Текст книги "Fever dream"
Автор книги: Elsie Silver
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
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CHAPTER 5
Julia
Two years ago…
I WAKE WITH A start, my awareness slamming back into me as I shoot up to sitting. It’s almost physical, like getting plugged into an electrical socket and coming back to life in the blink of an eye.
I wipe at my heavy eyelids as I turn my stiff neck to take in my surroundings. It’s bright, full sun. I’m sitting on a bed, surrounded by a room that looks like mine. But isn’t. A red suitcase sits in the corner, with a pair of men’s swim trunks draped over the top.
Swim trunks I do not recognize. I’ve spent a couple of days this week hanging by the pool with a guy named Jesse and his group of friends, but I don’t think I’ve seen any of them wear hot pink trunks.
Alarm courses through me as my heart rate ratchets up and tears spring to my eyes. I came on this cruise with my mom for a fun getaway over Christmas. She’s been single for a long time, and it’s an all-ages cruise so I told her I’d come with her in case all the guys her age sucked. Then we’d turn it into a girls’ week in the Caribbean. Aside from that, my plan was to zone out, read, and catch up on some sleep.
I’ve been working at the local ice cream shop several shifts per week and attending university full-time. But now I’ve finally completed the final semester of my undergrad at Emerald Lake University. My master’s program begins in January, so this was my last chance to rest before the intensity of school kicks back in.
I just wanted to escape the snow, and this seemed like a fun option.
But this is not fun. I don’t know where I am, or how I got here, and I’m freaked out.
Actually, no. I’m beyond freaked out.
I’m twenty-three, and suddenly, all I want is my mom.
Looking down, I realize I’m wearing my bathing suit with a towel wrapped around my body. The sheets are vaguely damp.
My breath comes more quickly, palms slapping the bedding around me in a desperate search for my phone and small crossbody purse. I scramble out from under the sheets, checking over the bedside table where my sunglasses are folded neatly.
Kneeling on a bed, in a stranger’s room, I place one hand over my chest and close my eyes, forcing myself to take a deep breath to replace the frantic, shallow ones.
I was at the pool bar.
With Jesse and his friends.
My mom went on a date.
We planned to meet back in our room.
I saw that sewer rat, Emmett Bush, across the bar.
I thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t run into him earlier.
I had a rum and coke.
It got dark out.
Jesse wanted me to leave with him.
I told Jesse I could stay for one more drink.
And that I’d be leaving alone.
Then…
Nothing.
All I can remember is… blank. Not the fuzzy, underwater blur that comes with too many drinks. There is only dead space.
I rub my hands up my neck, over my face, and through my loose hair. Then I freeze. My hair was in a low, slicked-back bun last night.
Nothing makes sense. All I know is I need to leave.
I crawl to the end of the bed and swing my legs out in front of me before I pause and listen. My gaze shifts to the bathroom, its door ajar with all the lights off.
My head spins as my toes touch the cool tiled floor, but somehow, the chill grounds me in a moment where I feel totally out of control. I push to stand—and that’s when I glance through the glass patio doors and see it.
Or rather him.
Emmett fucking Bush. Outside on the balcony, asleep on the lounger. The sight of him brings me up short. Gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Bare feet sprawled, one hand thrown over his shirtless chiseled torso, the other propped behind mussed, dirty-blond waves.
He’s got a James Dean vibe, but with more bulk to his frame.
His face? Golden but gritty.
His reputation? A total asshole of a manwhore if my brother’s stories are to be believed.
Not that I’ve seen much proof of Emmett being a stand-up guy. The times I’ve crossed paths with him have mostly been when I meet up with Theo at WBRF events. Emmett’s family owns a farm on the outskirts of the same small town where my mom and I live, but he’s not around much. Or we just don’t run in the same circles.
I’ve heard the snide remarks he’s lobbed at Theo after a tough loss. I’ve seen the way he carries himself, like he’s the king of the world. I’ve witnessed the swagger and the panty-melting smirk he pulls out when the moment suits him. And I’ve heard tales of his womanizing and endless string of hookups whispered around town.
