by Kris Calvert
Standing, she held out her hand to me, pulling me from my cozy spot on the couch. The flowing cotton dress she wore was a disguise for the bad ass that lurked beneath the soft fabric. Running my hands across her bottom, I swayed her body back and forth with mine to the music playing in the room.
“You two lovebirds eating dinner tonight? Or are you livin’ on love?”
I turned, taking Reagan in my arms to give Georgia a sneer and answer her question. “We’re livin’ on love, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know what’s for dinner.”
“Fried chicken, roasted red potatoes, green beans and biscuits.”
“Hot damn,” I replied. “I’m not eating right now, but keep that warm, Georgia. I’m about to go work up an appetite.”
Picking Reagan up off the floor, I carried her through the house and up the stairs and could only laugh when she protested the entire way.
“For the love of God, King put me down. I singlehandedly took down the Russian mafia and stopped a terrorist plot to poison the universe,” she said.
I sat her down at the entrance to my bedroom, pressing the keypad in my desk to open the door. “Singlehandedly?” I asked, picking her up again, carrying her to the bed.
“Well, you helped a little.”
“Thanks,” I said, my voice laced with sarcasm and raw need. “For that little remark, I think I should show you who’s the boss.”
“What does that mean?” she said scooting back on the bed, propping her head on the pillows.
Opening a drawer on the nightstand, I pulled out a black lace mask, holding it in the air for her to see. “I only want you to feel tonight.”
She smiled and moved from her back to her stomach like a child anxious for bedtime. “What am I going to feel?”
“Everything.”
“But what if I want to see?” she asked, looking to the white Tantra chair next to the bed.
“You liked that didn’t you?”
“I like all of it.”
I pulled her from the bed and onto her feet then slowly unbuttoned the top of her dress. Turning her around, I placed the mask over her eyes, tying the black ribbon.
I slipped the edges of the white fabric from her shoulders, exposing the glow of her smooth skin. Allowing the dress to drop to her waist before turning her to face me, I could only sigh at her strength and beauty.
Running my hands down her body, I stopped to reshape the underside of her breast before taking her swollen peak into my mouth.
Reagan let out a soft moan and I unbuttoned the rest of the dress, letting it fall to the floor. She was naked with the exception of a pair of black lace panties.
“I love my new lace panties,” she whispered. “They’re perfect—fifty-fifty.”
Falling to my knees, I hooked my fingers inside the exquisite lace and smiled at the monogram. Instead of a crown, were the initials RW+KG.
Pushing the lace panties to the floor, I kissed my way from her thighs to her lips.
Without saying a word, Reagan reached for the waist of my jeans, freeing me without hesitation, pushing my jeans to my knees, where I stepped out of them.
Pulling the t-shirt over my shoulders, she ran her hands down my chest and I flinched under the coolness of her touch.
Picking her up, I Lifted her feet from the floor and she wrapped her legs around my waist. I walked us to the chair, setting her down at the top of the curve.
“King,” she begged.
“Yes, love?”
“As long as I’m blindfolded, will you take me to the other room?”
“What other room?”
“King,” she whined. “The other room.”
“That’s a big step.”
“I’m a big girl.”
I stared at her naked, smiling, blindfolded. She held out her hand, cupping my hard shaft and I wanted to give in to her request.
“I don’t know Reagan. After what you’ve been through, I worry about trying anything too out of the ordinary,” I said kissing her neck.
Her hands ran rampant across my nakedness and I found it hard to resist her or her request.
Reagan bit her lip and smiled, cocking her head to one side. “I was thinking I might tie you up.”
“Hmm. You are the only person in the world that knows everything about me. You know you’re going to have to marry me.”
“Why do I have to marry you?” she asked.
Reaching around her head, I untied the lace mask and stared into her soft brown eyes. “Because I love you. Because there’s no one else I’d rather travel the world with, make a home with, and have babies with.”
“King.”
