Between (33 page)
Authors: Lisa Swallow
I squeeze past him and stand in the doorway.
"You don’t get to leave!"
Alek
looks down at me, and for the first time ever, something in his demeanour is a genuine threat. "
You
did."
"And I let Finn bring me back! Not for him
, for you! Because you came for me, you helped me. You’re the one person who understands what I am, what life will always be like. I made the choice between an eternity trapped alone in the Void or one struggling here with you." I slam both my hands into his chest. "Don’t you dare close me out!"
Alek
rubs his hand across his mouth and lets go of the guarded expression. His eyes are pained, breathing rapid, but not because of anger anymore. He slumps against the wall, letting go.
Hesitantly, I touch his face. "
Alek. Are you really okay?"
"I don’t know. I don’t feel any different after… Dante. I’m tired, hungry…"
I squeeze back the tears in my eyes. "So am I; I never have been before."
His face softens. “Shit. Really?
”
"Yes, shit, really. We need to feed and have nothing to give to each other."
Alek takes my hand from his face and squeezes my fingers. "But we have each other, right?"
I nod, biting back tears
. He winds an arm around my waist to pull me closer. I rest my head against the defined muscles of his chest, against the heart that beats inside someone not human. Someone like me. I tip my head and press my lips against Alek’s, waiting for the jolt. There’s nothing, just the buzz of putting my mouth on someone I ache to kiss. His arms tighten around my waist and he pushes his mouth against mine, soft at first and then harder as he holds me closer. With no energy to share and nothing to give, we’re reduced to two weakened people finding strength in each other’s embrace. But nothing Alek does in his life is gentle. He grabs my face in both hands, deepening his kiss and tearing my breath away the way he once tore my energy.
I sink into him, into our desperate kisses, wishing we could always be enclosed in each
other and lost in our corner of this crazy world, instead of the reality we’re in. The genuine affection and comfort is at odds with the overriding need to consume each other physically. This new bond has followed us from our frightening journey to the edge of the Void and if we allow it, we’ve come back stronger.
Low voices travel from the lounge room
. Kat is talking to Finn. I hadn’t considered they might still be in the house. I draw away from Alek and indicate we should go into the other room. Alek releases me and we go to the others. Finn looks between us in surprise but says nothing. Kat has taken residence under a blanket on the sofa and is intently watching TV.
The house of secrets I walked into a few short weeks ago holds more than it did. There’re four of us now; and between us, we’ve unleashed something. Not only something that threatens the world, but something that tears into the strange half-lives we live. These severed connections are as dangerous as the remaining pieces holding us together. These pieces are a need blended with distrust and unhappiness. From this, we have to move on and fix what we’ve created whilst trying to live with who we are.
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READ ON FOR AN EXTRACT FROM SUMMER SKY
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SUMMER SKY
Book 1 in the Blue Phoenix Series
Sky changed her life for a man once, and she has no intention of doing it again - even if he is a six foot, tattooed rock god who makes a mean bacon sandwich.
Sky Davis is fed up of boyfriend Grant taking her for granted and when she comes home to find him wearing a girl, Sky suspects the relationship is over. She takes an unscheduled holiday and leaves the life (and guy) she hates behind.
Rock star Dylan Morgan is struggling with fame and infamy, sick of his life being controlled by other people. Dylan cuts his hair and walks away from his role as lead singer of Blue Phoenix, leaving chaos and speculation behind. Outside the English seaside town of Broadbeach their cars and worlds collide.
Chapter One
You know that moment when you meet someone, only to discover they're the most arrogant, self-important asshole who you've had the displeasure of colliding fates with? Somewhere, on the edge of my normal life, this just happened to me.
Three hours driving non-stop from Bristol to
Broadbeach, and I’m in a crappy mood. This trip would take three hours if every traffic cone in England wasn’t blocking the motorway, therefore forcing all the cars into a ‘traditional English traffic jam’. Or if I didn't get stuck behind the slowest tractor in the world, after I had the bright idea of leaving the motorway for country roads to speed things up.
I whined when I was dragged to
Broadbeach on summer holidays with my parents as a teenager, every time. At that age, the quiet seaside town was the armpit of the universe and no longer the sandy playground by the beach I loved as a little kid. There's no place I'd rather be now, than the small house on the edge of the dunes. When I finally bloody get there.
Frustration mounts as the afternoon grows late, and skipping lunch to get away from Bristol as quickly as possible hasn’t helped. I took a wrong turn thanks to my stupid decision to take a short cut, and I’m lost on a narrow country lane looking for a road sign. So when a
fricking dog runs across the road in front of me, I'm not exactly calm about the car behind rear-ending mine when I hit the brakes. There is one screech of tyres, one exchange of alarmed looks between the black and white dog and me, and one loud metal crunch.
I glance in the rear-view mirror. Some guy in sunglasses hastily puts down his mobile phone and starts gesticulating in a way that demonstrates he's as happy about the collision as I am. Like this, is my fault? I throw open the door and slam it closed. Heading to the back of my small, silver car, I'm aware of his scrutiny as I inspect the damage. Great. There’s a broken light and a bloody huge dent.
