The movie went on to describe Lemuria and, due to its “lost continent” status, its supposed connection to Atlantis. What the movie didn’t say was where the heck Lemuria came from. I pulled my phone from my pocket to Google it for myself when Professor King stood and turned on the lights.
Guess I was more interested than I thought.
“All right, guys,” she said. “Class is over. Get out of here. Jerry, turn the TV off, will you? I can’t stand this movie.”
I packed up my things, thanking all the classroom gods for Professor King’s epiphany.
“Chelsea, can you stay behind for a moment?” Professor King asked.
I pursed my lips together. I had an hour and a half before I had to be at the Franklin for my band’s show. But after falling behind on thesis work, I couldn’t exactly walk away. Maybe she’d revoke my extension. Could she do that? Shit.
“Couldn’t bring yourself to even touch the TV?” I joked. Maybe I could play this all off.
She chuckled and tapped a stack of papers onto her desk to straighten them up. “Funny, Chelsea. How’s your thesis coming along?”
I swallowed hard. Guess not.
After having drama of the colossal scale interrupt my life three months ago—cheating boyfriend, skanky ex-best-friend, random mystery guy saving me in an alley before being hauled off by some dudes in a black SUV right before my eyes—I fell a bit behind. Okay, a lot behind.
“I should have a rough draft to you by Friday.” I left the “hopefully” unsaid.
She nodded and picked up her papers and pen. “Great. And good job catching up after things got hectic. I look forward to reading it.” She waved goodbye and strolled off to her next class.
“Well, that makes one of us,” I mumbled. For the moment, at least, my extension remained intact. Thank you, classroom gods.
I exited the Social Sciences Building, the bright May sun warming my skin. I tried to bask in it, but dread regarding my impending deadline loomed above me like rain clouds. If my life hadn’t gone to shit in a matter of hours three months ago, I’d have had my thesis done by now. But who was really at fault? Lexi for convincing my boyfriend to cheat on me, or me for letting it happen?
I shook my head and, with it, those negative thoughts. Two more weeks and none of it would matter anymore. I’d have no excuse to see their sorry asses on campus.
“Chelsea!”
A grin grew wide on my face. Logan, my best friend since diapers, barreled toward me.
He wrapped me in a bear hug then hung off to my side, an arm slung around my shoulders. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” I said. “Watched some bull movie on Atlantis in archaeology.”
“Bet you enjoyed it, though.”
I shrugged as we reached the Student Center, an old brick building smack dab in the center of campus. Logan held the door for me in a chivalrous act typically reserved for his less-than-sober moments.
“Let’s get food and head out to the Franklin, okay?” I asked.
He flashed me a thumbs up. “I’ve got no plans. Need help setting up?”
God, yes. “Please. Battle of the Bands means reigning champ gets to prep the stage.”
Logan grabbed a sandwich from Sammich Time’s open-front cooler. “Oh, that sounds fair.”
I shrugged and pulled one out for myself. “Our burden—for years to come,” I said with a smirk. No one beat us at our home stage. No one.
Fifteen minutes to go-time. My phone chirped despite terrible service that should have blocked messages from sliding through.
Logan: Fucker is here with Lexi. Suggest you play something that rips into them hard.
I groaned. If only. We played the best songs on battle nights, and nothing I wrote about those two ever sounded good. I threw my phone at the wall and let it sit there under my glare.
Wasn’t it enough he had to cheat?
This whole hurting me in my venue thing had gotten old. Fast. Screw this.
Guitar still slung across my shoulders, I exited backstage through a side door and swam into the buzzing crowd. Audio Striker, our rivals, had the crowd jumping and fist-pumping. Their fans’ enthusiasm played into my irritation, suffocating me in my own anxiety as I searched the masses for Lexi and Ray. I found them making out in a corner. Lexi had her hair up, her back-of-the-neck tattoo on rare display for all to see. Stupid 3D diamonds wrapped around each other, much like her tongue always seemed to be wrapped around his.
I tapped Ray on the shoulder. He spun, eyes widening the moment they met mine.
