I See Me (Oracle Book 1)

by Meghan Ciana Doidge

  ∞

  The Brave was moving. When I opened my eyes, it was pitch black, so I didn’t bother trying to see anything. The drowsiness of the pills beckoned me back under and I didn’t fight it. I could feel charcoal underneath my fingernails. I’d been drawing with both hands.

  “Bad one,” I murmured.

  Then Beau was beside me, radiating warmth and comfort as he tucked the sheets down around me so tightly that I couldn’t move. Which was fine, because I didn’t want to move.

  Who’s driving? I tried to ask, but I couldn’t form the words outside my head. It was a silly question anyway. I was just mixing up moments. Beau was obviously driving. I should be angry about that. That he was driving my freedom without asking permission first.

  He didn’t leave. He saw my crazy and he didn’t leave.

  Just give him a chance, Rochelle, a nasty voice countered in my mind. This was the voice that kept me down, that kept my eyes behind glasses and my tattooed arms covered so I didn’t upset the normal people. This voice normally sounded like my shrink, but it sounded exactly like me now.

  So I ignored it.

  I was accustomed to ignoring things, after all … like the way Beau’s eyes changed color, or the static charges when we touched. I was good at boxing all those things and locking them away in my crazy crate, my broken brain.

  ∞

  It was morning, though I wasn’t sure of the time. I was alone in the Brave, but Beau’s backpack was still on the dinette’s printed orange-and-brown bench seat. The RV was parked in a completely different campsite. Neither of the sites on either side of it were occupied. I could hear the ocean, but could only see trees through the windshield.

  I was so, so cold. And disconnected. Terribly, disjointedly disconnected. Distanced from the anger I felt at Beau for driving the Brave without my permission. Distanced from the anger at him for dragging me somewhere I didn’t know I wanted to be. And I didn’t mean the campsite.

  I pulled a second hoodie over the one I was already wearing, aware that it probably looked ridiculous. But also aware that this was my space, and it didn’t matter what I looked like at all.

  The door opened and the Brave shifted to accommodate Beau’s weight as he climbed in. It was the third time I’d noticed. That was odd, wasn’t it? He couldn’t possibly be that heavy.

  He saw me standing in the middle of the kitchen area and paused only halfway up the steps, one foot still on the ground behind him.

  I crossed my arms and resolutely looked away. I’d already invited him in once. I didn’t like repeating myself.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I had to go farther than I thought.”

  He held up a brown paper bag. There was nothing wary in his voice, though he wasn’t smiling. He looked tired. I guessed that he hadn’t slept yet.

  I nodded to the table rather than him.

  He shut the door behind him, locking it. So he’d fixed the lock.

  He stepped forward to deliberately reach into my field of vision and place the Brave’s keys on the table before me. I left them there without comment. He stepped back to the counter beside me.

  He pulled a paper cup out of the bag, removed the plastic lid, and pressed it to my hands.

  Warm apple juice.

  I started crying. Like a child. Something I’d sworn off doing in front of people since before I was twelve.

  Beau took the apple juice from me, placing it on the counter as he pulled me to him. I clung to him and sobbed into his neck, which I could reach only because he was now leaning against the table.

  “Did you think I’d left?” he asked. “I’m not leaving. I told you already.”

  “No,” I cried. “It’s just that I like the apple juice so much it scares me.”

  He threw back his head and laughed so hard that his arms convulsed around me. They squeezed me and I lost my breath in a whoosh. That was okay. I didn’t need to breathe around him.

  I was beyond breathing.

  I was beyond reason. But I had been for a very long time now.

  “You’re all wet,” I said.

  “It’s raining.”

  “Are you cold?”

  “No.”

  “I am. So cold.”

  He tried to pull me in even tighter, rubbing my arms a little too hard. But I pushed him away and reached down for the button of his jeans.

  “You should eat something,” he said. “I googled those meds.”

  If he had googled the meds, then he knew everything.

