Quicksilver Dreams (Dreamwalkers) (11 page)

“
Lin’de
,” he murmured thickly, running his hand down the underside of my arm. He neared my breasts.
Yes!
His hand stopped, and I moaned in protest. So close. Not close enough.

“Please...” I whimpered, wanting to feel his hands on me.

The sheet had loosened during his inspection and his large, muscular leg fit between mine, settling against my heated center.

Who knew that could feel so right?

His lips worked their way to my ear, making me shiver with heat. I wanted to touch, but my wrists were shackled. Frustration spiked. I found his neck with open mouth, taking a nibble of his skin before soothing it over with my tongue. He moaned deep and low, making me feel feminine and desirable that I could make this tough guy want me.

Pulling my tank up smoothly, his rough palm enveloped my naked breast, and I couldn’t help a cry of pleasure as hot sparks shot to my feminine core and a rush of liquid heat gathered. His fingers plucked my hardened nipple and plumped the flesh to his lips, where he scraped the beaded nipple with his teeth before suckling it, hard. Drowning in pleasure, I moaned and panted, wanting to rub against his hot steel length.

The smell of his spicy soap filled my senses as I writhed against him, unable to control what was happening to me...and I took a deep breath again. That soap was delicious. His smell addicting. I’d smelled that scent before. Being unable to move my wrists gave me a sense of déjà vu. Being tied up. Mindwalking. Oh, my God!

“That was you!” I gasped, pulling my face away and looking into his eyes, searching.

I
wondered when you’d figure it out.
Though his face was still flushed with desire, his eyes were somber. A sense of acutely painful embarrassment washed over me. The sex dreams, the dream about my mother—and how many others that I just didn’t remember had he been in? A hurt the size of the ocean stabbed a hole through the center of my body, and I didn’t know what to do, what to say or how to feel
.

“You wondered, did you?”

I pulled my wrists free and stood up, pulling the sheet as cover as I moved across the room.

“Taylor—”

“And you question your ability to trust me? Fuck you! Fuck you! You asshole! You dreamwalked into my sexual fantasy and played with me. You invaded my deepest, most secret places and manipulated me. Oh, God.” I covered my face, thinking shamefully of the things I’d done with him and the pleasure I’d experienced. He must have laughed his ass off at my stupid female fantasies.

“It wasn’t like that.” He shot up and approached me.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” I choked on the well of emotions that were clawing at my throat. Everything, every fear, every secret, every flaw was there. In the open. He’d seen it. He’d analyzed it. He’d picked at it. Then he’d used it against me. What didn’t he know about me?

Somehow, I’d conveniently forgotten that he called me trailer trash in my dream. He’d really said it. Tears filled my eyes and trickled down my cheeks, that shame burning brightest. I was that scruffy little girl again with everyone looking down at me, feeling sorry for me, pitying me. It was my dirty secret come to light. And worse, he knew I had really begun to like him, and I was just some stupid trailer-trash girl looking puppy eyes at him. God damn it!

“Stop it!” He said harshly. “I had to do it. It was about national security.”

“Fucking me was about national security? I see. Well, tell your boss you did a great job.” I smirked and fresh tears coursed hotly over my cheeks, which only served to piss me off more. I never cried, particularly not in front of others, yet here I was, again, crying in front of him. “Just stay the hell away from me!”

My last glimpse of him as I walked out of his bedroom was of frustrated confusion marring his features. The need to come after me was written all over his face, but instead, his hands were on his hips. He looked so much like his younger self, which was somehow giving me an achy feeling in my heart.

I needed to leave.

Grabbing the knob and giving him a final, scornful look, I slammed the bedroom door shut with a satisfying
crack.
With nothing left to say, I walked out, hoping to keep my dignity, or as much of it as possible, on the short trek back to my apartment. Only the party boys from the apartment under mine were out to witness my walk of shame, and at one of their catcalls, I delivered the finger, which only made them laugh and made me feel worse. This was a new low. I had Ryder to thank for it.

