Read Blurring the Lines-nook Online
Authors: Roni Loren
Blurring the Lines-nook
We are very pleased to issue your Invitation to Eden, an exciting series coming to
you throughout 2014 from some of the biggest names in romance. Join us as we take
you on an exciting adventure to Eden, where anything… and everything goes!
Blurring the Lines
Roni Loren
Blurring the Lines
Copyright 2014 Roni Loren
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no
part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright
owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents
are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced
in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use
of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark
owners.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold
or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,
please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book
and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return
to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting
the hard work of this author.
Formatted by
IRONHORSE Formatting
Table of Contents
Other Titles in the Invitation to Eden Series
Invitations to Eden’s other August releases
Sneak Peek: NOTHING BETWEEN US
~Gretchen~
Sometimes I could still feel the weight of him depressing the mattress—that warm,
solid body sleeping soundly next to me, the steady whooshing of breath. In and out.
In and out. I used to lie in bed and listen to him like others listen to recordings
of ocean waves, letting the sound lull me to sleep, soothe my mind after the chaos
of the day. It was the sound of life.
Our lives.
Until the morning I woke up and only the weight was there. Not the warmth. Not the
sound. Just the heaviness. And the utter, chilled silence.
Like waking up lost in deep space with no tether. Floating, floating, floating as
all that darkness swallowed me up.
And at times like these, lying in bed at four in the morning, unable to sleep yet
again, that darkness clung to me still, like some oily residue that would never wash
off. Like I’d be weighed down for life, always trying to breathe through the sludge.
I rolled over, pulling my quilt more tightly around me, the numbers on the clock mocking
me, and I knew there’d be no more rest tonight. I’d woken up with that breathing sound
in my head again and the unshakeable feeling that I wasn’t alone. That Harris was
somehow here, a tangible presence hiding in one of the many shadows of my darkened
bedroom. I probably should’ve been scared. That’d be a normal reaction. Instead, I
wished it were the truth. Then at least I could demand some answers.
Something creaked in the front of the renovated shotgun house I’d called home for
the last year, the floorboards speaking to me as if to confirm my sense of unease.
I groaned aloud. Now I definitely wouldn’t be able to sleep. Even knowing the house
was old and the wind rumbling through the crawlspace beneath the house allowed for
all kinds of unfamiliar sounds, I’d have to get up and make sure everything was locked.
Ghosts I could deal with. Breaking and entering? Not so much.
I shoved the covers off of me and pulled on a pair of boxer shorts I’d left hanging
over the footboard. Wrapping my arms around myself, I padded first to the kitchen
to check the backdoor then headed through the straight line of open doorways to the
front of the house to check the main door.
Outside, the wind swirled post-rainstorm, rattling the shutters on the side of the
house and making the oak tree in my neighbor’s yard paint odd, jerking shadows on
the blinds. But when I peeked through the front window, the city of New Orleans was
fast asleep—well, at least my corner of it. A few miles away, the French Quarter would
still be filled with lights, music spilling out of the doorways, and the raucous,
drunken voices of tourists and locals alike. But here, on my narrow street, the sherbet
colored houses were locked up tight, the windows dark.
Another floorboard groaned behind me, and goose bumps rose on my skin. I leaned back
from the window as a shadow moved across the wall. One that was way too fluid to be
the tree. My muscles tensed, and I spun around in a
Gotcha!
rush—stupid, considering the last thing I’d want to do with a weapon-wielding intruder
was startle him. But, of course, nothing was in my small living room except the things
that were always present—the sharp-cornered New York furniture that was too modern
for this house and the mostly blank canvases in the corner that served as a constant
reminder of what I couldn’t do anymore.
I used to paint. Now I was an expert at staring at blank white space.
Probably because I couldn’t freaking sleep long enough to give my brain any kind of
creative reboot. No, instead of resting, I was up in the middle of the night chasing
ghosts—actually hoping one was there. Pathetic.
I leaned against the wall and ran a hand over my face. This was ridiculous. Next I’d
be buying an Ouija board and inviting friends over to play Light as a Feather Stiff
as a Board. I needed to stop doing this to myself.
But as I stood there with my eyes closed, I got that prickly awareness again, like
I was being watched. Was that the breathing sound again?
Whoosh, ahhh
. In. Out.
I couldn’t open my eyes, and my heart pulsed in my throat. Okay, maybe I was losing
it. Sleep deprivation could cause hallucinations and paranoia, right? My gran would
say that wasn’t it. She’d told me when I was young that old houses held old souls.