I watched her swallow hard, taking in everything I’d just said to her.
“So what do you say, partner?” I asked holding out my pinky for her solemn promise. “Fifty-fifty?”
Blinking back tears, a soft smile crept across her bruised face as she hooked her small finger in mine. “Fifty-fifty.”
I kissed her with every emotion I’d ever had, every feeling I would ever experience. She was my beginning, my end, my love, my life, and my very existence. Soon she would be my wife.
The house phone rang by the bedside.
“I’m not getting that,” I said pausing between deep kisses to Reagan’s sweet lips.
“King,” she whined.
Reluctantly, I walked away from the chair and my naked beautiful girl and answered. “This better be good.”
“It’s Nyx. I have an assignment for you…and Reagan.”
Coming Soon
Make yourself familiar with the angels, and behold them frequently in spirit; for, without being seen, they are present with you.
–St. Francis of Sales
PROLOGUE
A chill ran through my body as I stood at the foot of the bulky hospital bed. The feeling of otherness filled my open mind. I looked away from my fourteen-year-old patient, focusing on the loud floral wallpaper of her room. It had no doubt been hung to brighten the space now filled with bags of fluid, vials of morphine and pain patches. Nonetheless, it was where the girl would ultimately meet her fate. Meet her end. Meet her Maker.
Osteosarcoma had wrecked Erin’s tiny body—the body I was now charged with merely making comfortable. In eighteen months the stage-four bone cancer had turned the beautiful young girl from a champion volleyball player who’d never had a real kiss to a bag of bones draped in paper skin.
Erin was dying before she’d had a chance to live. It was tragic for those left behind, but a new beginning for her. Soon she would be crossing over.
I always felt the same at this point in my job. The hollow pit that filled my stomach was replaced by the tingling I felt in my body.
A second wave of chills ran the length of my spine as I gripped the railing of the hospital bed. I knew what was happening and I could tell by the look on the young girl’s face she knew as well. We weren’t alone.
Erin strained her neck as she tried to sit up, whispering one word through her dry cracked lips. “Gram.”
“I’m right here, Erin.” Her mother’s voice caught as she squeezed the frail skeleton of her daughter’s hand.
Erin again breathed the word into the air. “Gram.”
Her mother looked to me as if I had answers. I didn’t. After three years as a hospice nurse I had no idea what was on the other side. I only knew no one made the trip alone.
“Gram is what she called her grandmother.” Erin’s mother said the words and stroked her daughter’s face.
Erin reached into the air with both arms as if she was expecting someone to embrace and carry her away from the world. In and out of consciousness, it was the most movement we’d seen from her in a week. To her distraught mother it seemed as if another moment of delirium was taking place—the episodes had become more frequent and were lasting longer over the past few days. Erin knew better. I knew better.
I pulled my attention from the girl as the inviting warmth of the light behind me enveloped
my body. Another chill overcame me and I physically shuddered as I breathed in the light that surrounded us.
Erin looked to me, expecting me to acknowledge what she was seeing. I did not, but instead gave her a reassuring smile to let her know that everything happening was just as it should be.
Constructed of pure love and light, Erin’s Gram smiled and held onto the young girl’s fragile, outstretched hands. I’m here, baby girl. Gram’s here. Let go.
“Erin, it’s okay to let go,” her mother repeated as she took her daughter’s upstretched hand. I watched as three generations of strong women held each other up in the beautiful moment of selflessness. Erin would soon be gone but I knew death was just a new door opening in the life of her reoccurring soul.
No matter how many times I stood witness to the phenomenal occurrence I was always amazed. Friends, relatives and others who’d crossed over would come back to assist with the transition of the living to the other side. It was something a hospice nurse who’d been on the job for any length of time had experienced. The difference was I saw what the dying saw—I saw Spirit. I was fine with the older folks finding their way home, but it was the young people—the babies, the children I had a difficult time watching. Everyone with a divine soul deserved a chance at an earthly life—at least in my eyes. Even those who’d made poor decisions—like my brother Jacob.
