His Shooting Star: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance

by Flora Ferrari

  He looks tired. Worn out. Mrs. Patterson suggests that she and her husband take their coffee into the lounge, leaving just my dad and me.

  The first round of interrogation’s about to start, I can tell.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gillian

  One look at my dad tells me two things, he’s driven all night and he’s in no mood for games.

  I sit opposite him at the Patterson’s kitchen table, coffee in front of both of us.

  He’s waiting for me to start, but I really don’t have anything to say. Not until I know what he knows, which is exactly why he’s waiting for me to go first.

  “Gillian,” is all he says to start with, giving me a firm look.

  “I’m not going home today, Dad. I had no idea you’d just turn up either. It’s a little embarrassing,” I whisper, leaning over the table, telling the truth.

  “What happened?” he asks. Wanting the same story he’s been told but with all the missing pieces added.

  “What happened when?” I ask, jumping when he slams his palm flat on the table.

  “Dammit, Gillian,” he barks and I feel my lower lip tremble, wishing Xander was here after all.

  He’d know what to say. He always knows what to say.

  “Sorry, sweetie,” My dad sighs. I’ve been up for two days on another case and now this,” he almost hisses, making me screw up my nose.

  “What’s this?” I ask, seriously wanting to know.

  He sighs bitterly. “This is you breaking your foot and being carried off by some Professor, then having some spooks come out of nowhere taking all your medical files. And this is having the same Professor’s car in the fucking driveway of the house you’ve been sitting for the past year, which by the way looks like it’s been rebuilt since yesterday according to the neighbors. That’s what this is,” he whispers hoarsely.

  “Oh,” I say, looking down into my coffee cup.

  His cell chimes and he sighs again, stabbing the answer button.

  “Parker,” he almost barks.

  “What!” he growls after listening for a few moments.

  “Where?”

  “When?”

  His eyes narrow on mine and I feel sick, getting up to leave the table when he holds his hand up, seeing the note fall from my pocket.

  “You’re staying right here young lady,” he hisses, still listening to his call.

  “Well, where the hell is he? Did he just vanish into thin fucking air?”

  I freeze as I pick up the note, knowing they’re talking about Xander.

  “No, I haven’t. But his car’s here… How the hell should I know, you’re the police in this town aren’t you?” he booms.

  “…Wait a second, a shooting?” he adds, and I feel my blood turn to ice.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” My dad snaps, hanging up.

  “Xander,” I cry. “Where is he? Tell me he’s alright,” I beg my dad, rounding the table and gripping him, hugging him.

  Feeling him peel the note from my hand.

  “I was hoping you could tell me where the Professor was,” my dad says, stroking my hair and holding me tight suddenly.

  “Oh, baby. Tell me what happened, tell me everything,” he says softly.

  An hour later I’m in an interview room at the local police station.

  Xander’s note, along with a typed statement of everything I can remember, including what we did last night. It’s all there, laid out on the table for the whole world to see.

  But it’s only my dad and the campus cop, Stanton. For now.

  On the plus side, there’s no need to worry about my dad finding out anymore. It’s not a graphic account of what we did, but he gets the idea.

  On the downside, Xander’s gone and everyone seems to think I know where he is.

  Worse still, someone shot at us both when we were in the woods last night. I remember falling asleep in his arms.

  “She was unconscious when they left,” The campus cop reminds my dad, who’s pacing. Running his hands through what’s left of his hair.

  “And anything they did as consenting adults is—”

  “I know the fucking law, okay!” My dad yells, not even able to look at me yet. “What I’m trying to get my head around,” he continues, calming himself, doing what he does best, and be a detective. “Is where this, Sexton fellow’s got to.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “And you’re telling me that no government agency you’ve contacted can explain the seizure of my daughter’s medical files, nor the complete absence of a social security number or driver’s license for this guy, despite him being hired by the college for the past decade?” My dad says.

  “Correct.” The older cop concedes, scratching his temple. “He’s a fine fella though, Mike,” he adds. “Did a lot of government stuff years back, ya know. Secret squirrel kinda things,” he offers. But it doesn’t help.

  “Shooter’s an ex-employee of the same college. Known stalker, had a thing for the Professor years ago but he wasn’t interested. There was a restraining order,” he muses, flicking through the file, which my dad snatches from him.

  “You know her?” Dad asks me, holding up a photo of someone I’ve never seen.

  “Nope,” I answer truthfully but hating her already.

  How dare anyone even look at Xander, even in the past?

  “She’s in custody, Mike. Admits everything. Been following the Professor for weeks.”

  “And now he’s gone? Poof! Just flew up into the sky I suppose?” My dad asks nobody in particular, throwing his hands up.

  “Alright,” he finally says. “I want a full work-up of his car, cottage, everything. If we dig deep enough the spooks will call us. No point calling them if he doesn’t exist.”

  The older cop shrugs. “I’ll start on the paperwork,” he says, trying to sound cheerful.

  Turning to me, dad puffs out his cheeks.

  “Are you mad?” I ask him, knowing it’s a stupid question.