Theo has always told me to stay away from him, and it’s a fair warning, rooted in brotherly love. But staring at Emmett now, I can understand why women ignore the caution signs surrounding him. Of course, they’d still have to endure his personality.
And it makes me wonder if that’s what happened to me last night.
I stand there, staring through the glass at the asshole Adonis snoozing on the patio. My eyes narrow on his sleeping form as my glare intensifies. And I must stare hard enough that I wake him because his baby-blue eyes snap open and zero in on me.
For several seconds, we just stare at each other. My fear morphs into fury with each beat that passes. Enough that I find myself storming toward him, yanking open the sliding glass door, and pressing my foot against the end of his lounger. The motion pushes him back and the metal frame clangs threateningly against the glass barrier of his balcony.
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”
Emmett shoots up to sitting, hands held up like he’s under arrest.
My nostrils flare with every agitated breath, and he tilts his head subtly, as though facing a wild animal. “Hey, hey. I’m not playing at anything—”
“Did we hook up?” I blurt, needing to know what the hell happened during those missing hours.
His eyes skim over my body, but he appears repulsed by my question. “Fuck no. I wouldn’t do that.”
I cross my arms in a pathetic attempt to hide myself from his view, though they provide little coverage while wearing a bikini. “You’ll have to forgive me for not believing you.”
But beneath my arm I can feel the edge of my room key, the one I shoved in the cup of my top for safekeeping last night.
The one that hasn’t moved.
My accusation is disproven in a matter of seconds. But I haven’t failed to offend the man before me.
Emmett straightens, and now, his gaze is furious. “Believe what you want. I’m a lot of things, but a rapist isn’t one of them.”
The way he spits the words brings me up short, my head rearing back as though he’s landed a physical blow. My rage seeps out of me, fear creeping in, cooling my blood in its wake. “What?”
“The guy you were with drugged you. I was watching from across the bar when I put it together. I intervened. You asked me to get you out of there, and I did.”
My throat constricts. Any words I had planned to hurl at him shrivel and perish on my tongue.
“I don’t remember… any of that,” I admit, voice cracking as I rack my brain for some tendril of that memory.
“I was going to take you to the doctor, but you didn’t want that, so—” Emmett pushes like he’s about to stand, and I startle, taking a quick step away. I don’t want him to tower over me right now.
His eyes flit to my feet, noting the movement, and he pauses. Reaching one palm toward me in a “slow down” gesture, he settles back on the chaise offering me the space I need right now.
A relieved sigh spills from my lips, and only then does he continue speaking.
“Listen. I slept out here because it’s the farthest away I could get from you without throwing myself overboard. You were sick, so I rinsed you off in the shower, wrapped you in a towel, and put you in my bed. I took absolutely zero liberties except to check your breathing intermittently because you were so limp and out of it.”
He pauses now. Head tipping as though considering if he should say more. Then he confesses, “And I undid your bun because it looked uncomfortable, and my sister once told me that it was bad for your hair to sleep with it done up tight like that.”
His face is entirely earnest. Bright blue eyes wide. Voice sincere. Somehow, this behavior, coming from the carefree playboy Emmett Bush, is throwing me for a loop.
“You were worried about my hair?” is my dumb, dissociative response to everything he just told me.
He shrugs, staring at me intently. And for the life of me, I can’t find a single sinister thing about the guy in this moment.
“I was just plain worried.”
His words—the simplicity of his sentence—knocks the wind out of me. I don’t know what to make of it. Last night, this morning. Him.
Everything feels upside-down, and nothing feels right.
“Thank you,” I say simply. Because what else do I say? What else do I do? I am thankful. But my brain is full to bursting, and my body aches for home. For my bed, for snow, for winter boots, and for late nights spent in the library on campus. I’d settle for hiding under my blanket and reading a good book with my flashlight.
Suddenly, I’m exhausted.
Emmett offers me a cautious nod. “Any time. If you want to report anything, I suspect he’s being held by—”
Overcome by a sudden wave of shyness, I drop his piercing gaze and cut him off. “Where’s my sarong?”
“That white scarf? I washed it. It’s hanging on the bar over the shower.”
He washed it.
“My purse?”
“On the hook by the door.”