“Get out of here, now!” I shouted over the music.
Lexi, shorter than both Ray and I, stepped out from under him. I couldn’t hear her over the music, but her lips, slathered in bright red lipstick, stuck out in the darkness like a freaking beacon to Hell. She mouthed something about the Franklin being a public place.
I rolled my eyes and pointed again to the exit sign on the next wall over. “My stage. My rules. Get out.” While we didn’t own the Franklin, my band, Phoenix and Lobster, played here almost every other week. We brought in tons of fans and revenue, paying the rent and then some on those nights.
Lexi’s lips flapped like a bad monster movie dub, but the only words I caught over Audio Striker’s shitty drum solo were, “my boyfriend.” Call me crazy, but I didn’t need to hear the rest, and I silently thanked Carlos for being so damned awful at drums that I couldn’t.
Lights zipped around us. I lifted my hand and flashed Lexi the only gesture she deserved. Lexi slapped me across the face. White-hot heat and utter shock radiated outward from the point of contact. I stumbled backwards a few steps and bumped into a waitress carrying a full tray of drinks. What alcohol didn’t coat the floor splashed onto me.
Did Lexi seriously just do that?
I fought every urge to rub my stinging cheek, to ring out my clothes, as I apologized to the waitress for Lexi’s shit. The waitress glared at all three of us and retreated to the bar for refills.
My fists tightened, and I spun to hit Lexi, but the sight of her doubled over, laughing with Ray, halted me. My fingers rung the guitar strap across my chest, ripping it apart. My guitar swung low to my legs. I didn’t move to rescue it. They laughed at me, both of them. Again.
Tears welled up and fogged my vision, but I swallowed down the hurt and tucked it away for another song, another day. I had a show to play. A competition to win. Getting thrown out now would botch the only thing I hadn’t fucked up in my life. But not reacting would feel too much like running away, and I was tired of running.
Defend myself, or defend Phoenix and Lobster’s title against Audio Striker?
“Screw you,” I spat and picked up my guitar. Step by freaking step, I swallowed words like coward and pushover and forced myself into the bathroom. With no one else inside, I locked the door behind me and let out a throat-shredding scream.
Screw Lexi. Screw Ray.
I dropped my guitar on the grimy tiled floor and slammed my forehead against the door. Pain shot up my skull, retrieving memories I’d rather forget.
Three months ago, Trevor, this random guy, had swooped in and ran interference when some dude attacked me outside the Franklin. It’d been the same night I’d found Ray cheating on me. I’d never figured out who Trevor was or where he’d come from, and he’d never appeared in crowds since.
I could really use some of that miracle interception again tonight. This stunt, on top of the Battle of the Bands show, and a thesis draft to write? I banged my forehead again to clear my thoughts—or knock myself unconscious. I’d accept either right about now.
Music was my place of solace. I craved these nights on stage and the freedom that lifted me above my problems. But now, all I wanted was to leave. Not even the Franklin equaled safety anymore.
I slid down the door to the floor. Fuck this. All of it.
A sudden silence overtook the building, filled in by a roof-raising cheer that permeated the walls. Audio Striker just finished, and they playe
d well. The floor vibrated with the crowd’s footfalls.
My heart raced, a rhythmic pounding in my ears. I couldn’t go on stage like this. How could I sing when I couldn’t even catch my breath? It’d be forfeiting our crown.
Tears leaked out from behind my high-built wall. The exterior that’d held me together the last three months crumbled from the erosion of unshed tears. I wiped my nose. I needed to get the hell over this. But couldn’t I go home and go to bed first? Start the day over?
Stop being pathetic.
I lifted my hand to the sink and pulled myself up. The world spun wildly.
Black spots danced around the edges of my vision. I threw my second hand to the sink to anchor myself against heavy seas of nausea. The floor turned into ocean waves, swimming up to greet me with equal parts kisses and razor sharp bites. My legs wobbled like Jell-O in summer as goose bumps galloped up my arms. The spots around my vision coiled together into a mask of darkness.
It swallowed all consciousness.
My head was pounding and… cold? No, that wasn’t right.
