhaled the floral scent. Thanks, Mike.
Alexa set the flowers aside as her first model arrived and she directed her to the makeup artist. The rest of the morning consisted of hair and makeup adjustments and some last-minute alterations.
The announcer called her name, and her models began lining up. She was second to last of twelve designers. Alexa peeked out from behind curtain and made eye contact with Britt. Finally, her turn. She stepped out to make a brief introduction. “Hi, I’m Alexa DeBrow.”
Her words immediately brought forth murmurs from the crowd. She continued despite their whispers. “The title of my collection is Metamorphosis. It reflects my experiences over the past two years, serving as visual allegory of my struggles and fears, as well as the sense of clarity and purity I wish to gain. Enjoy!”
Members of the crowd were still exchanging glances with one another when Alexa turned and walked back behind the curtain. They haven’t forgotten. My name engenders distrust and fear in the minds of strangers. I could have chosen a different name. Charlie offered me an out. She could have embraced fugue state and gained her indemnity; instead, she chose to resolve her past. I’ll make them forget. I’ll replace that memory with something else, something beautiful. Just like Britt did with my scar and the necklace.
She held her breath as the first model stepped onto the runway. She was a tall thin blonde with layers of structured black fabric wrapped around her body like armor. Selective cutaway elements revealed bare skin on the upper thigh and clavicle, the slashes in the fabric simulating Alexa’s battle wounds. Her model’s red lips were painted into pressed lines with upturned corners, like smiles on dolls; they bore the look of complacency.
Another blonde decked out in similar structured black armor followed this model. With each tramp down the catwalk, the color palate slowly turned to charcoal gray with more relaxed hemlines. One model wore a gray suit with a double cold shoulder, revealing bare skin on both sides. Alexa picked this tone of gray to match the fur of her Gray muse.
In time, both the color and the style became lighter, with the last couple of pieces being pure white. A two-piece, tiered white skirt and blouse floated down the runway. The upper tiers were more fitted, while the lower layers flowed easily. Her final piece was an extravagant white gown with a fitted torso and heavily layered skirt that combined different textures and fabrics. A high, wide slit cut through the center of the skirt and a medium-length train followed the model down the runway. Her lips were bright red, and she was the only model whose smile was genuine.
Alexa had made the dress to resemble an
emerging butterfly. The upper half of the dress was a tightly wound cocoon, and the lower half spread like wings taking flight. Beautiful and opulent, it could be a wedding gown. It was the epitome of her Metamorphosis.
A chill cut through her core when she watched the dress move. She wanted to wrap herself in the white fabric until its purity rubbed off on her. With each piece, she tried to physically separate from the darkness within her and move to a state of virtue and truth. It was a complicated transition, and she felt lost somewhere in between. The dark armored pieces had been easier to construct. Their subject matter felt more familiar. The pieces designed to represent purity were more difficult; their creation seemed unlikely at times.
Alexa followed her final model down the runway and waited for the audience’s scrutiny to present itself. Their applause was haphazard at first, with only a few members electing to participate. In time, however, the applause grew, and at least a dozen audience members rose to their feet. It was all Alexa could have hoped for.
She exited the runway and joined Britt, and they watched the final show together. It was an Asian twenty-something man with a very colorful collection.
A bony little finger tapped Alexa firmly on the shoulder. She turned to face the culprit. A middle-aged, black-haired woman with a long nose and close set eyes that gave her a certain haughtiness stood beside them.
“Hello, Miss DeBrow. I’m Marcia Douglas. I’m a buyer for a couple of department stores here in town. I’m interested in some of your pieces, if you’re thinking of going commercial. Your clothes have an edginess to them that I find appealing, and the whole black and white thing is very marketable. That one at the end, however . . . you really should have gone with the over-the-top wedding gown approach. You know, given her a bouquet, or a veil, or something. Well, now I’m just rambling. What do you think?”
Alexa was too flustered to respond. The audience’s murmuring had left her guarded, and she had braced herself for verbal backlash and abuse, not compliments. The terms “marketable” and “commercial” were incomprehensible. Her jaw hung open slightly.