I nod quickly, the tears from earlier threatening to escape once again. Before they do, I turn away with a hushed “Thanks” spilling from my lips as though that single word could be enough to encompass my gratitude for what he’s done for me.
Nausea sways in my gut, and the dull ache in my head roars to a new level as I hurry through Emmett’s room. I grab my sunglasses from the bedside table and pop into the bathroom, where my sarong hangs from the bar. Just like he said it would be.
As I pull it down, I’m hit with a wave of ginger scent. It’s spicy and fresh, and when I hold it up to my nose and breathe deeply, my nausea about the happenings of last night eases. I imagine him hunched over the sink, washing my vomit out of the fabric with his bare hands.
My embarrassment does nothing to comfort me. It makes me feel like I owe him for his help. For rescuing me. For taking care of me. And I don’t want to owe Emmett a single fucking thing.
So, in one of my less fine moments, I flee Emmett Bush’s room without a backward glance. I snatch my purse from the hook and slip out the door. Clutching the fresh cotton to my chest, I weave through the ship’s halls, breathing in his soap the entire way back to my room.
When I push through the door, I find my mom, Loretta, packing her suitcase. The utter relief on her face when she sees me is a bullet to the chest. I’ve been sneaking in late all week, but the all-nighter is new. Being the type of mom that she is, she doesn’t scold me.
She’s never been that way—especially in adulthood. She’s always supported Theo and me in everything we’ve ever done. She’s always been the type of mom who’s encouraged us to spread our wings and to make mistakes. To learn and grow and change and stand on our own two feet while always knowing that she’ll be there for us when we need her.
But where Theo has always seemed to share details about his escapades in dating with reckless abandon, I have a more reserved approach. One where my private life stays private.
His book is open. Mine is closed.
Which is why when she grins and says, “Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” all I do is offer her a secretive smile and an eye roll before heading to the bathroom to pull myself together.
With the door locked behind me, I prop my palms on the counter and stare back at my reflection. Smudged makeup. Fucked-up hair. Bloodshot eyes.
To the outside observer, I might look like I had a fun and rowdy night. But the reality is I narrowly escaped what could have been the worst night of my life.
And it’s all thanks to Emmett fucking Bush.
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CHAPTER 6
Julia
Present…
EMMETT’S GRANDPARENTS FEED me freshly baked cookies and coffee while we go over the spaces on the farm that they’re willing to give me access to, and we discuss what my plans for those sets might be. The main farmhouse is off-limits, which I understand.
But it’s also a shame, because it’s stunning. Rustic and cozy all at once. It’s surrounded by lush gardens and a patio made of mismatched rock stepping stones. Grass and tiny flowers grow up between them, which only adds to the quirky charm of the place. Warm brown cedar shakes make up the siding on the house, and the window trims are painted royal blue—a perfect match for the tin roof.
Inside is equally delightful. Even though Emmett wears a permanent scowl across the table from me.
I ignore him.
Which is easy to do because I’m very busy admiring my surroundings. The eclectic sunken kitchen is all glass. Bright, sunny, and looks out over the most incredible garden. No matter which corner my gaze wanders to, there is something interesting waiting to be appreciated. Framed drawings by Emmett and his siblings. Trophies and ribbons from their varied competitive sports. A china cabinet filled with assorted dishes.
My eyes trail over the top shelf that’s cluttered with photos, skipping from mismatched frame to mismatched frame. Each one is filled with happy family moments that span decades. A pang twists in my chest. Not because I didn’t have a happy childhood. But it was quiet compared to this… this cheerful chaos.
I pause on a photo of a younger couple that I don’t recognize. It’s a perfect summer day, and an impressive waterfall cascades down over a cliff of jagged rocks beside them. They’re squished in tight next to a mischievous-looking little blond boy—hair nearly white—with a deep summer tan and dirt on his knees from playing outdoors. He’s grinning from ear to ear, and I recognize the expression. Emmett still has that grin, though it doesn’t seem to come as naturally as in this photo.
Next to it is a grainy wedding photo of a much younger Tina and Leon. They look blissfully happy. Madly in love. It’s plain as day. It’s lovely.