  “Furious,” Dad admits, but he pulls a smile, which surprises me.

  “You really love this guy?” he asks. “Off the record,” he jokes, trying to cheer himself up.

  I nod, feeling my own emotions taking over.

  “More than anything, Dad. I can’t explain it,” I tell him truthfully. “When you meet him you’ll see. He’s the sweetest, kindest—”

  “Well, for such a lovebird he’s certainly flown the coop,” my dad says brashly, waving his hand at my comment and picking up the zip lock bag with Xander’s note in it.

  “But he does say he’ll be back,” he concedes.

  “So what are we gonna do?” I ask, tearfully.

  “You are gonna stay with the Patterson’s for now. And I’ll wait for him at his cottage,” he informs me, no argument in his expression.

  “And then what?” I ask, worried about what my dad has planned.

  “Well? I guess I either wanna punch this guy’s lights out or shake his fucking hand for saving your life, or both. Either way, he’s got a lot of questions to answer. To the law as well as to me.”

  He studies me for a moment, eventually shaking his head.

  “You really love him? Are you sure?” he asks, a pained expression on his face.

  The kind only a dad can have when he realizes his little girl’s all grown up.

  “I do, but I still love you too, dad. We’ll always still have that,” I remind him.

  “I hope so,” he says softly, busying himself by gathering up papers and evidence to avoid his own emotions.

  I know we will, dad. We always will.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Xander

  I only know him as Xander One.

  I’m Xander Sixteen, he’s Xander One.

  My boss, I guess you could say. More of a thought or a feeling most of the time but if I do see him as a person, he looks a lot like me only taller.

  We’re walking along a beach which is familiar to me, although I can’t pl
ace exactly when I’ve been here before.

  The waves lap gently at a reddish, sandy shore. With three moons rising on the vast. Empty horizon.

  We walk in silence, side by side as I struggle to hold the memory of why I’m here. What I’ve come back for.

  “You want out,” he tells me, his voice softly spoken in my mind instead of with words out loud.

  I nod, remembering everything in an instant.

  “Gillian!” I exclaim in my mind, looking over to him, seeing his blank expression staring back. His eyes are darker then the sky, and seemingly more infinite. There’s no color or whites, only darkness where eyes should be.

  “We’ve waited. Not long, but for you, it must seem a lifetime,” he says calmly.

  “I don’t want riddles anymore,” I hear myself saying out loud. My words sounding heavy in the air, like wood hitting metal.

  “There are none,” he laughs softly. “Everything you want to know, you’ve already discovered and you’ve come back here to tell me. For the last time.”

  I consider this for a while as we walk. Noticing there’s an extra set of footprints ahead of us.

  I recognize my own, but a much smaller set is beside them.

  Gillian.

  “She is your assignment, Xander Sixteen. Your life together, the children you’ll raise. It is your life’s work.”

  “But?” I try to form a question, a reason to explain everything. To try to understand it better. So I can explain it to Gillian.

  “Everything knows, Xander,” he continues. “Everything knows all in the end. We are all connected.”

  “So why did I come back?” I ask, hearing my voice echo the question before I find myself alone on the beach.

  You came back one last time to remember where you come from. You came back to remember your home before you make a new one.

  Waking with a start, I’m naked. I shiver, feeling weaker than I ever have.

  My joints ache, my throat burns and cracks when I try to swallow.

  Putting my hands up to my face I open and close them, watching my huge fingers folding into my palms.

  Feeling something inside myself, like a bubble, I automatically get out of my bed and race for the bathroom. Throwing up.

  Something I’ve never done before.

  My back aches and I struggle to even stretch to stand upright.

  Glancing in the mirror I groan in horror. I look terrible.

  I find some clothes, a sweater, and track pants, pull them on and crawl back into my bed.

  My bed.

  I’m in my bed.

  I sit up with an even bigger start, laughing out loud before I wince from the pain in my throat.

  “I’m in my bed!” I call out, wanting to leap from bed but only managing a slow and steady exit as the room spins a little.

  Phone, gone.

  Keys, gone.

  A quick glance through the curtains and I can see it’s afternoon but no car in my driveway.

  If everything’s gone to plan, then Gillian should be here, at the cottage.

  But it’s just me and I don’t even know what day it is.

  I fumble for the remote, flicking on the TV.

  The local news bulletin fills the screen.

  “…with reports of glowing lights over the suburbs Sunday night.

  In other news, police are still looking for missing college Professor, Xander Sexton. Wanted for questioning in relation to a woodland shooting early Saturday night.

  Despite public and online rumors from the UFO community, the professor’s link to studying UFO phenomena, the lights over the city, and his alleged disappearance have been all been dismissed by police as an unconnected coincidence.

  Anyone with information regarding the Professor’s whereabouts is urged to contact-”

  I stab the remote. Switching off the TV.

  It’s too much to take in.

  Puffing air out from my cheeks, I try hopelessly to get more back in. My mind feels like it’s been dipped in glue, and piecing one thought together after the other hurts my head to the point I can feel it pounding.

