Before I Wake (4 page)

“I can’t come home,” I told her. “I don’t have enough vacation time yet.” And Mom can rot.

“Can’t you come for a weekend?”

And do what, watch Mom sleep? “That’s an expensive weekend, Ivy.”

“You’re a doctor now, you can afford it.”

The sound that came out of me was a cross between a laugh and a yelp. Fudge jumped off my lap. “I live in New York City.”

A sigh—a gusty, long-suffering one—blew not so gently in my ear. “It wouldn’t be an issue if you moved home.”

Not this again. “I have to go now.”

I was just about to hang up when I heard her, “Dawnie! Dawn, wait.”

I pressed the top lip of the phone back to my ear. “What?”

“I’m sorry. I just…you’re the only one of us who might be able to help her.”

That melted my heart more than it probably should have. “I can’t, Ivy.” I didn’t like admitting it, but it was true. Even if I did go into the Dream Realm and talk to Mom, there was no guarantee I could bring her back with me. If she wanted to wake up, then she would. Unfortunately, it was obvious to no one but me that she didn’t want to.

“Sometimes I think she doesn’t want to wake up.” Ivy’s voice was hoarse, as though she was saying something she thought she shouldn’t.

Okay, so maybe I wasn’t the only one it was obvious to. I didn’t like the hurt in Ivy’s voice. It was so much easier to justify not being there at home when I could be angry.

“She was so different before it happened,” Ivy continued. “You know that. It was like she would rather be asleep than with any of us—except for you, of course.”

I heard my sister’s bitterness as surely as if she had been able to pour it through the phone lines and into my ear. Yes, Mom had seemed to have more tolerance for my company during the later stages of her “illness,” and I spent as much of that summer as I could with her before heading back to class in September.

“Only because she knew I had to go back to school.” Only because she wanted to talk me into visiting Morpheus and the rest of my “family” before leaving her own.

“Mm.” Ivy didn’t believe it.

“Look, don’t go getting all pissy with me for something I have no control over, okay?” Defensive much? I shouldn’t give in to the guilt. It wasn’t my fault Mom was gone, and it wasn’t like my sisters would believe me if I told them where she was.

“I’m just saying you’re her favorite. I’m all right with that, especially if hearing your voice will wake her up.”

“It didn’t work the last two times I was home.”

“This time might be different.”

I sighed. “It won’t. Look, Ivy, I love you, but I have to go.”

“Do you think she’ll ever come back to us?”

Once more I was ambushed from hanging up by another familiar phrase in my sister’s anxious tone. We never used to be at odds like this. I have pictures of the two of us taken when I was a baby and Ivy treated me like her own big, amusing doll.

Ivy was just worried about Mom, and she was there, dealing with it every day. That wasn’t to say that I didn’t think of my mother every day—I just wasn’t as charitable with my thoughts as Ivy probably was. And I didn’t have to deal with the proximity of it.

And I didn’t have to look at Dad. Which meant he didn’t have to look at me. I think he liked that.

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “She’d better.”

Ivy’s laughter eased the tension from my shoulders. “That’s what I love about you, Dawnie. You face life like it would be stupid to deny you anything.”

“Maybe I can convince life it’s true, what do you think?” This was my job in the family. I was the brat, the steamroller. I was also the one who tried to make everyone smile with a cocky attitude that was no more authentic than the Kate Spade bag I had bought on the street last spring.

“I think I miss you.”

My throat tightened. “I miss you, too. Look, I’ll be home for Christmas. If I can, I’ll see if I can swing a few days before that.”

Part of me hoped I wouldn’t be able to.

Awful, isn’t it? To love your family and miss them, but at the same time dread seeing them? Actually, it wasn’t them I dreaded; it was the expectations they had of me.

“Okay. Do what you can. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.”

My throat got tighter. Pretty soon I’d be choking on air. “Love you, too.”

I hung up. Two seconds later—and I mean two seconds. I didn’t even have enough time to process any of the conversation I’d just had with my sister—the phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“Ivy call you?” It was my brother, Mark.

Laughter loosened my throat. “How’d you know?”

“I was talking to her earlier. I tried to call before she got to you, but as soon as I got your voice mail three times in a row, I knew she’d gotten you.”

