Curved Horizon

by Taylor Brooke

  Copyright © 2018 Taylor Brooke

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-54-2 (trade)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-55-9 (ebook)

  Published by Interlude Press

  www.interludepress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Book and Cover Design by CB Messer

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Interlude Press, New York

  For the fighters

  “Well, look who I ran into,” crowed Coincidence.

  “Please,” flirted Fate, “this was meant to be.”

  —Joseph Gordon-Levitt

  Contents

  Author’s Noteix

  Prologue1

  11

  29

  316

  421

  528

  635

  741

  849

  957

  1058

  1168

  1275

  1381

  1492

  15100

  16109

  17123

  18141

  19153

  20163

  21171

  22180

  23186

  24192

  25199

  26211

  27218

  28225

  29233

  30242

  31247

  32259

  33267

  34274

  35280

  36287

  Acknowledgments290

  About the Author291

  Author’s Note

  Due to some sensitive subject matter in Curved Horizon, I’ve decided to include a list of warnings for readers who may need them. Chapter numbers are attached.

  Emotional responses/PTSD due to sexual assault and domestic abuse appear throughout the novel.

  Panic Attack

  Chapter 10, Chapter 26, Chapter 31

  Discussion of off-page sexual assault

  Chapter 3, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 13, Chapter 16, Chapter 18, Chapter 20

  Discussion of off-page domestic abuse and child abuse

  Chapter 1, Chapter 13, Chapter 21, Chapter 28, Chapter 30, Chapter 33

  Major Character Injury

  Chapter 25

  Prologue

  A small group of fringe scientists stumbled upon an anomaly while testing the basic structure of hormones released during multiple acts of intimacy. Their research led to the dissection of human emotion. After years of trial and error, a machine was created with the ability to harness the direction of living energy. Its path—the Rose Road—was made tangible, allowing the human race to know ahead of time the exact moment lines of energy will merge.

  First tested, then perfected, the hot commodity of The Camellia Clock spread like wildfire. Celebrities wore them as a fashion statement, world leaders endorsed them, psychiatrists prescribed them, and, after years of market saturation and inevitable publicity, the Clock became a staple in the modern world.

  Upgraded from accessory to necessity, the Clock evolved into a birthright. Infants were provided with their own personalized flexible chip implanted beneath their thumbnail, where glowing white numbers counted backward to the moment when they would meet their fate.

  1

  Orange Country consisted of much more than Laguna Beach.

  There were mountains to climb, wilderness to adventure in, and other beaches to lounge on. Newport Beach, Huntington Beach, Dana Point, San Diego—all those places had sand and water, sun and salty air, but none of them had what Laguna Beach had.

  Daisy hadn’t realized that until she left. She hadn’t thought about everything Laguna Beach meant to her until she was without it. She’d pretended that all the magic she’d searched for in Laguna disappeared as soon as she did.

  But life aligned in a way she never imagined it would.

  She’d gone to San Francisco State as she was supposed to. She’d graduated as she was supposed to. And somehow, some way, Daisy Yuen had landed the internship she’d been dreaming of for years and years.

  Daisy looked at her lanyard, where a laminated badge hung around her neck.

  Blizzard Entertainment—Daisy Yuen—Design Intern

  “You live in Laguna, huh? How’s that? Bunch of rich folk pretending to be artsy while they wave their money around?” Javi dipped a piece of tofu in a plastic container of chili paste and popped it in his mouth. He had an angular face with a sharp, straight nose and warm copper complexion. He arched a thin, well-shaped brow as he chewed. “You don’t really look like the type.”

  Enjoying bowls of pho, they sat at one of the many picnic benches outside the facility.

  Daisy stirred bean sprouts into her steaming soup and shrugged. “I’m not. I live with my best friend in a shitty one-bedroom apartment. Not everyone in Laguna is rich and hoity-toity.”

  She left out the master-thief roommate part and kept the exact location to herself. Living ten feet away from the sand was very hoity-toity, despite the company she kept and the state of their shared space.

  “Yeah, well, at least you can afford it. Most people couldn’t rent a cardboard box in Laguna, much less an actual apartment. You’re lucky, you know. I think only you and one other recruit were offered a paid internship.” Javi’s mouth twisted, full lips scrunching against his cheeks. He swept a hand through his mop of black hair and pushed it to one side. “I have a feeling you’ll be out of scenery design and into weaponry in no time.”

  “Really?” Her black-painted lips pulled down in a playful grimace. “I mean, I know they like me and I’m doing well, but there’s so much talent in there.” She gestured at the white building with one hand and pointed with her chopsticks at the dark statue of an Orc astride his war-wolf in the middle of the courtyard. “It’s only been a couple months. We’ll see what happens in a year.”

  “True,” he chirped, nodding. He jutted his chin toward the table, where a black phone vibrated. “Someone wants your attention.”

  Daisy snatched it up while slurping hot noodles.