“I love you, Erin. It’s okay to let go.” The mother repeated Gram’s words as she choked on her own tears. I watched as the older woman who’d come move forward, placing a hand on the shoulder of her own daughter. Immediately the young girl’s mother released the tension she held onto so tightly with a sigh.
Erin took one last breath, and as she slowly exhaled left the imperfect world behind her. Her physical presence diminished as her soul vacated the sick earthly body she left behind. With a nod in my direction and a smile for her grieving mother, Erin was gone. She was free—free from the pain that held her captive.
I slowly walked around the bed to the mother and placed a single hand upon her shoulder just as I’d seen Spirit do.
The mother looked up to me as tears fell from her swollen eyes and onto her white shirt and simply nodded. “It’s over,” she whispered with a sob.
But I knew Erin’s existence was far from over. It was just beginning.
ONE
It’s dark. I can barely make out my hand in front of my face. The tile floor is cold and my toes involuntarily curl with each step I take on the bone-chilling surface. I look down at the white floor-length nightgown I’m wearing. I catch a glimpse of myself in a long mirror as I follow a dark corridor that leads nowhere. I hear it. Is it a kitten crying? Is it a child? I pick up the pace as I feel my heart pound. I’m completely aware of my shallow intake of breath. Filled with a feeling of dread, I run the length of the hallway that doesn’t end. A dim light forms in the distance and as I pick up the pace I watch the light grow brighter until I’m blinded. The high-frequency wail makes my ears ring in pain and my head pound in unison with my heart. The light surrounds me and as suddenly as it began, darkness and quiet takes its place. I turn in a circle trying to get my bearings. The quiet is deep and muffled—as if sound never existed. A whisper comes out of the empty world that surrounds me. “Indriel…Indriel…”
Piercing the darkness, a light from an open crack of a door seems to call to me. I push it and step into the light.
“Indriel.”
I try to call his name but my lips seem paralyzed as if glued together. I turn to my reflection. Staring back at me in a cracked mirror, my face is distorted as if I’m someone else. I touch my fingers to my mouth to feel my lips, only to find a row of black stitches lacing them tightly together.
“Indriel.”
Hearing my name, I spin around.
Glowing candles surround him as he lies in the claw-foot tub filled to the brim with water. His arms are resting on the edge of the white porcelain, his head unnaturally twisted to the side, his lips—blue. I try to scream. Clawing at the tight lace that holds my mouth together I watched the blood pour from my lips onto my fingers. I rushed to his side, removing the hypodermic needle from his arm.
Slipping the rubber tourniquet from his bicep, I slid to the floor sloshing the cold water over the white nightgown. Wrapping my hands around his face, I stared into his lifeless eyes. I wanted to scream. I needed to scream. Let me scream.
Gasping for air, I sat up in my bed and pushed the wet hair that was plastered to my forehead away as I tried to swallow. The dryness that clung to my throat made it impossible. I threw back the covers, turned on the lamp and rushed to the bathroom searching for my water glass at the edge of the sink. I turned the handle of the old brass faucet trying to catch my breath, but the drought in my mouth made it seem as if I wasn’t able to breathe at all. My hand trembled as I filled the glass, gulping the water as if it would help to calm my breathing.
The mirrored medicine cabinet stood ajar and my hand shook as I opened it and fumbled with a giant bottle of generic ibuprofen. Dropping three gels into my palm, I shoved them in my mouth hoping they would quickly go to work on the pounding in my head. They would do nothing for my quivering body.
Filling the glass again with one last drink of water, I shut the cabinet with my trembling hand and turned in horror as the water glass slipped and shattered on the cold tile floor.
Backing up and grabbing the edge of the sink behind me, I closed my eyes thinking if I opened them I would realize I was still asleep—still dreaming. I cautiously looked to the ceiling, panning my way back to the old claw foot bathtub—filled to the very edge with water.
