by Tracey Ward
I smiled then slid across the bench seat toward him. Kellen draped his right arm over the back of the seat, giving me room to tuck myself in close beside him. He smelled so good. Just as he had all those years ago when we’d sat together and written a love letter in French.
“Vous êtes mon nord,” I whispered.
You are my north.
His hand clasped my shoulder, squeezing me to him.
“Vous êtes mon espoir,” he replied gruffly.
You are my hope.
The airport was ridiculously packed. Apparently everyone had chosen that day to get the hell out of Dodge. Or the OC as it were. Kellen and I waited in long line after long line, the herd of people blessedly thinning with each new checkpoint until finally we were in the international departures area. I stood at the window watching planes land and take off. Kellen was in his own world with his headphones on and music blaring. He had said very little since we’d left the car and I let him be because that’s what I had always done with Kellen. It’s what he had always done with me. He let me be me.
When they announced our flight was boarding, I felt him come to stand beside me.
“Jenna,” he said, his deep voice pulling me down and to my right.
I stared at him slack jawed, nearly stuttering in shock.
He was on one knee beside me, a small black box in his hand.
“Kel, what the hell?” I gasped shakily.
“I was planning on doing this in Ireland,” he said, his voice steady. His eyes deep and dark and sure. “I wanted to wait until we were overlooking the ocean or somewhere beautiful. I was going to do it the right way and surprise you.”
“You’re surprising me,” I told him. “You’re shocking the shit out of me.”
He smiled that crooked smile, the one that had always done me in. “I thought there were ways I was supposed to do this, but I don’t think there are. Not for us.” He opened the box, exposing a simple diamond and platinum ring inside. “I can’t promise I’ll always tell you everything, but I’ll never lie to you. I can’t promise that I won’t run away, but I will always come home. I’ll always be faithful, I’ll always be there when you need me and I will always, always love you. Jenna, wil—”
I fell to my knees in front of him, pushing past the box and pressing myself tightly against him.
“Yes,” I whispered in his ear. “Yes, yes. Fuck, yes.”
“So much piss,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around me tightly.
I knew it would be hard being married to Kellen. I knew that because I knew him. Better than anybody. I knew the man, not the myth or the body or the rumors. And he knew me. To my core. We would get lost sometimes because everybody does. But that’s why you travel with the people you love. Because no matter how far off course you get, they’re always there to guide you home. They’re your lighthouse on the shore. Your star in the evening sky.
Your True North.
Keep reading for the first chapter from
Tracey Ward’s highly rated
sci-fi romance, Sleepless.
Available now!
Prologue
Nick
The first time I saw her, I was dead.
I was rolling down the river with two coins for the Ferryman, heading out onto the infinite, black sea. Worst of all, I was going without a fight.
How she found me is still a mystery or a miracle, depending on your perspective. Any way you slice it, I’m lucky she was there, though showing gratitude for it wouldn’t come easy for a long time after. How she put up with me for as long as she did is pure miracle, no mystery about it. She’s as close to an angel as I’ll ever get. Whenever I think of her, I always remember the way she looked there by the river; long auburn hair, glistening hazel eyes and a T-shirt that read Zombies Hate Fast Food.
When she reached out and took my hand, it shattered my world. Her eyes and the warm press of her skin against mine changed everything. Suddenly I was gasping for breath, fighting for life, and as she lowered her face to within inches of mine, I felt my heart slam painfully in my chest. She parted her lips, making me believe she would kiss me goodbye. If that had been the last sensation I experienced in this world I would have died a lucky man. Instead, she whispered one word against my mouth. One word that would press air into my lungs and pull me back from the void.
“Breathe.”
Then she was gone.
Chapter One
Alex
I wake with a start. My eyes immediately find the black sparrow decals flying across the white paint of the wall beside my bed, calming my racing heart. I trace one with my fingers, smiling at the familiar feel of its edges. This is what I always do. This is how they tell me that I’m home.
I actually hate birds. They’re too quick and erratic with their sharp claws and beaks. They’re like flying, disease carrying knives. But more than anything I hate them because they remind me of the Dragon.
“Are you here?” Cara calls.