  Aiden Maar 5/15 1:10 p.m.

  will you pick up cat food on your way home

  Aiden Maar 5/15 1:11 p.m.

  the soft kind please. she’s starting to choke on the kibble.

  Aiden Maar 5/15 1:13 p.m.

  also. dont you time out like really fucking soon?

  Once Daisy had been thankful for how many tiny, glowing numbers danced across her thumbnail. She’d looked at them every time she painted her nails, every time she’d bounced a pencil in her hand, every time she’d placed her palms on Vance’s cheek in high school, every time she’d pulled Aiden off the floor, and every time she’d gripped the steering wheel of her new car parked in the Blizzard Entertainment employee lot.

  But now only a few digits remained. They counted down, ticking minute by minute. Her future was too close for comfort.

  19:03. 19:02. 19:01.

  “Everything cool?” Javi asked warily.

  Daisy pinched a slice of jalapeño with her chopsticks. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

  Daisy Yuen 5/15 1:16 p.m.

  I’m scared

  Aiden Maar 5/15 1:17 p.m.

&n
bsp; I was too, it’ll be okay

  Daisy Yuen 5/15 1:18 p.m.

  How down are you to get absolutely wasted tonight?

  Aiden sent four thumbs-up emojis, six beer emojis, and the upside-down happy face.

  “How’s everything going with you and your roses?” Daisy feigned disinterest, but her heart pounded. She turned on the front-facing camera and checked her makeup, removing a bit of black liner smudged under her right eye. Strands of white hair were askew, flowing over onto black. She scrubbed her hand through her hair and ruffled it into place.

  “We’re doing okay. It’s harder to navigate things with three of us to think about.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Six months.” Javi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We make it work, but it’ll take time to feel comfortable with everything. None of us knew each other before we timed out; it happened in the library at my old school. Why?”

  Daisy lifted her right hand and displayed her Camellia Clock, a device implanted beneath her thumbnail that steadily counted down beneath a layer of opalescent nail polish. “Tomorrow my entire life changes, and I’m having an internal meltdown.”

  “It’s a big deal, but at the same time it’s not. What is that? A nine or…” Javi looked at Daisy’s hand. “Yeah, a nine, so it’ll be sometime in the morning unless it changes.”

  It was more than a big deal. It was a monumental deal. The Camellia Clock was fate, seized and distributed, and Daisy wasn’t ready to face hers.

  “That only happens in one in a thousand Clocks or something.” She flapped her hand at him. “Apparently, it’s really, really rare for a Clock to speed up or slow down. Stress can influence it, sudden decisions, illness even; sometimes they’ll change on a whim.” She shrugged. “But mine hasn’t screwed up in twenty-three years. I doubt it would now.”

  “Someone’s done their research.”

  Daisy snorted. “A friend of mine went to the conference in Los Angeles.”

  “The Camellia Clock Preparation thing? Holy shit.” Javi laughed around a wide, clear straw attached to a cup filled with Thai tea and tapioca pearls. “That’s pretty intense. I didn’t know anyone took those conventions seriously.”

  “She takes everything seriously.” Daisy rolled her eyes.

  Daisy picked at the skin around her thumbnail. The numbers kept counting down to a moment that hadn’t come, but one that haunted her all the same.

  “Unscented” antiseptic was labeled incorrectly. It was a lie, blatant and bold, right on the side of the container. It did have a scent, sharp and sterile. The alcohol dried her hands, the artificial-aloe smell turned her stomach, and no matter how many months or years she spent in the medical field, Dr. Cavanaugh would never get used to it.

  She scrubbed the jelly between her fingers and over her knuckles, squeezed more into her palm, and made sure to cover the tops of her wrists.

  It’d only been a few weeks since she got the job at Newport Hoag Hospital, and Chelsea still didn’t understand how things worked here. Staring with a furrowed brow and sharp gaze at the map on the wall behind the nurses’ station, she traced the blue-printed hallways.

  “Doctor, do you need assistance?” a nurse asked.

  Chelsea shook her head. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Were you the one they just paged?”

  “Yes. They need another pair of hands in the ER.”

  “Well, that’s in the other building. You can take the bridge on the fifth floor. It’ll take you to the employee elevators; once you’re there, just head down to the ground floor and you’ll be in the emergency wing.”

  Chelsea was sure she was blushing, but she pasted on a smile and did her best not to snap when she said, “Thank you.”

  She’d spent years by her father’s side, wandering hospitals and offices and lecture halls, forging smiles, shaking hands and absorbing as much information as she could. Hospitals varied, but this one was a monster of hallways and rooms and patients that Chelsea had a hard time navigating. Rated one of the best facilities in Southern California, Newport Hoag kept its stellar reputation intact by hiring only the best of the best and by keeping the grounds looking as rich as the neighborhood surrounding it.

  Chelsea didn’t feel like the best of the best, but here she was walking among them. She fought with herself constantly about how to come across as comfortable, but so far everyone had seen right through her.