I stood paralyzed. My heart was beating so hard I could see my chest heave and the old t-shirt I’d worn to bed moved with each pump. I jumped over the broken glass and shoved my hand into the tub. In one motion I yanked the chain freeing the black stopper. The ice-cold water soaked my shirt and I turned as calmly as I could, flipping off the light and shutting the door.
Grabbing a fresh shirt from my dresser drawer, I pulled the wet one over my head and tossed it into the corner of my bedroom. The clean shirt felt warm on my shaking body and as I climbed back into my bed, I yanked a rubber band from my wrist. I sat and began to pull my long hair back into a ponytail, pushing the dark sweaty locks away from my face repeatedly until I couldn’t slick my hair back any tighter.
With two twists of the hair band I was done. I worked my way back into the comfort of my old quilt-covered bed, pausing only to punch my pillow before I dropped my head into the goose down.
I took a deep and cleansing breath, feeling my body jump with adrenaline. “It’s just anxiety brought on by your fear of what Jonathan is going to say to you tomorrow. And you are just going to tell him that you are not burnt out and you would like to take on more patients—especially if it means overtime. You are not quitting, Indie. You are not a quitter.” I said the words to myself and stared at the ceiling fan as it slowly made its rotations.
I took a deep breath and realized the lamp was still burning brightly. I looked at the switch and then to the alarm clock by my bed. It was three a.m.—the light was just going to stay on for the rest of the night. At this point I didn’t care if it jacked up my bill for the month. One night wouldn’t hurt. Sleep would be harder to come by in the dark.
I stared at the ceiling as a million and one scenarios ran through my head. I tried to close my eyes, but each time I saw myself in the white nightgown. I touched my lips, now chapped from gasping through my nightmare, to make sure they weren’t sewn together. I opened my eyes, thinking if I had something else to concentrate on my crazy thoughts wouldn’t crowd my aching head. I counted the rotations of the cheap white ceiling fan until exhaustion won the fight.
I sat in the waiting room of the administration offices of The Path, the ultra-expensive and exclusive hospice program to the rich, famous and those with amazing insurance plans or connections. After my dream last night and the clean up I’d left behind for daylight, I was ready
to think of anything besides why I dream of my dead twin brother or my lips. I licked them again, advancing the chapped skin to a new level. I wanted to get my yearly review over with and move on. I had plenty to do today and none of it involved talking about my feelings of burnout as a hospice nurse. God forbid they asked me to leave the program. What if I was here to ask for more patients, more hours and more money when what they really wanted was to can me?
“In-dree-al …er… Loose?” The obviously lost temp scanned the room from behind her glass reception box looking for anyone who might understand her phonetic drivel.
I stood, brushing my long dark mane from my shoulders and immediately adjusted the short black pencil skirt that hugged my narrow hips. Some girls got boobs, some were blessed with an hourglass figure. I got neither. Tall, flat chested and straight as an arrow, I had the body of an awkward thirteen-year-old girl who’d grown but hadn’t filled out. I did look good in clothes. I might be poor as a church mouse, but I had some fabulous items left over from my former life—when I had a better head on my shoulders and a trust fund. The money was gone, but exercise was free and between the stress of my life and a diet of mostly fruits and vegetables I’d maintained my figure—or lack thereof.
“It’s pronounced LOU-chay. It’s Italian and I’m her. Indriel Luce. But please call me Indie.”
As I stood, I knew I commanded the attention of all the men and most of the women in the room. I always attributed it to my distinct look—dark hair, pale skin and violet eyes. In fact, my eyes had freaked a few people out in my twenty-seven years of life. They only made me seem more mysterious than who I really was—a hospice nurse from the tiny town of Barlow, Georgia with recessive genes, a sign my Aunt Sally dubbed as being marked. I was nothing special other than the fact that my violet colored eyes made for good conversation and the only thing I ever seemed marked for was an IRS audit.
