Read My Soul to Keep (The Soul Keeper Series - Young Adult Paranormal Romance) Online
Authors: Melissa Solis
My Soul to Keep (The Soul Keeper Series - Young Adult Paranormal Romance)
My Soul to Keep
Melissa Solis
Table of Contents
Chapter
13 ~ Flight or Fight
.
149
My Soul to Keep
Copyright © 2012
Melissa Solis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into
any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means,
whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author,
except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance
to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental. The characters and story
lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Image
Copyright © Dudarev Mikhail, 2012
Used under
license from Shutterstock.com
Cover Design by
Andrew Solis
To
my family with love, thank you for your support and patients. To my husband
Drew, thank you for sharing in my love of the supernatural world and all of my
crazy ideas. You are my ground from which my kite is tethered to, without you I
would probably be stuck in a tree somewhere.
Hot tears streaming
down my cool face awakens me. I sweep them away with my fingers and slowly make
my way out of bed. Its early morning, and the birds are already serenading the
dawn. Still half asleep, I trudge to my bathroom and wash my tear stained face.
Every night for seven years, the same nightmare,
if only it were a dream
. If only I could forget that it ever
happened. I close my eyes, and try to force the memory of the strangers face,
but nothing comes. He is just a mist, a shadow here, a blur there.
I turn on the shower
and allow the warm steam to envelope me and melt my headache away. Most of my
mornings start on this somber note. What I wouldn’t give just once to wake up
all sunshine and butterflies. Heck, I’d even settle for misty and moths.
My dream always begins
with the same crystal clarity. It’s the first day of my summer vacation
.
I am ten years old and leaving my home
in San Diego for Dallas to spend the summer with my mother, as I always did
after their divorce. I often dreaded the trip for weeks leading up to it and
that year was no different. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my mother but I had
grown accustomed to our estranged relationship. The dream always starts with me
leaving my bedroom that morning.
I cling to my crystal door knob for a moment
before pulling it shut. I listen as the waves outside break methodically along
the shoreline. I inhale the scent of Aunt Jeimima syrup and bacon mixed with
the salty sea air, for the last time. This dulcet scent is the smell of home
and I want to savor it for just one second longer.
“Brennen,”
my dad yells from the car while honking out the obnoxious melody of Shave and a
Haircut.
I think he lives to embarrass
me.
“Coming
dad, keep your panties on!”
I sling my
leather bag over my shoulder and pull my long blonde mane out from under the
strap. I stomp out of the front door slamming it good and hard to announce my
frustration to the neighborhood, namely my dad. I will miss this house and the
water so much this summer. My dad stands by the car smirking at me. As I glare
at him, I think to myself how much I will miss him. He is a large, well-built,
machine of a man. At over six feet tall, he towers next to the small V.W. bug.
His surfer's tan and balding head give him a distinguished yet approachable
look.
“What?”
he yells playfully while grinning, helpless against my temper. I pause in the
car door, and take a mental snapshot of my beach — our beach — before I slump
down in the car.
“This
sucks you know.” I
fold
my arms over and throw on a
serious scowl.
“Aw
you want some cheese with that whine?” he quips yet another one of his outdated
overused cliché’s. I retaliate with an eye roll. Goodbyes weren’t something
either of us did well.
We
arrive at the gate and my dad kneels down beside me as I kiss the top of his
bare head.
“Bye
old man!”
He
wraps his gigantic arms around me into a bear hug that could crush a hippo. He is
leaving next week for a three month, classified, Navy Special Forces operation.
As always, I am worried about him. I know his
job is dangerous – deadly even – but he always makes light of it for my sake.
“I’m
gonna miss you baby girl.”
“Can’t
breathe, need air,” I squeak out. He sighs and kisses my cheek.
“Fine,
later daughter-o-mine,” he says with a dubious Irish accent.
“Love
you.” I squirm out of his tactical hold.
“Love
you too.”
I
board the plane as if walking the plank, one desultory step at a time. I’m guided
to my seat by one cheerful young blonde hair, blue eyed attendant, the epitome
of a Cali girl if I’ve ever met one.
“Can
I get you anything Ms. Hale?” Her voice is sincere and syrupy, just shy of
nauseating.