  He knew it wasn’t migraines. He knew about the psychotic disorder and he still stayed. He drove the Brave to get me away from whatever had triggered me. He fixed the lock and bought me breakfast. My broken brain hadn’t scared him off.

  I felt relieved instead of terrified. I’m not sure I’d ever felt the relief that was now coursing through my limbs.

  I locked my gaze to his blue-green eyes and touched my lips to his in a whisper of a kiss. He relaxed. His shoulders actually dropped as he reached up to brush his fingertips across my cheek and over my ear, weaving his fingers into my hair.

  “You should eat something,” he repeated, but he wasn’t as absolute about it as he had been.

  “Later,” I murmured as I tugged the front of his jeans open and reached inside his boxers.

  He groaned.

  “I’m so cold,” I whispered, pressing a firmer kiss to his lips.

  He tugged off my jeans and underwear as I continued to stroke and kiss him. Then he lifted me up, settling me against him until he was deep inside me. I was wrapped around him in a seated position with my legs crossed behind him on the table. I couldn’t move very well like this, but I didn’t have to. He wrapped his hands around my hips, darting his tongue in and out of my mouth. Matching this rhythm, he rocked me up and down on him.

  I arched my back, instinctively pressing my hips to him on an angle that increased the friction.

  I cried out. My orgasm lapped up and over me before I even knew it had begun. I’d never come during intercourse before.

  He lifted me off the table and carried me to bed, still entwined. But then he pulled out as he lowered me down.

  I cried out in the painful pleasure of having him exit. “Please.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Rochelle,” he whispered fiercely. “You won’t even be able to make me go now.”

  He ripped open a condom and rolled it on. I scrambled backward so he could climb over me on the bed. He didn’t fit widthwise on the double without bending his knees, but he didn’t complain.

  He thrust into me and I cried out from the insane sensitivity. I clung to him, riding the painful pleasure. He buried his face in my neck with a moan.

  “Don’t make me go,” he whispered, then thrust again.

  My brain was going to explode.

  “Don’t ever make me go,” he repeated with another thrust.

  “I won’t …” The words were torn out of me with a moan.

  “Tell me again.”

  “I won’t ever make you leave.”

  “Again.”

  “Beau, Beau,” I cried. “My beautiful, beautiful Beau.”

  He came, arching back from me on his arms with only our hips connected for a moment. Then he collapsed forward.

  “I’ll fix it,” he murmured against my collarbone. “Somehow. Together. We’ll fix it.”

  I believed him, though I wasn’t exactly sure what he was talking about. My illness wasn’t something that could be fixed, not by modern or even alternative medicine. Not like Beau could fix an engine with a couple of turns of his capable hands.

  My brain was broken.

  I was broken in a way that couldn’t be repaired. I could only endure. I really, really hoped that Beau staying meant he’d endure with me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “The pills aren’t good for you,” he said. “I don’t think you should take them anymore.”

  We had both slept a
fter the mind-blowing, earth-shattering, life-reaffirming sex, but I shouldn’t have. I’d dreamed of the latest hallucination and it made me edgy. Edgy enough to fight. I wasn’t a fighter, though. I was a walk-awayer.

  “Oh, so you’re a head doctor now?”

  “No, but …” Beau hesitated. “I know people we could see.”

  “We?” I countered. “It’s my head. You think I haven’t seen everyone there is to see?”

  “Not like that. Not those people,” he said. His tone was completely nonconfrontational.

  I’d gone to the bathroom and was now bringing his cold coffee and my cold juice back to bed with me. He was sprawled across the bed, absentmindedly rubbing the satin-bound edge of the felted, pink blankets between his fingers. His dark caramel skin looked amazing, even surrounded by the garish green, orange, and brown decor of the Brave. But then, I bet his skin looked good in or around any color.

  “Not those same people,” he repeated. His voice was remote, thoughtful.

  “What people then?”

  “I bought pastries,” he said, instead of answering my question. He pointed behind me to the brown paper bag on the kitchen counter.

