The BlackBurne Legacy (The Bloodlines Legacy Series Book 1) (8 page)

“A job?” I’ve been contemplating getting one myself, just to get me out of the house and in a setting where I can get used to people.

“Yeah.” Saidie kicks her shoes off and pulls her feet under her on the couch. “I’m twenty-one and I need to be more responsible, blah, blah, blah.”

“There’s an opening at The Coffee Shop,” Micah says. “One of the waitresses quit yesterday. Tell Beth Anne I referred you, and you might get hired today.”

“On your say-so?” Saidie’s expression doesn’t even mask the
yeah, right
look.

“My uncle owns the place. You girls any good at gaming?”

“Three brothers.” Saidie rubs her hands together, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “I am a Halo tourney champion.”

Micah tosses her a controller. “Black Ops. You in, Blue?”

A wicked grins breaks across my face. “Of course I’m in.”

And just like that, the two people who will come to mean more to me than almost anyone fall into place. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.

Chapter Eight

The wind burns through me and I rub my arms, trying to bring some warmth back into them. I look around, confused. I’m standing in the middle of a trail, surrounded on all sides by snowy mountains. It’s bitterly cold, and my teeth chatter. Where am I?

Before I hear him, I know he’s there. I can feel him. A blazing trail of heat slides up my arms and I lean back, letting his warmth invade me, his fingers caressing my bare arms. Flashes of colors, deep reds and vibrant blues, assault my eyes, his scent invades my senses. His head lowers, lips kissing the tender skin of my neck. A gasp escapes at the feeling that slithers in the pit of my stomach.

My legs feel weak and I grab onto his hips, my fingers digging into his jeans. His mouth continues its slow, torturous trek up my neck, along my jaw. I tilt my head to give him better access.

A lone howl breaks through the desire muddling my senses. The sound is full of rage. Honeysuckle surrounds me, and I shake my head, trying to clear it.

He whispers something I don’t understand, but before I can say anything, his hands are in my hair, pulling my head back. I don’t see him, though. I see images, flashes of a small, dark-haired woman and a wall of bright, colorful beads. Laughter surrounds me, happy and content.

Lips crash into mine, and fire erupts in my veins, igniting a flame that burns like a wildfire through me. It eats away at every nerve I have, and still the images come. They turn darker, the laughter dying away to cries of agony, of tears running down a face covered in blood. Pain and sorrow overwhelm the desire, and tears begin to slip down my cheek. I feel its path, feel it mingle with our lips. He pulls back at the salty taste.

All around us, the sounds of snapping and snarling beasts threaten us, but his only focus is on me. I can see him now, my dark, forbidden angel. Confusion mars his beautiful face. He leans down and his tongue works its way up the path of my tears, his lips settling on my forehead.

The gentle kiss is my undoing. I turn and wrap my arms around him, ignoring everything around us. His eyes are almost black with desire as he lowers his head to mine. His lips are hesitant at first, unsure of their welcome. Mine know exactly what they want, and I lean into him, melting against the heat of his body. A groan is wrenched from him and he deepens the kiss. Sparks of flame shoot through me, tearing unintelligible cries from me, his lips conquering every wall I have ever put up to protect myself.

His knee slides between my legs, and another deep moan is pulled from me at the foreign sensation of denim rubbing against the heart of me. His kiss becomes almost savage, and I push myself against him, needing to feel his skin against mine. Clothes are in the way. It takes me only a heartbeat to slip my hands beneath his t-shirt, to feel his skin. A sigh of relief escapes me. I needed to touch him, to merge my flesh with his.

Arms wrap around me, and the feeling is so right, so perfect, I want to stay here all night, his lips warring with mine, our bodies so close you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

The sharp screech in my ear pulls me out of his arms and back to reality. I fumble in the dark room, trying to find my alarm clock to shut it off. I touch cold metal and I slap it off, groaning. My breathing is still ragged as I lie there, the darkness swallowing me, and I can feel his lips on mine, his skin under my fingertips.

I cover my head with a pillow, trying to gain control of myself. Desire pulses through me and I groan, turning over, my thighs squeezed together so tight, they might as well be super glued together. I’ve never in my life felt anything like this. Lust. Raw, unadulterated lust. I don’t know how to deal, how to cope.

