Only In Dreams (Stubborn Love Series)
Read Only In Dreams (Stubborn Love Series) Online
Authors: Wendy Owens
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Only in Dreams
Copyright © 2013 by Wendy Owens
Cover design by Sarah Hansen of
OkayCreations.com
Interior book design by
JT Formatting
Editing services provided by Madison Seidler of
MadisonSeidler.com
Proofreading provided by Chelsea Kuhel of
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Amazon Edition
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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, bands, and/or restaurants 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.
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This book is for my sister, Tammy.
“They that love beyond the world cannot
be separated by it. Death cannot kill what
never dies.”
—Williams Penn
I LOOK AT the clock again. I’m not sure what secrets I expect it to reveal. I’ve looked at it at least a hundred times in the last hour. 3:46 AM. Next, I look at my phone. This has become my ritual this evening. I have somehow become the girl I swore I would never be—the one waiting at home for the phone to ring.
When Christian and I moved in together three months ago, I thought the things that had been haunting him would somehow disappear. But, if anything, he has gotten worse. Even Emmie knows something is wrong. Though she does her best not to flaunt her and Colin’s love fest in my face, I can’t help but look at them and be reminded of all the things that are wrong between Christian and myself.
I’ve tried talking to him about his behavior. I tell him I can see that he’s hurting; this approach only makes him angry. I know he’s been drinking again, but every time I try and discuss it, he tells me to quit mothering him. Christ, I’m twenty-two years old. I shouldn’t have to worry about this stuff. Yet here I am. I look back at the clock. Damn it Christian, where are you?
The most horrible and terrifying things a person can imagine have been going through my mind. I’ve tried calling his cell several times, but now the mailbox is full. I mean, come on, a full mailbox? He would be furious if I treated him this way. When my agent called me earlier today and told me about an opportunity in Paris to model I turned him down flat. But now, with each passing minute that Christian disrespects me, without so much as a call, I am reconsidering my choice.
I love him; I know that much. And I used to be pretty sure he loved me. All of my model friends float from guy to guy and can’t seem to understand what Christian and I have. It just doesn’t make sense to them. Of course, it’s not making very much sense to me either right now.
My mom was always in competition with me. First, with my dad, she would do everything she could to make sure he saw me as worthless. Eventually he couldn’t stand being around her anymore. That was when she tried to use me as a weapon against him. I never blamed him, or maybe it was just that I no longer cared enough anymore about either of them to give a damn. But when my mom started making fun of me and telling all her boyfriends what a loser I was, I decided I wanted to be anywhere except in her house.
Then Christian walked into to my life. I wasn’t looking for a man to rescue me; I was never that kind of girl. No, the great thing about him was that he was just as messed up and broken from the death of his parents, but somehow, we made sense together. At first we partied, and then when Christian realized after graduation that he didn’t seem to know when to stop drinking, we simply fell into our next phase of life together. We could go out with all our friends, and because we had each other, Christian never needed to get wasted. He just liked being near me.
I’m not kidding myself. For the most part, I know he has always been about himself. He likes to look good, he likes to hang out with a certain crowd and attend the important events. When life gets to be too much you can find him at the gym, working on his massive muscles. Even Colin, his brother, is constantly teasing him about his man-scaping. But even though he likes himself a lot, he’s always managed to make me feel important and loved … until now.
I know if I could just get through to him, figure out what’s causing all of these feelings he has been having, I could help him. But … I hear the key in the lock. I shift in my seat multiple times, unsure how I should handle this confrontation. My heart begins to race. Without thinking, I leap from the chair I am perched in and flop onto the couch, laying down with my eyes closed.
What am I doing? I think. Am I really going to pretend like I’m asleep? Apparently so.
I hear the door open, and Christian grunts as he fumbles with the lock, trying to remove his keys. Once the door is closed I listen for the lock to latch, but it doesn’t happen. Instead I hear footsteps stumbling toward me—dragging across the floor. From the smell assaults my senses, I can tell he is extremely intoxicated.
I wait silently, assuming he’s now staring at me, but I can’t be sure. It’s too late not to continue with the charade. Then I hear more footsteps, and the bedroom door bash into the wall. Quickly I sit up and turn around, watching Christian stumble into the guest room. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Why on Earth would he be going in there?
I’ve had enough of the game. I want answers. I deserve answers. I hop to my feet and rush across the living room, poking my head in through the doorway Christian passed through moments ago. He is passed out, still fully dressed, including his shoes. Lying sideways across the bed, drool leaks from his mouth.
“Seriously?” is the only thing I can think to say. I want to cry; I want to throw things at him, and scream horrible things at him. But I don’t do that. The last time I cried was when my dad left, and I decided nobody would ever get to see me do that again.
Christian mumbles an inaudible response, which then trails off into a snore.
“Christian? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I try again, but I know he won’t be waking up. Our talk will have to wait until morning. Unfortunately, sleep won’t come as easily for me.