It had felt much longer. “Trying to run interference, were you?”

“I figured if I called first, she might get tired of trying and give up.” There was a slight pause, and his voice changed—lost some of its usual humor. “She give you a hard time?”

I shrugged even though he couldn’t see it. “A bit.”

“You okay?”

“I will be.”

“You wanna talk?”

I twisted the phone cord around my finger. “Not really.”

I could almost hear his relief. My brother, as good-hearted as he was, was not good with feelings. “All right. I’ll let you go then.

Night, Tink.”

I smiled. “Night, Idgit.”

This time when I hung up I vowed to let voice mail answer if it rang again.

I ran a bath and sorted through my assortment of bath products as the tub filled. I needed something to relax me—ah, Cinnamon Buns bubble bath. That would do it. If I couldn’t eat them, I could at least soak in water that smelled like ’em.

I pinned my hair up, grabbed the latest Bon Jovi CD and the newest romance by Lisa Kleypas, and tossed my robe over the towel rack. I settled into the hot, sweet-smelling water and read until Jon stopped singing. By that time I smelled delicious, had muscles as limp as Paris Hilton’s eyelids, and had a head full of fantasies involving me and a darkly dangerous hero. If anyone tried staking David Boreanaz in my dreams tonight, I was going to be seriously ticked off.

I climbed into bed and was asleep shortly after my head touched the pillow. I drifted into my secret world and allowed the dreams to come:

I was on my way to the opera with Clive Owen, but before things could get interesting, I somehow ended up at my old high school, where I learned that I had forgotten to study for an exam. Clive was there, too, but he was attracted to the charms of Amy Dufresne—a skinny, skanky girl I sat behind in history class. I never did like her.

Then Amy and Clive were gone, and I was in a bedroom—an old one. It was like I was in a production of a Jane Austen novel.

The bedroom was huge, the walls covered with paper that was hand-painted with hundreds of colorful birds. I touched it and felt the slightly uneven texture beneath my fingers.

My hair hung around the shoulders of my long cotton nightgown, which was pristine and unwrinkled. I was naked underneath it—not even underwear. Who was skanky now?

The door opened. In the lamplight—why had I not noticed how dim the lighting was before?—I saw a man enter the room. He came toward me, his boots falling heavily with every step. Out of the darkness he came, into the light.

He was beautiful. Tight black pants, leather boots, open white shirt, and tanned, muscular build. There was something familiar about his pale eyes, but I couldn’t place it. He was like something right off the cover of a romance novel, only better. He was a complete personification of everything I thought physically attractive in a man, and he made my knees weak.

He didn’t speak but simply took me into his arms—his very muscular, very strong arms—and kissed me. I swear to God, I actually swooned as he Frenched me. When I said this guy was perfect, I meant it.

He bent down and swept me up into his arms like I weighed nothing and strode toward the bed. I could hear the fall of his boots muffled by the carpet. I clung to his shoulders, terrified that he would drop me but knowing that he wouldn’t.

“Beautiful, Dawn,” he murmured as he placed me gently on the bed. “I cannot believe I have been so fortunate as to find you.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.” This close I could see the dark rim of his irises, smell the jasmine musk of his skin. Even the shadow of his beard was perfect—not too high on the cheek and not at all patchy. In his left ear was a ruby stud. Normally, I don’t go for earrings, but on him it worked. It also made me frown. What was it about it that bothered me?

“Do you want me?” He was poised above me, one thigh over mine, and I could feel every divine inch of him. He was hard. Very hard.

“Uh, yes,” I replied, forgetting all about his earring. “I do.”

He chuckled as his hand reached for me. Through the thin cotton gown I could feel the heat of his fingers as they stroked my breasts. He tweaked my nipples, pinching hard, but not enough to hurt.

And then he grabbed the neck of my gown and ripped. I heard the loud shredding noise and then the “pop” as the hem snapped.

He laid both sides open and set that perfect mouth to work on my chest. Little silent darts of “oohs” and “God, yes!” rippled through me, heat pooling between my thighs. And he was only just getting started. His hands were everywhere at once. His skin was hot and smooth beneath my hands. I’d never felt anything so real in a dream before. I was hot for this guy, and from the tent in the front of his tight pants I knew he was just as primed for me.