The only question I had left was why? Why was he doing this to me?

Crawling under the blankets on my bed and just shutting out the world for the rest of the day and night seemed like a fabulous idea, until I entered the apartment and saw the mess again. Something else to have to deal with. Great. The world was just out to get me. Why? What had I ever done to anyone to deserve any of this?

So do I call the police? Was anything even stolen? And how many different fingerprints from previous tenants were they going to find that would prove to be absolutely worthless if I did call for them to investigate? How much wasted time? Emotion? Energy? No one cared about people like me. Ultimately, I decided that calling would prove to be a hassle with useless paperwork that would go nowhere. Nothing would be accomplished, except that all of the neighbors would know all my personal business. Definitely didn’t need to call.

I spent the day alternately moping and crying as I cleaned up the apartment. I swept up shards and dirt from the living room floor. I restacked DVDs and CDs, picked up magazines and tried to restuff the cushions of the couch. That was going to require some sewing, but luckily, I knew how to do that and figured on spending quality time with some bad reality TV and my sewing kit later.

I left a message for Cynthia about the break-in and was only that much more depressed when she didn’t even pick up. For some reason, her room hadn’t even been touched. Maybe the person had gotten spooked and run off before completing the job.

But I still had questions for her. I was confused. She probably wasn’t even a real friend, I thought morosely, and I cringed at the sophomoric tone of my whining. Jesus, I was sounding so goddamn high school I was making myself sick, and still I felt like a walking wound, all achy and sad. It just proved to me that you couldn’t trust anyone.

Maybe it was time to move on. I could find another apartment and just lose myself. But with that thought came a pang of undiluted hurt and loneliness. Hadn’t I spent my whole life alone? But I seemed to lack the skills to change that. After all, whom did I ever have as a role model for healthy affection, cooperation, care and wanting to get along well with others? I didn’t even know what healthy looked like.

Unsure of how far ranging Ryder’s mind-reading skills were, I erected the thickest, most solid cement wall I could picture in my mind to make sure that my secret thoughts and feelings would now be protected.

With the living room as picked up as I could make it, I noted that I would have to replace the broken glass frames and find other little plants to adopt. I moved down the hall to tackle my bedroom.

Feeling like I was sinking into a great big pit of fabulous depression, I reminded myself I wasn’t that trailer-park, street-urchin kid whom everyone scorned and pitied anymore. From the time that I first got a job, I started collecting good pieces of quality clothing, because I didn’t want to be looked down on ever again. I picked classic pieces that could mix and match and that wouldn’t go out of style. I picked items made of good materials. I was even able to sew some of my clothes using designer patterns from the best fashion mags.

Taking utmost care, I rehung, repackaged in plastic and refolded all of the clothing items that were so disrespectfully dumped on the floor. I picked up stray jewelry and got my shoes back in order. I reshelved my books, double-checked that my laptop was still working (because strangely, it hadn’t been taken), gathered all clothing that needed cleaning and filled a laundry bag for another day. I took a shower, letting the hot water run over me until the bathroom became fogged, and put on my comfiest PJ bottoms and tank. Yeah, it was summer in L.A., but I just hadn’t been able to feel warm and secure since my car was broken into.

The show about teen moms was on, so I grabbed my sewing kit and got to work repairing the couch cushions while the tedious drama unfolded on the small screen. I could be thankful the robbers hadn’t busted the TV. Otherwise, I would have had nothing to keep my brain comfortably numb and away from painful thoughts. It took a few hours to sew the sofa cushions, but even I had to say that it was done pretty well. The day had dragged by, and it was early yet, only seven, but I decided to crawl into bed.

The front door lock wasn’t broken, but the fact that it had been picked so easily was just frightening. I grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and propped it under the knob, thinking that a good dead bolt and a couple of chains might be something worth investing in. I could probably go to the local home-improvement store.