I turn to his. I know nothing about cars but I'm sure this is going to cost him more than me. Sleek, black some-kind-of-penis-extension prestige vehicles like this costs more to fix than my I-have-no-money-and-a-crap-job ten-year-old hatchback.
The guy remains in the car, so I stomp over and indicate he should lower his window. The tinted windows seem a bit excessive in the English climate, but I guess this adds to the image of the car. All I can see of the man is dark sunglasses and spiked brown hair, with his hand waving at me to stand back. I huff and back away.
Out of the car steps a guy with an attitude as big as the dent in my bumper. He doesn’t speak, but his body language indicates an apology isn’t coming anytime soon. Six feet of tightly drawn muscles and a hard set mouth. I'm immediately drawn to the sleeve of colourful tattoos disappearing under his greying black t-shirt. Why do people get so many tattoos? They're plain ugly when there's so many they merge into one canvas of colour.
I shift my gaze to his face. His sunglasses remain in place, and I can't see much beyond his sharp jawline and the fact he really needs a shave. My first impression is he's trying to cultivate some sexy, edgy image to match his sexy, edgy car. The guy whips off his sunglasses revealing bright blue eyes circled by tired black marks. The looking rough is more than an image then. I figure he's in his twenties like me, but his exact age is difficult to tell beneath the exhausted face.
Without a word, he stalks to the front of his car and rubs the dented paintwork, sucking air through his teeth. Flakes of silver paint from my car drop to the road. I take the opportunity to size him up. He's grungy in an attractive way; or the way attractive people can be as scruffy as hell and still look okay. He looks more than okay. I'm momentarily distracted by how his dirty jeans hug his backside but blink the image away.
"It's your fault if you ran up the back of me," I inform him.
"You stopped without any indication!" he retorts, straightening and turning back to me. His accent is odd – English but as if he’s lived overseas too long and lost part of it.
"A dog ran out in front of me."
He looks into the road. "What dog?"
"The dog’s not here now. I don't think the dog
realised it needed to be a material witness and ran off!" I narrow my eyes at him and he deliberately looks me up and down. I’m wearing a short floral summer dress. Hardly sexy, but his scrutiny makes me feel exposed. I cross my arms over my chest.
He hesitates, tapping his fingers against his teeth. "I wouldn't normally do this, but I'm in a hurry. Forget the insurance, I'll give you the money. How much do you think it'll cost to fix your car?"
Do what?
"I don't know."
Cocking his head, he studies the car. "Not much, I think. It’s an old model. Was the paintwork that bad before I hit you?"
Cheeky bastard.
"I'm not taking your money. Repairs might cost more than you have! If you give me your name and number, we can sort the insurance out the proper way."
He laughs. "Very fucking clever. Do you think I would?"
I'm taken aback at his attitude and language. "Swapping details is a strange and ancient custom which occurs when dickheads on mobile phones rear-end the car in front."
For a moment, he looks as if I slapped him across the face, and he’s rendered speechless. I mentally clap myself on the back. If he can afford a car like this, I bet people in his life rarely call him a dickhead. At least not to his face anyway.
"I don't give people my personal details." As he speaks, he scrutinises my face and something in his ocean blue eyes prickles the back of my neck.
Oh, I see, turn the
smouldering on and get me eating out of your hand. Forget that, buddy; men aren’t my favourite species currently.
"What makes you so special?" I snap.
A slow smile spreads across his face. "Nothing, what makes you so special?"
He traps me in a well-practiced seductive gaze, accompanied by the grin sharpening his
stubbled features.
Not going to work…
"Do I have to call the police?"
His brow tugs together and he responds with a sharp. "No. Wait. Okay."
As he turns and goes back to his car, my heart rate picks up. Shit. Maybe he's a drug dealer. Or has a body in the car. And he's got a gun. And he's going to shoot me. Or maybe I watch too much CSI. Time to leave.
I attempt to
memorise his number plate as I jump back into the driver's seat. Jamming the car into gear, I take off as fast as my not very fast car will take me. Through my mirror, I see six feet of muscled, tattooed, blue-eyed hotness (possibly with a gun) watching me drive away.
*****
The house by the sea never changes, inside or out. Or in my mind it doesn't. The whitewashed building belongs to my grandmother, and has been in the family for years. The house nestles between the sand dunes and the town, isolated from the
neighbours but close to the track running up the hill to Broadbeach.
My heart rate won’t slow following my accident and encounter with the other driver. Why is my day going from bad to worse? I push the incident out of my mind; I'm here now, things will change.
I park my poor, mistreated car on the side of the track and climb out, inhaling until my lungs are full of the sea air. Odd how somewhere I resented so much is now a symbol of sanctuary. The sandy front garden is overgrown, weeds now resident in the huge terracotta plant pots full of geraniums. I tip the largest to one side and pull out the spare key. Gran needs to learn spare keys under plant pots don't equal good security, but I suppose security isn't as big a concern in Broadbeach as in Bristol.
A musty, familiar smell greets me as I push open the front door. Old books, lavender perfume and the seaweed smell of the sea. The mix of scents transports me back to summer days playing in the sand dunes and getting into trouble for sneaking off to the nearby shop for ice creams. The house is a few hundred
metres from the beach. A small path and the dunes I rolled down until my knickers were full of sand, lies between the house and the shore.