“Lex?” Britt’s hand reached for her shoulder.
She turned to him. “Yes?”
“Lex, do you understand what she’s asking you?”
Alexa turned to the black-haired lady. “Yes. I say yes.” Her head bobbed up and down as she nodded to herself. “I would like to sell whatever you want to buy.”
“All right, Miss DeBrow. Here’s my card. I’ll get your phone number, and I’ll give you a call later this week to sort out the details. We may need a few more pieces than just those, so I suggest you keep working. I’ll give you a rough idea of what we’re looking for over the phone. Do you have a label?”
The nasal quality in her voice became more prominent when she asked a question, and Alexa found herself fixated by it. “Pardon?” she stuttered.
“Your label, your brand, does it have a name?”
A name? Like Elizabeth Fuguay or Alexa DeBrow? It always comes down to a name. After all this wedding gown talk, the name “Mrs. Britt Anderson” sounds pretty good to me.
“Yes. I call it Levende Lys,” Alexa stated.
“I see. You’ll have to include the name in an email if I’m going to get the spelling right. Well, Miss DeBrow, congratulations to you. You were my only pick today, which makes you very fortunate. I’ll talk to you later this week. Are you from the city?”
Alexa blushed. “No. I’ve been staying in Savannah lately. I’ve moved around some. . .” She became distracted thinking of the places she’d been.
“I see. All right, have a safe trip back, then. Enjoy the rest of your time in New York. It is an amazing place. Good meeting you, Miss DeBrow.” She smiled and gave a little wave as she hustled away.
Britt turned to Alexa, his face beaming. “This is great, Lex. I’m so impressed by the way everything is coming together for you. This is what you do now: Alexa DeBrow, designer. Absolutely amazing!”
She smiled back at him half-heartedly. “Yes, Britt. This is what I do, for now.”
“Relax, Babe. You’re really great. If this is what you want, you’ll be fabulous.”
“This is what I do, for now,” she repeated. Nothing in her future seemed clear. “For now is different than forever. I don’t know what forever holds. I thought I would be a doctor forever. Things change, Britt. I can’t pretend this will last any longer than anything else has.”
“We’ll last forever, Lex. I promise.” He smiled his characteristically seductive smile and squeezed her hand.
She melted into the warmth of his touch. God, I hope so.
The last runway show had ended, and a moderately noteworthy local designer gave a finale speech. Confetti erupted from containers in the ceiling. Loud popping sounds echoed in the room. Alexa instantly dropped her head and shielded herself with her arms, fearing a bomb detonated. A quick glance at Britt showed him also cowering. He lost his balance, his prosthesis faltered, and he crumpled to the floor.
Alexa knelt to the ground and grabbed Britt’s torso in attempt to ease his fall. His frame was a little lighter after the amputation, and she found his weight more manageable. With their combined efforts, he was quickly upright on his prosthesis again.
It wasn’t a bomb, or an explosion. The thunderclap sound was the confetti erupting from the containers that held it. When she looked into Britt’s pale, frightened face, her eyes overflowed with tears. Their arms wrapped around one another in a unifying embrace. She felt his heart pounding against her chest haphazardly. Oh, God. He thought they were bombs, too. Her heart sank. They were equally broken and clung to one another as if holding onto life itself.
She tumbled out of the long dark tunnel. And, as it turns out, at the end of that hellish tunnel, there was a light. For Alexa DeBrow, it was a candlelight.
Levende Lys
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
M.C. Adams is a practicing physician on the gulf coast of Florida. She spends her time battling her left brain, right brain tendencies. Medicine feeds her logical and analytical prowess, while writing, painting, and design projects fuel her creative desires. She also makes traveling with her husband a top priority, favoring beautiful places with rich history and high educational value. Fugue State is her first published novel, with a second piece in the works for your reading pleasure. She loves her readers’ feedback! Please check out the website to leave comments. Also, feel free to join the mailing list for an update on her next novel.
Table of Contents
FUGUE STATE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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