  The one thing, the only thing that matters slowly lifts itself to the surface in my mind.

  Gillian.

  I remember everything. Except right after we—

  I have to go to her. I need to find her.

  The sound of car tires crunching on the gravel drive makes me sigh in relief, it must be her.

  She must’ve just gone to the store or something. Hopefully for some cough syrup and aspirin.

  I hurry as best I can to the door, swinging it open, but take a long step back. The afternoon light hurting my eyes.

  I shield them, seeing it’s not Gillian at all, but a police cruiser.

  Straining against the silver shards reflecting in my eyes, I can see it’s an out-of-state patrol car.

  “Professor Sexton, I presume?” A cautiously friendly voice asks.

  I try to speak, but feel myself lurching sideways, gripping the door frame to keep upright.

  “Easy, easy,” The voice says firmly, helping me inside with an equally firm grip and setting me down on the couch. I want to lay down, to sleep again, but I need to know what’s happened.

  “Where’s Gillian?” I ask hoarsely. “Is she safe? Just tell me she’s alright,” I manage to get out, gripping at my throat as I notice the suited man’s expression.

  He’s about my age, stocky, and looks like he can handle himself.

  A thinning shock of graying hair and a few days’ worth of stubble, along with the stained tie and smell of his pits tells me he’s a detective on a case.

  My mind’s clarity is gradually returning and a split second before he tries to announce himself, I know everything.

  I remember everything.

  “I’m—” he starts to say, holding out his badge.

  “Detective Michael Parker,” I inform him, shifting myself forward enough to extend my hand, trying to smile.

  “I’m Professor Sexton. Xander. We spoke on the phone.”

  “That we did,” he affirms, sounding a little less friendly as he ignores my outstretched hand.

  I swallow painfully again, and the detective helps himself through to the kitchen, bringing me back a bottle of water.

  “You seem to know your way around,” I observe, grateful for the water. Not so much for the extra sting, it adds to my throat, but after a few sips, I feel better for it.

  “I’ve been waiting here for you, Professor Sexton,” he says in an accusing tone, knitting his brow and folding his lips in.

  A man who has a lot to say but is holding back.

  “Oh?” I ask absently, reminding myself not to give away the fact I have no idea what time it is, let alone what day.

  “Yeah,” he says briskly, as he remains standing and hooks his thumbs into his belt.

  I can see his gun holster, but he’s not trying to show it off.

  He sort of rocks slowly, from his heels to the balls of his feet.

  His cheap leather shoes squeak and he shifts his mouth in deep thought as he studies me.

  His eyes narrowing on mine.

  “Now, Profess- Xander,” he says, bringing back his friendly voice. “I don’t have a warrant to demand this of you, yet. But…” he sucks some air in through his teeth.

  I raise both brows and ask, “But?”

  “I’d like to see your back if I may,” he says pointedly, leaning forward as if expecting me to protest or tell him to go to hell.

  “My…back?” I ask, just to be sure that’s what he said.

  He nods. “Yes, Sir. Your back. Now if I could, or we can get a court order and have a doctor come out, or down at the station,” he adds ominously.

  I reply by lifting my sweater, noting the detective’s eyes widen somewhat as I ease myself up off the couch.

  I casually turn away from him, giving him a view of my back.

  “That’s my back,” I explain, hearing him take a seat behind me. “Can I?”
I say.

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry, Professor. Sorry to trouble you with that,” he murmurs, sounding like a beaten man.

  I turn around and resuming my own seat I ask him what all this is about.

  Eager to get to the part where I can see Gillian, or at least find out where she is.

  If her dad is here, it can only mean trouble. But I’m here now too, and I’m here for good.

  Gillian and me.

  But we’ll get to that part.

  “Look, Detective. What’s all this about,” I finally ask boldly, wishing that if he had a point that he’d come to it.

  He runs his hands over his face and stands again, moving over to one of my desks, where I can see now there’s a stack of large zip lock bags marked ‘evidence’.

  “I was hoping you could explain that to me, Professor,” he says, holding up a bag with what looks like my old shirt in it.

  “This was in the sports bag in the trunk of your car. Eyewitness and DNA tests confirm it is indeed your shirt, worn on the day of Saturday the fifteenth of this month.”

  I watch him speak, interested.

  “You found a shirt in my car,” I remark sounding uninterested.

  “Yes, Sir I did!” he shouts, moving over towards me, shaking it like a rag doll in front of my eyes.

  “A fucking shirt with fifteen bullet holes in it that match the number fired from a gun recovered at a crime scene. Further police eyewitness accounts tell me you were holding… shielding my only daughter with your body from god damned gunfire at the same crime scene. And here you are today in front of me without a god damned scratch on you,” he roars, his voice finally breaking with emotion.

  His heavy breathing is the only sound in a long silence that follows.

  “Ah!” I finally say aloud. “That shirt.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Xander

  Mike Parker wants all the answers, and we’re only a few minutes in when he can see it’s just not that simple.

  “I could tell you I was wearing a vest under the shirt,” I offer. “The night of the shooting.”