I opened my eyes and slapped a hand over them as white light assaulted me, triggering a headache instantly. I groaned and, finger by finger, eased my eyes into accepting the radiance.
A wall of grey and white met me—a ceiling with fluorescent bulbs. I pushed myself into a seated position and leaned against the closest wall. A chill ran down my spine at the sight of rows and rows of shelves stacked to the ceiling, like the back room at a chain store. Exactly like that.
The shelves held buckets of supplies. Bins of computer hard drives sat closest to me, but further down the aisle razors, deodorants, office supplies, and machine parts peeked out from plastic containers. Every bin had been placed with precision and marked with inventory barcodes. And it smelled clean. Almost sterile.
I shut my eyes against the onslaught, unable to comprehend anything past the shivering in my bones. The chilliness here stood stark against the sweaty bodies and jumping crowd of the Franklin. Where the heat and humidity had overtaken me in Boston, my tank top now did nothing to warm me.
Did I fall asleep in the Archaeology Lab or something? Cold, clean air worked its way into my lungs, easy to breathe. No, this wasn’t the Lab. Dust and rock particles leftover from experimental archaeology classes had littered the Lab’s floor. Not a single speck of dirt touched this clean, white tile.
I pulled on a shelving unit, using it to steady myself as I stood. My legs shook, and each new object I saw quickened my breathing, heated my neck. I tried to slow my breaths to deep, life-giving pulls, but my body wouldn’t oblige. What the hell even happened? Lexi had slapped me, then what? She’d hit me. I’d marched away. This wasn’t the Franklin. The rest blurred together.
The Franklin. Holy shit. Did I miss the show?
My eyes darted around. I wasn’t at the Franklin, but maybe I was close enough to get back and not miss the set.
Down the row from me, a steel door sunk into a wall. I rushed toward it with hard, thumping steps until a clipboard with signatures hanging on the back of the door came into view. It read: Supply Room 2L4D2, Inventory Check Chart. A logo for the U.S. Navy sat at the top of the paper.
My throat constricted as if I’d swallowed bubblegum, a sticky weight slinking down into my stomach. How had I gotten into a U.S. Navy supply room? Did the Navy even have a base in Boston?
The door swung open without warning, coming within inches of my face. I stumbled backward into a shelving unit. The room seemed to spin on its axis. Pens and clipboards flew from the shelves onto the floor.
A thirty-something, blond-haired man in a deep red uniform looked me over, eyes wide and mouth agape. His expression slipped into annoyance before settling on concern.
“Name and rank,” he demanded in a clipped tone. “Who are you?”
I gulped.
Where the hell am I?
All around me, Navy officers argued my fate in controlled volumes. Their reasons for condemning or saving me sent my headache into overdrive, blurring together their arguments into an incomprehensible haze. Their stances blended in a whirlwind of “she’s an intruder” and “no she’s not.” The officers threw around words like “treason” and “spy” in demanding tones. I processed it all in simple facts, uncomplicated words. Not. Is. Not. Is. All the while, I clung to my skin so it didn’t crawl off me every time I thought of missing the Battle of the Bands show. Of how pissed my band-mates probably were.
An older man, middle-aged with wrinkles lining his eyes, had CAPTAIN MASON MARKS printed across the patch at his breast. He excused his Lieutenant, the man who’d found me in the supply closet and the only one who’d championed my cause, from the room.
A third officer shouted in a moment of failed self-control at the Captain. He had a large Military Police patch on one side of his broad shoulders. Every few seconds, the Military Police guy’s frosty glare ripped through me, and his left hand, covered in veins protruding from beneath his skin, never lifted from the gun holstered at his hip. I gulped and straightened at the sight of his pistol. Yeah, I definitely infringed on something. But I wasn’t a bad person, or a criminal. Would they really shoot me?
Of course they would. The military didn’t fuck around. And I’d clearly done something horribly wrong. This was bad. So, so bad.