Just make your mind quiet and maybe you’ll hear them
, she’d say. Back then, the thought excited me more than frightened me. Maybe because
Gran had given me the St. Benedict medal that I’ve worn around my neck every day since
I was seven. She’d told me it protected me from evil spirits, and I took Gran’s word
as law. After all, she was the expert. She’d made quite a living selling her candles,
catholic saint medals, and
gris-gris
pouches at her little shop in the Quarter to help protect people from those things.
And besides Gran’s word, I thought I had my own evidence. Because in those early years,
there’d been times I’d sensed the magic in the air, the otherness surrounding me.
I’d heard whispers, echoes of distance voices when I was alone. My mom often caught
me in the middle of the night, talking to my father who’d died when I was eight. Gran
had called me sensitive. My mother had called me troubled. And when she’d plopped
me down in a therapist office, they’d found a label for those odd feelings and behaviors—grief,
loneliness, a little girl missing the father she’d loved.
They’d put me on medication. Soon after, the voices had quieted, that spark of energy
humming at the edges of my awareness had gone dark. My father had been lost to me
for good. I’d been fixed. Sad. But fixed.
Or so I’d thought. Then I’d come home to New Orleans and had felt that weird energy
quietly buzzing in the background—like it’d simply been waiting for me to return and
embrace it again. But I was beginning to think it was simply false hope—or a straight
up mental breakdown in progress.
Because over the last few months, I’d found myself wishing Gran’s beliefs were the
truth, that if I tried hard enough, I could call forth Harris and ask him all the
questions that had run on loop in my brain for the last year. That maybe if I had
some closure, I could paint again. Sleep again.
Do
something.
I’d even gone to one of the mediums who set up shop in the Quarter near my gran’s
shop. Talk about a complete waste of time. She’d said she couldn’t help me and had
given me my money back. She hadn’t even bothered to fake it.
He will come to you when he’s ready, miss.
Bull. Shit.
I stepped around the boxy armchair and plopped down in it with a sigh. The small St.
Benedict medal I still wore as homage to my grandmother felt heavy against my collarbone.
I reached behind me, unfastened the chain, and held it in my palm for a moment, my
eyes blurry with exhaustion. A cup and a raven sat aside Benedict, and Latin words
I’d long forgotten the meaning of circled the picture. I set it on the side table.
I didn’t need protection from spirits. I needed protection from myself.
Another drawn out noise came from the rear of the house—a heavy foot on a soft board.
Creeeak
. I let my head drop back against the chair. “If you’re a robber, take what you want.
If you’re some otherworldly being, shove the fuck off. I’ve got my own ghosts to deal
with. And if you’re Harris, please for the love of God,
talk
to me. Show me you’re here.”
The house didn’t answer.
Of course it didn’t.
No one was there. This was me going crazy. This was me cracking again.
But as I closed my eyes, exhaustion finally overtaking me, I found myself still wishing
I were wrong. That the eyes on me were real. That the noises were his footsteps. That
I wasn’t so alone after all.
Because if he was haunting me…maybe he’d never meant to leave.
Maybe it was all a mistake. Or a bad dream. Or another person’s life.
Not mine.
Right as I hovered on the line between consciousness and sleep, coolness coasted over
my skin and a familiar hand pressed against mine. I tried to lift my lids, but everything
felt weighed down, heavy and slow. Fingers linked with mine. Tugged. Everything went
bright for one shining second.
And then there was nothing at all.
~Burke~
Burke Brennan parked his Jeep in the pay lot on the corner, double-checked his phone
for a call that apparently wasn’t coming, and grabbed his iced coffee from the console.
When he opened his car door, the humidity of the morning smacked his cheeks like a
lover’s exuberant kiss.
The city could be lewd like that—wrapping around you, pressing against your skin,
making you sweat for it. Even with the rainstorm last night, it didn’t feel like there
would be a break in the heat. But after his recent trip to the Atacama Desert, he
welcomed the familiar thickness in the air. If only he could shake the worry that
had plagued him all morning and actually enjoy his first workday home in weeks.
“Come on, Gretch,” he mumbled, checking the ringer on his phone to make sure he hadn’t
accidentally left it on silent. Of course, he hadn’t. He’d already checked that.
He slipped his phone into his pocket, reached into the Jeep to grab his messenger
bag, and then bumped the door shut with his hip. A man a few cars down raised a hand
in greeting. “Look what the storm dragged in. Back in town for while?”
Burke smiled at the older man. “Hey, Mr. Decker. Yeah, for a little while.”
“Not long enough for the grass to grow under your feet, I bet.” He draped his suit
coat over his arm instead of putting it on. “Better you than me, son. I go on business
trips and can’t wait to get back home and in my own bed.”
“More like can’t wait to get back to that gorgeous wife of yours.”
He gave a tomcat grin, bright teeth against his dark skin. “I hear that.”