“No
I am fine, thank you,” I reply in my own sweet tone. I plop into my window seat
and pass the time by people watching. A woman with a young baby boy sits in
front of me. I can tell she is worried about how he'll do. Trust me; we are all
worried about how he will do. Two elderly ladies sit in my row, May and Evelyn,
they chat about visiting their great grandchildren. They are sisters and both wear
the same teased football helmet coif my grandmother does. Lots of men in slacks
and ties each looking as if they did this all too frequently.
A group of high school boys takes up the whole
left rear section, a soccer team perhaps? They’re rowdy and obnoxiously brazen,
whistling cat calls to the attendants like middle-aged construction workers.
Their chaperone is a rail thin, speck of a woman, who looks like she would blow
over if the wind rises above stagnant. Her feeble attempt to quiet the brats has
loosened her already frazzled bun.
An
equally chubby couple takes the seat behind me. She’s afraid to fly and her husband
points me out.
“See
even that little girl isn’t afraid, there is nothing to worry about honey.” He
gives me a wink. I feel obliged to help in some way. She did look like she was
sweating bullets after all.
“Yes
ma’am I fly this way every summer and that old pilot keeps getting better at it
every time,” I manage to say with a straight face. She titters and flags down
the first attendant she sees and orders a rum and coke.
I get cozy in my seat and pull out the book my
dad gave me to read, The Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King. It captures my
attention right away.
***
The
attendant passes by and I ask her if the plane is flying higher than normal
today because my ears are having a rough time adjusting. She confirms and said it’s
to avoid turbulence. There are tears in my eyes from the pain. I feel as if any
moment my head is going to explode all over May and Evelyn. She keeps bringing
me water to sip on, swearing swallowing will help to pressurize my ears. I hope
she is right, because brains would not look so good on May’s periwinkle twin
sweater-set.
I turn and peek at the lady
afraid to fly; she is well into her fifth cocktail and happy as a clam. The
baby is fast asleep for now –lucky.
By
the time we reach Texas I have downed about a gallon of water and repeatedly had
to climb over the elderly sisters to use the restroom. (Thanks for the window
seat dad.) On my nineteenth trip to the tiny coffin like chamber, I vow to let
my head explode before drinking another drop of water. I turn the handle to
occupied and once again sit. I check my reflection in the mirror half expecting
my eye color to have been diluted. My eyes return the stare, still green as the
emerald mountains of Kauai.
Suddenly
the plane shudders hard; I grip the counter, widening my stance so that I won’t
fall into the toilet. I don’t care how many times I have flown, when I hit
turbulence I at least glance at the thought – this could be it. The seat belt
warning chime is dinging outside my door. I’d better get out of here. I reach
for the lock but the plane shudders violently again, tossing me back into the
sink where I nail my elbow, yep that hurts.
I hear gasps and screams coming from outside, probably the soccer team,
bunch of pansies. Before I can steady myself, I lurch forward into the door,
well,
at least it is in the right direction this time. However,
my knees gave way under misdirection from me and I end up crumpling to the floor.
Maybe this is for the best. I resign my bottom to stay on the ground. The surface
is strumming unnaturally beneath me like an overloaded washing machine that’s
agitated itself off its base and honest fear floods my chest.
This is not good. Tears began streaming down
my face, great, even better. I hear luggage falling out of overhead bins and
more screams. Stupid plane, stupid divorce, stupid bladder, I can’t believe I am
going to die in a freaking bathroom. I hug my knees and bury my head in my
sleeves. The room dims to black and back to light, flickering out its own eerie
Morse code.
As
I look up, the door lock shifts to vacant and the door eases open. Relief washes
over me. The chaos from outside is deafening. I am frozen as I lock eyes with
the stranger. He steps in, closes and locks the door behind him. No. No! My
eyes grow large, I shoot up backing away but there is nowhere to go. He is tall
and built like a brick wall. Panic floods my brain as I try to make a choice
between fight and flight.
“Hey,
it is okay, I am not going to hurt you, alright.” He speaks in that take-somebody-off-of-the-ledge
voice. His palms are up, the universal sign to inform me he has no ill intent.
“I’m
only here to help and right now the plane is having some problems and you need
to stay in here.” His voice is calming and sounds like smooth cashmere. I nod and,
began to feel safer than I did a moment ago. The plane rocks and tosses me
right into his arms.