  “Not in the bed.”

  “No?” he asked coyly. “What else am I not allowed to do in here?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, aware that he was distracting me and attempting to do an end run around the conversation.

  “I still don’t like the pills,” he said, proving my point as he climbed out of bed. “They dampen you.”

  “That’s what they’re supposed to do.”

  He couldn’t step by me in the narrow hall without knocking me aside, but he didn’t need to. He simply reached his long arm over my head, snagged the paper bag on the counter, and carried it back to the bed.

  “Hey,” I exclaimed as I followed him.

  “I’ll wash the sheets,” he said, lifting the edge of the blankets to invite me back in.

  I didn’t budge. I did glare.

  “You said you were cold.”

  “That was before.”

  “Before what?” he asked, a slow grin spreading across his face.

  I was getting accustomed to this look. He was like a cat with a mouse. A nice cat. A playful cat, rather than a murderous one. Though maybe such a beast didn’t exist. I didn’t know. I’d never had any sort of pet of my own.

  I was hit once more with the need to sketch him. To forever capture him as he was now, sprawled across the too-small bed and clothed only in old blankets and sheets. But in color, not in charcoal on white paper. I never drew in color.

  I climbed into bed instead.

  He’d bought danish pastries this time.

  ∞

  When we finally admitted we needed to get out of bed again, it was way after dinner time. I still had no idea where the hell we were camped.

  It was dark and drizzling outside. Beau had hooked up the Brave with fresh water and electricity.

  “We should have bought more groceries,” I said as I looked at the meager offerings in the fridge. A couple of slices of cheese, mayo, and the outside crusts of a loaf of bread weren’t going to yield much nourishment.

  “Let’s get seafood for dinner,” Beau said. “Right after I run.”

  “You need to run now?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I know it’s not great timing, but it’s something I have to do every couple of days and I’ve delayed it too long.” He spoke as he pulled a T-shirt on and retrieved a set of sweatpants from his backpack. “I’m going to cut through the forest along the beach. If you’re starving, you don’t have to wait on me. Bike the path into Lincoln and we’ll meet at the restaurant.”

  “Bike the path? Lincoln? Restaurant?”

  “Yeah.” He tugged on a baseball cap with the Seattle Mariners Logo on it. “Lincoln City. We’re parked at the Devil’s Lake State Recreation Area.”

  I couldn’t see any sign of a lake as I tugged my hoodie up over my head and followed Beau out of the Brave. We appeared to be parked in the middle of a forest. Though, I could hear the surf crashing behind me. Our campsite was buffered from the next one over by a thin line of evergreens.

  “I was thinking Pier 101 for dinner,” Beau said. “My treat.” Then he lifted his chin to draw my attention to the rear of the Brave.

  He’d bought me a bike. It was locked to the back of the Brave. Its frame was black, but its wheels, handles, wire basket, and seat were white. It was one of those modern bikes made to look old fashioned. I loved it instantly, completely irrationally. Yes, me. The girl who was pleased — even self-righteous — that all her clothing fit into one suitcase.

  “This is too expensive. I thought you only had enough for the apple pie?”

  “Cash,” he said. “I hit the ATM. There’s one in town.”

  “I can’t —”

  “Yeah, let’s not do that.” He cut me off with a deliberate and lingering kiss.

  “You have to let me contribute,” he added, just as I was about to melt into the lip lock.

  Then he jogged away toward a dirt path and what I guessed was Devil’s Lake. He turned around, jogging backward, to flash a grin and say, “Pier 101. Take that path to the highway.” He pointed to his left, further through the campsite. “The restaurant is right off the highway. Blue awnings, gray shingles. It’ll take you ten to fifteen minutes to bike there. Don’t forget your phone in case you get lost.” Then he disappeared into the trees.

  In case I get lost? Then what? Beau didn’t appear to own a phone. So I guess I was googling the restaurant if I couldn’t find it.