“Present and accounted for.” I drop my hand from the bird just as my bedroom door swings open. My sister stands in the doorway. Watching.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“I’m glad you’re home.”
I chuckle quietly. It could go without saying but she says it every time. “Me too.”
“Where’d you go? Do I want to know?”
“Transylvania,” I lie.
“Okay, so I don’t want to know.”
I shake my head. No. She doesn’t want to know.
“I had the Dragon Dream,” I tell her, changing the subject. “It brought me home.”
“The Jabberwocky,” she corrects me quickly.
I roll my eyes. “It’s not the Jabberwocky.”
“I have shown you the pictures. It looks exactly as you described.”
“I know, but—“
“Is it or is it not the spitting image of the Jabberwocky?”
“It is,” I concede, “but how would I have started dreaming of the Jabberwocky when I was four years old? We never had the book.”
“You saw the movie.”
“We’ve talked about this,” I groan. “The Disney Alice doesn’t have the Jabberwocky in it. There’s no way. It’s not him, it’s just a dragon.”
“It’d be cool if you could dream about Pete’s Dragon.”
“Jesus, don’t put the idea in my head!”
“What? He’s friendly! And it’s not like you can Slip to Passamaquody.”
Slip is our word for what I do. For my tendency to fall asleep, dream of New York City and wake up in Times Square in my underwear. My parents called it sleep walking though it’s not at all accurate. It just made it sound normal, made it easier for them. I don’t stand up and walk out the door. When I Slip, I dream of a place then there I am. The base of the Eiffel Tower. The shore on the coast of Ireland. The third baseline at Wrigley Field. While it can take my mind a millisecond to raise familiar images of the Las Vegas strip, it will take me days to return my body home from it. I don’t understand how it happens. No one does. It’s mind over matter to the nth degree. It is unpredictable, terrifying, and most of all, annoying.
“He kicked my ass,” I tell her glumly, thinking of the Dragon. I rub my leg even though there’s no wound on it. Not anymore. Not now that I’m awake.
“Jabberwocky’s are the worst.”
“It’s not the Jabberwocky!”
“Sure. Hey, what are we doing tonight? Did you decide?”
I throw my arm across my face. “Nothing, we are doing nothing.”
“No,” she insists, pulling my arm away. “We were going to do nothing if you Slipped away to Antarctica. But you didn’t. You’re here and we need to celebrate.”
“It’s not a big one. Can’t we just let it slide?”
“Every birthday until your twenty-second is a big one. Your twenty-second is a bust. From there on out you receive no new liberties, other than the right to grow old.”
“That’s depressing.”
“It is, so enjoy the good ones while you can. You’re turning twenty! This is a big deal.” She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it affectionately. “Plus, you got shafted pretty hard on your last few birthdays. They should have been special and I know they really weren’t. Let’s use this year to make up for it.”
For my Sweet Sixteen my parents gave me an eviction notice and a new car. Worst Showcase Showdown ever. Since then birthdays have held little appeal to me seeing as I now associate them with abandonment and hush money.
My sister is eight years older than I am and was already an established, responsible adult when I got the boot. She’s a Certified Public Accountant making good money and was more than happy to take me in. She knew what was wrong with me, knew she’d have to support me because I can’t hold down a job, but she didn’t care. When I showed up at her door, a lost, crying mess, she promised that she’d always watch out for me. Then she went to our parent’s house, took my things, gave them a piece of her mind and never looked back. She’s fiercely protective of me and I want to say it bothers me and that I can take care of myself, but after growing up with a mother who kept me at a distance, knowing someone has my back is indescribable.
“Can we egg their house?” I ask, referring to our parents.
“No. But I will buy a big ass Margarita and let you take hits off it.”
“Deal.”
∞
I’m standing on the bank of the Missouri River in Omaha, wondering why I work so hard to stay here. I should embrace the escape and let my mind Slip me far, far away to a place that is warm. My hands are freezing and my toes would ache if they could remember what it was like to feel.
Cara brought me here to try and use her old driver’s license to get me into the casinos, but I’m having doubts. Doubts I like to call Mango Margarita: The Devil’s Drink. Or El Bebir Del Diablo? I don’t know, I didn’t do well in high school Spanish. I Slipped to Mexico once and it was a complete disaster. Turns out hambre and hombre are easily confused and when you adamantly insist in broken Spanglish that you be in possession of one, it doesn’t always get you a burrito. Sometimes it gets you a male prostitute. Who knew brothels had a lunch menu?