They are lovely even now. So lovely, in fact, that it’s easy to forget I’m in enemy territory here. The way they speak about Emmett is so different from how I’ve heard him spoken about by literally anyone else. And the way Tina is always rubbing his shoulder or squeezing his hand like she just can’t help herself is utterly endearing.
He never rolls his eyes or shakes her off the way I might have expected. Instead, he’ll tilt his head and shoot her an affectionate glance. His reaction is a fascinating blend between reveling in her unconcealed affection but also being slightly embarrassed by it.
“I’m just hoping he finds someone worthy of him,” Tina says firmly. I glance at Emmett and nearly snort. “We raised him since he was ten, you know?” she adds, more of a statement than a question.
A clarification that brings me up short.
Ten?
A lump lodges in my throat as I stare back at Emmett. Blue eyes—the same ones from the little boy in the photo—bore into mine with a level of intensity that almost makes me squirm. The look he’s giving me is one of challenge. I don’t think he wanted me to learn that about him.
And it makes me realize how little I know about him outside of what I’ve been told. And most of what I’ve been told is secondhand, fed to me through the lens of people who dislike him. Or from the media, who—as I’m learning with this job—are not always as honest as one might assume.
I can’t wrap my head around all the versions of Emmett. Cruise-ship Emmett, who was borderline heroic, is also asshole Emmett, who antagonizes my brother every chance he gets. And there’s also the Emmett sitting across from me right now who loves and is clearly loved back by these sweet people. It’s just… puzzling.
“No,” I reply with a soft smile. “I didn’t.”
“My special, wonderful boy,” she says, pulling his head close and dropping a loud smack of a kiss on his curls. She laughs as Emmett and Leon groan over her sappiness.
But me? I find myself turning over the term wonderful boy. It takes me back to the cruise ship even though I don’t want to think about that night.
Every time I do, guilt and shame needle me—in spite of the fact the counselor I ended up seeing on campus assured me that none of it was my fault. Logically, I even believe her. And yet, blame for putting myself in that situation weighs heavy on me if I sit with it for too long.
When I got home, I wanted everything to go back to normal—whatever normal was—but I couldn’t help but see the world differently after such a close call.
Still, I used that burning desire for a fresh start to dive straight into my master’s program. Something of a new beginning.
I took a step back from going out with friends, something that made me realize I had a lot of acquaintances but no true close friends. And as much as I craved some socialization, a few glasses of red wine and a dinner out, I avoided situations where I might overindulge and lose control again. The cost-benefit analysis of a carefree night on the town didn’t hold the same allure as it once did.
So I threw myself into my schoolwork with even more gusto. I competed against myself to be an even better student. How high could I get my grades?
I started going to the gym. Could I get fit enough to do a pull-up? What about ten?
Rather than eating like a broke bachelor, I started cooking. Trying out new recipes and shopping mindfully at the farmers’ market.
I started gardening and filled my small patio with plants and flowers that I was forced to bring inside over the winter because I couldn’t stomach the idea of them dying. It made my condo borderline tropical, which—in a roundabout way—made staying home alone even more appealing.
The end result is that I graduated from my master’s in film studies with top marks and landed a dream job before school was officially over.
This position puts me firmly on the road to directing and producing major Hollywood films—a big, lofty, borderline irrational dream I’ve had since I was a little girl.
I’m never bored, and I’m the healthiest I’ve ever been—physically anyway. But I’m guarded in a way I never was before. I don’t trust men, and the prospect of dating doesn’t appeal to me at all.
My counselor assured me that this was an okay way to feel. That channeling my nervous energy into being productive could be healthy. So, I’d taken that advice and run with it… but I’m not sure that making productivity my entire personality is what she’d meant.
“On that note,” Leon says, jarring me from my reverie, “do you know much about what we do here at Stal Brandt?”
“I’m afraid not,” I reply sheepishly. I know it’s a horse farm, but not much else.
The older man lights up like a Christmas tree; clearly this place is his passion. “This farm has been in my family for years and we are dedicated to breeding and developing Canadian sport horses for top-level equestrian competition. Show jumping, dressage, eventing—you name it. Most world-class athletes are forced to travel to Europe where they have the best and most proven breeding programs. They’ll pay an arm and a leg for a nice horse and then have to fly it back from overseas. They have to deal with import paperwork, passports, and quarantine. And if you ask me, the European breeders aren’t sending their best horses to other countries. They’re keeping them for themselves and sending us their B team.”