  ∞

  It was still drizzling as I rode along the dirt path that Beau had indicated, but the tall evergreens on either side kept me dry until I cut over to the highway. My bag fit perfectly in the white wire basket hanging off the handle bars. Despite the lack of lighting along the path and highway, I could see fairly well because Beau had also attached a strobing bike light to the handle bar, along with a bell that had a black butterfly on it.

  Just like my tattoo.

  If I paused to think about it, I would be terrified of how far into Beau I was after only a couple of days.

  So I didn’t think about it.

  I didn’t see a specific sign, but I was fairly certain I was now on the coastal highway, because I could hear the pounding surf just on the other side of the trees. That helped me place Lincoln City firmly in Oregon. The maps I’d studied before heading across the border had shown a highway twisting all along the edge of the coast from Astoria at the tip of Oregon through to the California border. The map had also highlighted a plethora of campsites all along the coast highway, though most were seasonal.

  I assumed that Beau had driven over the wide bridge that spanned the Columbia River, and then through Astoria to continue along the coast to Lincoln City. Just as I’d planned to. While sleeping off the last round of hallucinations, I’d missed a lot of what I really wanted to see. It took hours to drive that distance, especially in an RV.

  I refused to pout about it further, even silently. Beau had done what he thought necessary for me at the time. We could always backtrack up the coast tomorrow morning so I could see what I’d missed. That might be silly, but this was my life now. I could be all the silly I wanted to be.

  Cars and a few campers passed by intermittently as I peddled west. I stuck to the generous paved shoulder obviously meant for cyclists until I came to the edge of Lincoln City.

  I didn’t care about the rain dampening my hair or face, because the bike was perfect. Though, I was seriously glad there were only three gears to figure out. I hadn’t had regular access to a bike since my pre-teens.

  From what I could see in the dark, downtown Lincoln City ran all along the very edge of the Pacific Ocean. The beach stretched as far south as I could see. The pounding surf was high and strong. It was the kind of beach that surfers would flock to year round. It was definitely more of a town than a city, though. Non
e of the buildings on the main street were over four-storeys, and those that were all appeared to be hotels. The shops and bakeries heavily favored antique white paint with cornflower blue doors, window trims, and awnings, obviously going for the quaint tourist dollars.

  I instantly liked it. It wasn’t artifice. It was a choice.

  Everything was closed as I biked through town except for the pharmacy and Pier 101. The roof of the restaurant was blue metal, the same color as the awnings. But Beau had neglected to mention the huge orange-red crab painted on the blue-gray shingles that faced the main road. That might have helped with his navigational concerns.

  I locked the bike up on one of the front patio pillars. Beau had bought some crazy-heavy-duty U-lock with a key. It was so cumbersome I was ready to start cursing in my struggle to get the bike secured. I wondered if he’d purchased the bike in Lincoln City, after he’d hooked up the Brave but before I’d woken. Or if he’d seen the store somewhere along the highway and stopped impulsively. If the store was in town, I’d have to go pick up a helmet in the morning.

  Pier 101 actually hung about ten or fifteen feet over the beach below. The entire dining section was supported by pillars and concrete in the sand, though the surf didn’t seem to come high enough up the beach to wet the pillars. Or at least, from what I could glimpse in the dark, it didn’t tonight.

  A short bar ran just off the right of the entrance along the parking-lot side of the building. A small gift-shop area sat behind and to the left of the host station. Keychains, magnetics, and personalized pencils didn’t interest me much. Rochelle wasn’t a common enough name to be printed on a generic souvenir.

  It was quiet enough on a Wednesday night in January that getting a booth by the windows was not a problem. In fact, only three other tables were occupied, and the bar stools were all empty. Of course, it was a rather late for dinner.

  The booth seats were cornflower blue vinyl. The windowsills were painted blue to match. And most of the seafood was deep-fried. Very American. I had a feeling Beau would love it. I was going to need to ask if the clam chowder had pork in it. Oh … and onion rings. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had onion rings.