Cara is up at the car waiting for her work friends to join us while I and my dubious stomach have taken a walk to the river in case of emergency. I’m not fond of the idea of barfing in the parking lot in plain view of everyone. At the moment, I am not fond of anything.
I’m surveying the frozen beach, looking for somewhere to sit and wait out my troubles, when I spot the body. It’s a man, ghostly white and lying in the shallow waters of the freezing river. Before my brain knows what’s happening, I’m rushing down the shore, tripping over mounds of snow and ice slicked rocks until I collapse on my knees beside him.
He looks to be about my age, his pale skin contrasting sharply with his buzzed black hair. He’s naked except for a black Speedo-esque swimsuit. Even to my drunk mind, that seems like weird attire for December in Nebraska. I quickly strip off my heavy coat and throw it over his chest, shivering immediately in just my T-shirt. I don’t see his chest rising or falling so I grab for his hand to take his pulse. Relief floods through me when I find his skin is relatively warm and pliant. I’m hoping this means he’s not dead yet.
The second I touch him, he lurches forward as though I shocked him. His arms and legs spasm wildly before he leans over to cough. He ends up puking almost directly into my lap. It’s all liquid but I smell something chemical in it, something vaguely familiar. I wonder if it’s some kind of alcohol. He drops back down hard onto the rocks, but they don’t make a sound with the impact. I watch as he stares unblinking at the sky, lying so still I think he must be dead now. I may have just witnessed death throws.
I rub his hand between both of mine and lean in close, so close our noses are almost touching and my hair falls around us. His eyes latch onto mine. I gasp at how bright they are. How brilliantly green. How utterly alive.
I whisper one word to him, the only thing I can think to say.
“Breathe.”
He vanishes. My coat is lying on wet stones, my hand is holding cold air.
My heart stops beating. My breath freezes in my lungs. I clench my hands tightly, feeling them tingle and itch where my skin met his. He was real. I held his hand and I’m awake. I know that I’m awake. There’s no way that was a dream.
“What the hell?” I whisper, my voice quivering.
This is it. This is insanity taking hold. I’m breaking from reality. I’m losing my mind, though it never fully felt like mine to begin with.
Trembling from the cold, shock and a growing fear, I grab my jacket to pull it on. I can’t get my hands to work right. The zipper feels painfully cold between my fingertips and I abandon any hope of closing it. Standing quickly, I run back across the rocks and up the bank to my sister’s car. By the time I get there I’m nearly hyperventilating.
Her friends have arrived and they’re standing in a halo of streetlight, clouds of warm breath rising around them in the cold air. Cara sees me and my anxiety must be on my face because she rushes over.
“What’s wrong? Were you sick?” she asks, touching my arm. She frowns and pulls her hand back. “Your coat is wet.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you puke on your coat?” she asks, her face disgusted.
I think of the guy leaning over and throwing up river water.
“Yeah,” I mumble.
“Gross. I think you’re done for the night.”
“Me too,” I say eagerly. I nod but it’s more of a convulsion and I practically run for the car.
Cara says a hasty goodbye to her friends who laugh in understanding. Once inside, she cranks the heat and eyes me, watching me shake.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I just want to go to sleep.”
“That’s a first,” she says, but leaves it at that.
Over the years Cara has learned that I don’t like to talk about half the stuff that goes on when I’m asleep. I’ve seen things and been places that I don’t like to revisit, waking or otherwise.
“What’s that smell?” she asks suddenly.
“My dinner’s second coming.”
“No, you smell like a swimming pool.” She scrunches up her nose and glances sideways at me. “Like chlorine.”
This night is getting weirder by the second. I vow to never drink again.
About the Author
I was born in Eugene, Oregon and studied English Literature at the University of Oregon (Go Ducks!) It was there that I discovered why Latin is a dead language and that being an English teacher was not actually what I wanted to do with my life.
My husband, my son and my 80lbs pitbull who thinks he's a lapdog are my world.
Visit my website for more information on upcoming releases, Tracey Ward