He slid down, kissing my ribs, the soft flesh of my belly, then he was between my legs, and I swear he had at least two tongues—one of which was at least six inches long. He impaled me with it, moving it inside me like it was his cock while the other lapped at what I affectionately like to call my “magic button.” Familiar tension built inside me and I moved with it, arching my hips.

I grabbed at his hair, grinding myself on his mouth. Just a little bit more, and I was going to come.

Then he stopped. I actually moaned in disappointment, and he chuckled softly in response. Slowly, he slid back up my body. His pants were gone now, and I looked down to see the biggest, thickest, most impressive set of manly equipment I had ever seen. It scared me, and I looked up at his face. He smiled—so perfectly beautiful.

He slid between my thighs, and I looked down once more, nervous and unsure. But wait…it was just a normal penis now. I must have imagined that it was so terribly big. It was impressive, but not frightening—thick but not threatening. Tension eased from my muscles, and when he stroked the fat head of his cock against my wetness, I spread my legs and whimpered—just a little.

Oh, this was just too perfect, too good.

So why did it feel so wrong? He kissed me, and I wanted to pull away. Why did I suddenly want to cringe when he pinched my nipples again? Why did it feel as though his fingers were dirty and cold? The pressure of his lips increased. His teeth cut my lips—I could taste the blood. His breath was stale, like an old trunk that hadn’t been opened in a long time.

I pushed at his shoulders, struggled against him. I didn’t want this. Even if it was just a dream. I didn’t want him.

“Stop.”

He lowered his head, tongued and sucked at my breasts until I writhed with the sensations he elicited. God, it felt so good physically. I wanted him so badly, but I didn’t want him at all.

I managed to push him off a bit, but not much. “Get off!” I yelled.

He grinned at me, his teeth bright in the dark. “I intend to.”

I froze beneath him, all too aware of the hardness pressing against my inner thigh. He was still beautiful, but there was something twisted about his beauty. His eyes were clear and empty—like looking at nothing except for those thick, spidery black rims. He was cold and hard and more than a little scary.

I tried again, my jaw clenched to keep my teeth from chattering. “Get off me.”

“You can’t stop me, love,” he murmured, kissing the side of my neck with lips that seemed to burn. “You don’t know how.”

My whole body was on fire—the kind of heat that comes with sexual arousal. As unpleasant as his touch was—as much as I wanted him to stop, I wanted him to continue as well. He bit me in places I didn’t know it could feel good to be bitten—places that I wasn’t sure if it actually felt good or was so painful that I was just grateful he stopped. He sucked and kissed and licked. I was going to have whisker burn on my thighs and my butt. He invaded me, slid fingers inside of me—God, in so many places—that were slick and set me literally spasming with lust. He did things I would never let anyone do—things that were borderline degrading, but he made them feel so damn good.

I cried out when he thrust inside me, unable to distinguish between pleasure and pain. And even still, I rose up to meet his thrusts.

I welcomed every slam of his body into mine even though my mind recoiled in horror. I didn’t want this, yet I had no control over him—and no control over the fact that regardless of what my mind wanted, my body wanted him.

He stared down at me as he moved inside me. “We’re two of a kind, Dawnie,” He said with a smile that was smug, even menacing. He took more pleasure from knowing what he was doing to me than he did from the actual act.

I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. I hated him. I wanted to hurt him, but he held my hands pinned above my head. I wanted to throw him off even as my thighs tightened around his hips. I was throbbing—literally pulsing between the legs. The harder he thrust inside me, the more I welcomed the pain, the more I wanted. I was battered. I was bruised, and I was so close to climax I couldn’t stand it.

“You can’t stop me,” he taunted, quickening his movements. I couldn’t turn away from the dark brush of his breath. God, it was like death. “I’m coming, Dawnie. I’m coming and you can’t stop me.”

I looked him straight in those scary eyes. “Yes, I can.”

I woke up shuddering—little shocks spasming between my legs. I might have stopped him from coming, but I hadn’t been able to stop myself.

I was going to puke.