A few more tosses and turns have me up and heading for the shower. Thirty minutes and one cold shower later, my body has stopped humming. I can pull my clothes on without shaking. The mirror confirms my eyes are still a little fevered, but I don’t look like I’ve just woken up from a sex dream. Damn Saidie and her going on and on about Luka last night. No more listening to her and her fantasies right before bed.

Since I didn’t go to the store yesterday, there is still no food in the house, and my bottomless pit of a stomach is protesting loudly. I could walk to the diner, but I’m not ready to face Luka. He might not even be there, but after that dream? Nope, not happening.

There
is
one place I can go, but I’ve avoided dealing with my dad since his whole “you’ll do as I say” routine. He means well, I know that, but at the same time, he has to let go. I will never go back to Compton or any facility like it. No matter what I have to do. If that means running away and never looking back, I’ll do it. No one will ever lock me up again.

My gaze lands on the journals Mom sent us. We moved them several times, but for some reason, they keep ending up on the kitchen counter. Why wouldn’t Dad want us to have them? Then again, why didn’t he tell us we’d lived here before?

I filch my keys from the basket on the counter, as well as my journal, and stuff it in my messenger bag. It’s time for Daddy Dearest to answer some questions.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling into their drive. Emma’s car is gone, but Dad’s Chevy truck is here. Good. Maybe he’ll tell me more without Emma here. When I’m standing on the porch, my hand raised to knock, I hesitate. What if Dad tries his usual nonsense? What if I can’t lie to him and pretend I’m perfectly fine when, in fact, I’m hearing voices? Well, just one voice, but it’s enough to make me nervous about my mental stability. If he sees that, I’ll be sitting right back in some mental health facility. And I won’t do that.

Deep breath and just do it
. I rap my knuckles against the door, and it sounds loud in the early morning. This neighborhood seems quiet, not so many young families in this one. Two elderly men chat with each other, both holding the morning paper, while a woman in her late forties leans against her porch rail, talking on her cell. Dad sure did pick a boring place to park himself.

The door opens and he freezes, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Irritation flares in my voice. “I just wanted to come by and see you and Emma. I missed you.”

“Oh.” He steps back and lets me enter. The front hall now has furniture, so Emma must have wrangled him into helping her unpack. I make a beeline for the kitchen. Sure enough, I see fresh pastries in a container on the island. My stomach rumbles loudly, and my father sees fit to laugh at me. I shoot him a half-hearted glare while I collect two of the yummy delicacies and snatch a Coke out of the fridge.

“Let’s sit out on the front porch.” I don’t give him time to argue and stalk back the way I’d come. I’ve always wanted a porch swing. I asked him several times when I was a little girl to get one, but he always refused. At least now I can enjoy one.

“Where’s your brother?” Dad eases himself down into the swing with a grunt. I forget sometimes he’s getting older, and with that comes arthritis and a plethora of other symptoms of aging. The silver at his temples reminds me he is getting old. I guess I just don’t want to think about him aging. He was always my dad, invincible. I want to remember him like that.

“Practice. Their first game is coming up soon. The coach is working the team a lot harder than Jase is used to, but he’s managing.”

“How are you, peanut?” I look up at the concern in his voice. “Don’t tell me what I want to hear. Tell me how you’re
really
doing.”

How to answer him without setting off alarm bells? I take another bite of pastry to give myself time to think.

“I’m not going to lie, Daddy. It hasn’t been an easy adjustment, but I am okay. Jase has been really great too. He gives me space, but he’s there if I need him. I do have to remind myself sometimes of where I am because I’m so used to the routine I developed at Compton. Then I think about being able to go where I want, when I want. To feel the cool air against my face, to sit out on the patio and just write until I decide it’s time to go to bed. I’m free, Daddy. That means more to me than anything.”

“Are you taking your meds? No nightmares?”

“I’m good. No nightmares, and yes, I am taking my meds. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m a grown woman, Dad, who is responsible. Trust me, doing something to get myself put back in that place is the last thing I’d ever do.”