I’d only eaten a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich all day, but I wasn’t hungry. I was horribly tired and wanted to just check out into la-la land for the next bunch of hours. I made sure my clock was set, so I could be to work on time, and I stripped to my skivvies. Just as I went to turn down my sheet, I saw my clothes neatly folded on my bed. They were the clothes I’d left at Ryder’s house earlier. How in the hell... Renewed anger sucker punched my gut, and before I fully thought about it, I marched to the wall I had in common with Ryder and pounded on it. “Goddammit! Stop with the freaky shit already. I have had enough!”

Though I hadn’t wanted a reaction, not getting one still deflated me. I turned back to my bed with a heavy heart, needing to just check out for a few hours.

I’d put clean sheets on my bed, which felt wonderful to slide into, and while I’d pretty much managed to put everything away, I could still feel the essence of the person who’d been in here trashing my place. It made me feel afraid, like someone could come at any moment, but what else could I do? I didn’t have enough money for a hotel, and there was no one I could go to for help.

That thought alone—
I
don’t have anyone to turn to
—made me want to cry. Grandma had died a while ago, not that she was much the nurturing type. My aunt wouldn’t give a shit. I had no idea where my mother was, I’d never known my father, and my cousin was more a rival than a friend. In any case, she lived out in Malibu with a boyfriend. Not that I wanted to have to ask her for help, even if, hypothetically, I was 100 percent sure someone was going to come into my place and kill me, because we just didn’t have that kind of relationship. Don’t want to have to owe anyone anymore for my life.

I shut my eyes and concentrated on finding a peaceful place in my brain to reside. If I could just sleep...check out for a while.

The wind was rushing over my face, but those cool black shades protected my eyes, and a silk scarf that was tied under my chin covered my hair and kept it from flapping around wildly about my face. It was a total ’50s–’60s look. I even had a red-with-white, polka-dot halter dress ruffling with the breeze as I practically flew down the hill in an old convertible black Karmann Ghia. I don’t know how I got the car, but somehow, it wasn’t weird that it was mine. I’ve always wanted one.

To the right and down the bluffs was the azure blue of the ocean, the waves crashing against the rocks, sending frothy droplets of foam up into the air. It was an absolutely gorgeous day, without a cloud in the sky.

Don’t you look sophisticated...?

Thanks
,
Ryder.
I grinned at him in the passenger seat. He was so handsome in a pair of khaki cargos with a brilliantly white T-shirt setting off the bronze tones of his skin. His black hair was wind ruffled, and his green eyes seemed to stand out under his dark eyebrows and lashes. They were so vibrant. I had trouble looking away.

Where are we going?

I
got this postcard from my mom on my twelfth birthday.
It was a picture of a woman driving this really cool car along the coast
,
and big letters spelled out Key West.
Anyway
,
I
thought I’d take this drive down to Key West
,
just to see where the road might lead.
I’m always so curious to see where my mom was living and what she was doing that was so important.

You want to find out why she couldn’t spend time with you?

Something like that.

So you’ve done this before?

Yeah.
Every so often.

Where does the road take you?

Actually
,
it’s never the same place.
As I thought about it, the other trips along this road were fuzzy. I couldn’t remember where I ended up.
I
think I end up in a different spot every time.

So it’s a dream of frustration.

A
dream?
Am I dreaming?
Hmm.
I
guess so.
Anyway
,
my question is never answered.
I looked over at him and shrugged plaintively.

The dream I have with Nick when we’re kids is a dream of panic.
I
needed to complete a unit transfer to get him to the medic ward
,
but neither one of us brought mylunate.
The lake is one of the few places that doesn’t have a natural deposit of mylunate anywhere nearby
,
so I ended up carrying him about two miles or so.
His femur was snapped
,
and he was in extreme pain
,
but I couldn’t get him there any faster.

Wait a minute.
You’re talking about the dream I was in?
I suddenly realized I was dreaming and he was in my dream, by his choice instead of mine. Here he was forcing his will on me yet again.
This is
my
dream.
I
don’t want you here.
How did you get into my dream
,
if I put up a wall against you?