Another person entered the room, but the MP’s shouts didn’t stop. My eyes trailed a guy maybe a year or two younger than me as he approached the Captain. He almost swam in a pale yellow uniform two sizes too big, and a head of dark blond hair encroached on his face. He handed Captain Marks the CD he had stuck on the end of his finger like an awkward, shiny pinwheel. He turned, and I caught sight of familiar, piercing blue eyes, which twinkled with the slightest bit of recognition despite his otherwise-distant expression.
I froze. Trevor. On this military sub. No freaking way.
Something constricted my chest, but a bloom of hope rose amidst dark desperation. My last chance. My way out. How many times had I relived the night I was almost mugged by the guy with the weird tattoo? Almost every night, each spent trying to figure Trevor out. But I knew; he was a life preserver in a stormy sea.
I’d had the same feeling the moment I’d seen him standing there in the alley outside the Franklin three months ago, moments after finding Ray making out with Lexi. I’d met him right after I’d shoved my attacker clear across the alley. My first instinct had said Trevor was trouble, too, but all he’d wanted was to make sure I was okay. Me, a complete stranger.
Could he be my life preserver now?
His name rolled off my lips, and, dammit, my heart fluttered with it. “Trevor?”
Any amount of recognition I’d seen before was gone, replaced by a stern expression. My stomach tumbled to my knees. Did he not remember me? God, I must seem like a ridiculous girl grasping at air to save herself. I was nothing to him, but back in that alley without him, I may not have had the opening I’d needed to knock my attacker away.
He had to remember Boston.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” I said. “Don’t you remember?”
Trevor’s eyes lingered on me—was that disbelief appearing?—then he turned his attention to the Captain. I frowned, my shoulders slumping.
“The footage didn’t tell me a how, just a when. I don’t know how she got onboard,” Trevor said. His eyes flicked to mine, a glint of worry in them, the same look that had been there when he’d found me outside the Franklin.
He did remember me. Liar!
“I know you.” I tried to keep my voice from pleading, but the words came out somewhere between a squeak and a whine.
He’d seemed genuinely worried that night. Why then, of all times and places for him to absolutely need to recognize me, did he pretend he didn’t? Maybe the alleyway lighting had been awful. Or maybe he really didn’t remember.
A weight sunk me into the chair. My breathing slowed, hope evaporating with every exhale. We’d interacted for a span of five minutes. Of course he wou
ldn’t remember.
Trevor’s eyes jumped to the Captain’s, his jaw taut like a child trying to cover up a mess by blaming it on their sibling. I watched the Captain’s reaction with intense focus. Above all, his words could set me free. His face remained neutral, except for the slightest twitch of his lips.
Disappointment.
A spark of life ignited within me. The Captain knew I was telling the truth.
Trevor
ot here. Not now, I begged Captain Marks, hoping the mental plea was loud enough. I couldn’t protect Chelsea like this, and definitely not from Lieutenant Weyland’s trigger-happy wrath. True, she deserved to be treated as an enemy intruder. She didn’t have the clearance to be onboard a top-level classified Naval research station—the most advanced piece of submersible technology to pop out of Pearl Harbor. The law said to process her like a criminal, and Lieutenant Weyland was all too willing to oblige.
Except Chelsea hadn’t appeared here on purpose. According to the Captain, she couldn’t even remember how she got onboard. Only after reviewing the security tapes had I seen how it’d happened. Chelsea teleported. Honest-to-god teleported and got through the shield I’d built to make that very act not possible. How did she not know she had the ability? Why hadn’t she teleported out of the alleyway? Moreover, why’d she teleport into the same supply closet I’d been in just three hours ago?
I held Captain Marks’s stare, my brain buzzing. Dr. Helen Gordon had powers, too. Unexplained but accepted, sort of. She was on duty in the Science and Health Division, but grabbing her to talk to Chelsea or the Captain wouldn’t be an issue. Helen, who could occasionally see the future, researched people with powers, like Chelsea and herself. She’d salivate at the chance to examine someone who could teleport, someone who’s abilities could support her Atlantean theories.
It was kind of ridiculous how close Helen—and by extension, the Navy—was to figuring out the truth.
Gyre (Atlas Link Series Book 1) Page 2