He grumbles his annoyance at that and I find myself captivated by the passion he speaks with.
“So our goal here at Stal Brandt is to establish a world-class breeding program to support Canadian athletes and the Canadian economy. I’ve dedicated my life to studying the bloodlines and genetics, importing frozen semen to bolster our program, and trying to produce outstanding equine athletes right here on Canadian soil. Maybe one day—if we’re lucky—we’ll see a Stal Brandt horse at the Olympics.”
“Maybe a Brandt herself too,” Oma pipes up with an excited wink.
“Incredible. I had no idea about the whole…” I wave a hand searching for the words. “Big picture of it all. I hope I get to see your farm represented there one day too.”
The stoic elderly man smirks at me. And coming from him it feels like a megawatt grin.
“Why don’t I take you on a tour around the farm? Show you what our days look like. You can tell me what you have in mind, and we can work from there and make sure this circus stays out of my way.”
He shoots Emmett a scowl, but there’s no venom in it. In fact, it only makes his grandson’s lips twitch.
I scrunch my nose, trying not to think about my own dad. Would we have a relationship like theirs? He died when I was young, so part of me has always felt like his memory is just out of grasp. The image of him in my head feels like looking through water. I can look at photos of him, but in many ways I don’t really recognize him.
I don’t remember his smell. I wish I remembered his smell.
“Definitely,” I say, with a slight hitch in my voice. “You give me the lay of the land, and I’ll do my best to keep the clowns out of your yard once the circus descends.”
The older man snorts at that. “Oh, girl, there are always clowns in my yard. Have you met Emmett’s siblings?”
My cheeks tug up in a smile. “I have not. I’ve only met Emmett—as I’m sure you know, my brother is also touring on the WBRF circuit. Like my dad did. We grew up just in town, on an orchard down by the lake.”
“Oh!” Tina pipes up. “That Theo Silva boy is your brother?”
I almost choke at her use of boy again. Theo is a full-fledged adult now, but he has been known to act like a little boy more often than he should as well.
“Yes, that’s him.”
“What a small world.” She slaps her hands against her thighs as she pushes to stand. “Will you please give him our congratulations on his championship? I know Emmett is always raving about how talented he is. It sounds very deserved.”
My head whips in Emmett’s direction, brows plastered high on my forehead.
His tongue swirls against the inside of his cheek as he breathes in through his nose, avoiding my searching gaze by staring at the wood-paneled ceiling.
I look up, too, wondering if that’s the direction his bad-boy persona has evaporated to.
“Great, Opa? Shall we go then?” Emmett’s chin drops right as he changes the topic of conversation.
“This way,” Leon says, moving toward the door and waving us along, clearly not the small-talker of the bunch.
I follow with a polite smile and nod toward Tina. “Thank you for hosting me. The cookies were delicious.”
She beams, and it’s infectious. She is pure sunshine, and I can’t help but smile back even bigger. I hit Emmett with my wide grin as I move past him and announce, “And I will certainly pass your congratulations on to my brother. He will be thrilled to hear that there is so much love for him in this valley.”
I peek back at her, but Emmett quickly envelops my line of vision as he falls into step behind me and ushers me from the room.
His arm stretches out behind me, and I can feel the heat of his hand at the small of my back. But he doesn’t touch me.
He leans in as we step out of the sunny, sunken kitchen and up into the main part of the old farmhouse. His breath fans across my nape as he whispers, “You will never tell your brother about that.”
I chuckle and tilt my head back in his direction, my gaze falling across his stern mouth. “Oh? The part about you being a big ol’ fan? I’m not making any promises because we’re already even on keeping secrets.”
His jaw locks before my eyes, but he doesn’t respond.
I frown and give him a consoling pat on the shoulder. “I know, I know. It’s a tough break for this special, wonderful boy.”
An exhausted sigh heaves his shoulder beneath my palm, and a thrill races down my spine at having gotten under his skin.
Then with a smug wink, I turn away and stride out of the house to do my job.
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