  The other day an elderly patient had asked where she was from, and when Chelsea told her, the woman laughed outright and said, “Oh, honey, this isn’t small-town Georgia.”

  No, it wasn’t, and Chelsea didn’t need any more clarification. Ten-lane freeways proved it wasn’t. A fancy hospital proved it wasn’t. Laguna Beach proved it wasn’t.

  But Chelsea had gotten on that plane, she’d chased after Shannon, she’d stumbled into a job thanks to her father’s connections, and here she was not in small-town Georgia. Here she was in Southern California, waiting for her life to begin.

  She unfastened her hair from the tight bun on the back of her head and scrubbed her nails against her scalp, refastened the bun, adjusted her black headband, and stepped out of the elevator. Once again she dropped her hand beneath an automatic dispenser and wrinkled her nose as a glob of antiseptic bubbled in her palm.

  “Cavanaugh! We need you in room three!”

  Chelsea whipped around to see who’d called for her, but there was a sea of nurses and patients and paramedics and no source. She swallowed thickly.

  No, this wasn’t Milford. It wasn’t a homegrown practice that her parents were proud of in a town where everyone knew each other’s names. This was a madhouse filled by shouting, cursing, and desperation. Her right hand began to shake. She balled it into a fist, rubbed her middle finger against her thumbnail, and stalked into the chaos.

  People coughed and chatted in the waiting room. A nurse argued with a family through the glass wall in front of her desk. A gurney rushed by with an unresponsive patient strapped to it. Chelsea flicked her gaze to the open doors in the hallway and read the black numbers bolded below each window.

  She found room three. A playful sticker of a smiling sun was plastered above the number.

  Her heart thundered. She had specifically requested to be left out of pediatrics. No children. No pre-teens or early teens.

  “Doctor, there you are,” a nurse said through an exhausted sigh. She tugged on Chelsea’s arm. “This girl’s been in an accident. It looks like just a few bruises, but we need you to clear her.”

  “I don’t think I’m—”

  “Her name is Sandra, okay?” The nurse blinked at her as she walked into the room. “Hey, Sandra! I’ve got Dr. Cavanaugh here to see you.” The nurse took on a gentle, jubilant tone, and wore a wide grin as she glanced from the patient to the doorway, where Chelsea stood stock still. The nurse tilted her head.

  Chelsea cleared her throat and took long strides past the curtain to stand in front of a little girl who was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed. “My name is Dr. Cavanaugh. It’s nice to meet you, Sandra. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Sandra wore angry bruises across the side of her face. Her pale skin made it easy to spot the point of contact, the darkest burst of color in the center of her cheek.

  A man bit down on his words. “She fell down the stairs.”

  Chelsea’s gaze moved from Sandra to the man. He was tall, with a round belly, a bald head, and heavy arms. She glanced at his hands, shoved deep in the front pockets of his jeans. “You’re her father?”

  He nodded. “I’ve told her not to run in the house. Tell the doctor what happened, Sandy.”

  Sandra looked at the floor. “I fell down the stairs.”

  “Well, honey, how’d you fall? Did you slip? Did you get bruised anywhere else or just your face?”

  �
�Just my face.”

  “She must’ve been lucky not to be hurt worse,” her father added.

  Chelsea looked from Sandra to her father and back again. “Did you fall forward?”

  “No,” Sandra said. She looked at Chelsea from under her lashes; her gaze seemed flighty and practiced.

  “So, you must have a bruise somewhere on the back of your head, then?”

  “No.” Sandra chewed on her lip.

  “She answered your questions. She fell down the stairs. We done here?” Her father, spine straight and sallow eyes narrowed, bristled. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “Well then, that settles it. Guess we have to run an MRI. You stay put, all right?” Chelsea turned to face the man. She expressed in every primal way she knew how, with every movement of her eyes, grit of her teeth, and tension in her brow, that she’d seen him for what he was.

  Chelsea walked into the hallway. The nurse followed. “Call her mama, call Social Services, get them down here now. You hear me?”

  The nurse’s face hardened, but she nodded.

  “Go on,” Chelsea said, her accent thick and syrupy.

  The nurse scurried away, clutching the clipboard to her chest.

  Chelsea walked to the other side of the nurses’ station, away from the crowded hallway and the stuffy lobby. She hid in her phone and scrolled through texts from Shannon about a late dinner.

  Chelsea Cavanaugh 5/15 3:04 p.m.

  I’ll need a drink after today.

  Shannon Wurther 5/15 3:05 p.m.

  The Whitehouse it is.

  A woman charged in through the double doors at the front of the ER. She smacked her hand against the glass window of the nurses’ station. “Where’s my daughter? Sandra Carter?”

  The nurse at the desk went through every textbook calming tactic there was, but only ended in an argument.

  The woman waved her arms erratically and held the front of her phone against the glass, displaying a picture of her and Sandra. “I’ve already called the police; they’re on their way here. No—no! My husband doesn’t have visitation rights! He picked her up from school without my knowledge. Where is she?”