“I don’t mean to be so overbearing, Alexandria.” He runs a hand through his hair, much like Jason does when he’s trying to figure out how to say something. “The day we took you to Compton, you looked so lost, so broken. They made you better. The rules, the structure, the supervision, and the daily counseling. I want you here, with us, sweetheart, I do, but I’m afraid. I’m sitting here looking at you, a beautiful young woman whose eyes are haunted. It scares me. I want to let go, but I’m also terrified to let you go.”

“I promise you I’m okay.” I look him in the eyes. “If I thought for a moment I wasn’t able to handle things, I’d tell you. I won’t risk hurting Jason again.” I’ll run first.

“Let’s make a deal.” He leans back against the swing. “I’ll stop obsessing if you agree to stop avoiding me. I miss you too.”

My head falls on his shoulder. I missed this so much.

The last of my pastries disappears with a loud burp and we both laugh. My appetite is ferocious. I’m still hungry, but I need to chat with him about a few more things.

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t you tell us we’d lived here before?”

I feel the change come over him in the way his entire body stiffens. “It never came up in conversation.”

My dad is a terrible liar. “You know you could never lie to me, Dad.”

He snorts a little. “Your mother was the same way. She always knew when I was fibbing.”

Wow. Dad never talks about my mother. “So you are fibbing?”

His breath comes out in a slow, heavy gust. “Why are you so curious about this, Alex?”

“Why don’t you want to answer the question?” I counter. He’s being very evasive.

“I know how you and Jase feel about your mom,” he says at last. “She loved this place. You kids loved it here too. The three of you would spend hours in the back yard or roaming through the woods. I’d sit on the porch and listen to you laugh. I thought maybe coming back here, we could get some of that happiness back. It’s the one place where the four of us had our happiest memories.”

He’s telling the truth, but he’s not. He’s telling me what I want to hear and leaving out the important truths. How to make him admit that, though?

I open my messenger bag and pull out the journal. “Why didn’t you want us to have these?”

“Where did you get that?” His brown eyes, usually warm and smiling, harden into ice chips.

“Emma gave them to us.” My own voice is quiet and soft. “They belong to us, Dad. You had no right to keep this from us.”

“I had every right to keep that drivel away from you.” Anger emanates from him and his voice vibrates with fury. “Throw it away.”

“No.” My own anger starts to flare up, wild and uncontrolled. “This is mine. I’m not throwing it away. Why are you so mad?”

He jumps up and walks to the end of the porch, absently waving to a neighbor going by in a car. “Your mother was unique. She believed in things that were impossible.”

“What do you mean?”

He turns back around to face me, his eyes guarded. “She believed in the supernatural, in magic, and in witchcraft. That journal you have in your hands, it looks like the one she kept. She wrote her notes and spells in it. Called it a witch’s journal.”

My mom thought she was a witch?

“It was nonsense, of course, and I should never have let her involve you and your brother in her madness. She believed in things that weren’t real, Alex, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe your problems stem from her.”

“You think I inherited my mental problems from her?” The woman I remember wasn’t crazy. She was different, sure, but not insane. Then again, I
was
just a little girl when she left. I may not have recognized the crazy gene back then.

“That book, Alex, it represents your mom’s personal brand of crazy, and I don’t want you or your brother caught up in any of it. I’m worried…”

“That if I go down this path, I’ll end up in the loony bin again,” I finish for him. I can see where he’d think that. “Don’t worry, Daddy, I’m not that crazy yet. I want a nice, normal life. I want to finish college, become a writer, and maybe meet a great guy along the way.”

“You want to be a writer?”

“One thing I learned was to write everything down when I needed to express my emotions. That helped me so much. I love to write. I keep a notepad with me all the time just so I can jot down random thoughts. Do you remember what Grammy always said? That if you wake up thinking about something and go to bed thinking about it, it’s what you’re supposed to be doing. That’s how I feel about writing, how Jason feels about football.”

Dad lets out another grunt, but he can’t quite hide the pride in his eyes. Jason is good at football. He told me his endgame is the NFL. I watched one of his practices. He’s better than good, if I’m being honest. He’s extraordinary.