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Perfect 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. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2018 by Adell Ryan All Rights Reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher and the copyright owner constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Published by Upside Down Red Umbrella First Edition: May 2018 Cover Art by Upside Down Red Umbrella Edited by Penned in Ink
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DEDICATION It takes a village. I know that saying is not original or creative, but the proverb couldn’t possibly be closer to accurate. Before I found this “village,” I was pretty lost. My husband witnessed this struggle and decided to take me on an adventure. A proverbial hike through the woods in search of a safe place to “find myself.” Holding my hand throughout it all, pointing at the beautiful sights along the way (naming every little plant we’d pass), and picking me up when I’d trip over those pesky tree roots. Our children were never too far off… climbing trees and collecting frogs. Always there, smiling and running up occasionally to put a rock in one of our pockets. At some point we reached a field full of sunlight and promise… and he let go with a silent you’ve got this… run with it… have fun. I ran (for about thirty seconds, then I walked). And that’s when I found the trailhead to the village I now call my home-away-from-home. As defined, a village is a small community ranging from a few hundred to a few thousand. And from start to finish, well over a few hundred people inspired, supported, and cheered me on throughout the process of writing my very first novel. Beginning with hundreds of like-minded readers and authors in the amazing Reverse Harem community and moving on down that village’s central path to a smaller dwelling called Penned in Ink. Penned in Ink adopted me as one of their own. I set up my bed roll, dusted off my feet, and made an escape of that dwelling. Without the unit of individuals who make it up I fear I wouldn’t be typing this dedication at all. Like in any village, the community starts out somewhat large, but condenses into groups that get smaller and smaller the more intimate your dealings are. After I’d set up shop in Penned in Ink, I went on a fun walk through the village and built my special circle of close friends. The troublemakers. The ones who tell you how it is without fear of hurting your feelings. The ones who put up with you, listen to your frustrations, help you problem solve… and, most importantly, cheer you on. Oh, and listen to you tell the same “fireside story” (aka, my novel) over and over again — without a single complaint or hesitation. After much thought, I’ve decided to dedicate this book to the whole village: to my husband and children, for your patience, support and being my biggest fans; and to you — to everyone who is reading this… Thank you for being my village.
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CONTENTS Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Contents Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight
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PROLOGUE HARRIS AND LENA ALLIFAIR – REVERSE GENUS PAIRING PRELIMINARY DMIS The lab tech tapped at the screen of his tablet, recording yet another result among the thousands already stored. The machine hummed and whirred behind him as it tested the specimens he had prepped and loaded into the centrifuge from today’s shipment. At the beep indicating the process was complete, he picked up the record tablet and approached the result screen. 50/50 MATCH He stood there and gawked at the bold lettering that flashed in green, biting at the inside of his cheek. There’s a special protocol for this. The tech spun on his heel and opened drawers and cabinets, searching for the proper training manual. Once at the page dedicated to match scenarios, he scanned the list until he arrived at the fifty-fifty match combination. “Fifty-fifty DMIS Match: Lock down the DNA Trees for both subjects. Red flag all living descendants,” he mumbles. *** THE DING of yet another high-priority score notification stirred Zinna from her afternoon musings. Score notifications had increased as the national deadline neared. Even on a slow day, she still wanted to throw the portable DMIS database out the window. The future of life under the new DNA Networking Act meant she’d always be at the beck and call of that damn thing. After mock-throwing the small machine at the nearest trash bin, she relented and slid up her designer sunglasses to rest on top of her spiked, platinum faux-hawk. HARRIS AND LENA ALLIFAIR – REVERSE GENUS PAIRING PRELIMINARY DMIS - 50/50 MATCH “Fifty-fifty match,” she whispered toward the crowd of passersby on the busy city sidewalk she sat along every day for lunch. “Fifty-fifty match,” she repeated, murmuring to herself. “In an organic pairing. No. Fucking. Way.” Her open candor surprised her, and she glanced around, mentally chiding herself for being less than tactful in public. She grabbed her clutch and hurried back to work, her tan and leopard-print wedges clacking loudly against the concrete. “Acting Chairwoman, my ass,” she grumbled under her breath. “If only that was the long and short of it.” She needed a title, though, and Henchwoman didn’t look as good on paper. “They put me in this damn position, then tied my hands.” A match pairing like this would do wonders for their research. Zinna entered her office and locked the door before settling into the chair and rolling herself over to her video-wall, multi-touch display. “Soon, we can enter Lena and Harris into the program.” She swiped her fingers across the large screen and opened their files. When the password-encrypted security windows popped up, her mouth twisted into a wry smirk. She was the only person with access under this protocol. Thessaly Allifair… the only listed descendant. “A Reverse Genus rec request, hmmm?” Sometimes, a Clinical Trial Research Nurse Tech Student gets trigger happy and makes pair recommendations based on their assessment of a
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test subject’s DNA Tree. It appeared this tech did some research before executing the full lock down. Intrigued, Zinna pulled the file. “Four pairings?” she scoffed at the display, incredulity in her tone. She divided each guy’s profile to various areas of the screen and tapped open their DMIS results. “What the hell. These scores are appalling! We don’t want them anywhere near the program! That tech’s outta his damn mind.” Her finger hovered over the ‘decline recommendation’ button, but she hesitated. “Wait. If he’s pairing her with high scores… he thinks…” Her words trailed off, and her thoughts reeled with the potential genetic outcomes of Harris and Lena’s coupling. A woman in the same age bracket must test extremely low for those guys to be paired. And a perfect — or even close to perfect — DMIS, is damn near impossible. Damn near impossible. Zinna could lose her job if she let this slide through the system unchecked, though. “Well, shit.” She pressed the four ‘accept recommendation’ buttons and added a note to Thessaly Allifair’s DMIS file. SCORE UNVERIFIED BUT ASSUMED.
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FRIDAY SEVEN DAYS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
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CHAPTER ONE
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o be unlike anyone else; to be unique — different — yet symbolized as a whole, complete, and flawless individual. A perfect human,” Mr. Kender, my Personal Development professor, drones on. I’m in this course on account of receiving lower than average scores in some remedial college placement tests. Not because I’m not smart, but because I was a lazy teenager. Plus, I made the mistake of verbalizing that I wasn’t sure what I wanted my major to be. Which, I’ll admit, has me kicking myself now that I’m in this redundant class filled with athletes and struggling students. While scanning the room, I can’t help but pause on the guy in front of me. We attended high school together, and I had a huge crush on him. Senior year, I had the chutzpah to approach him. I’d stuck my hand out in greeting, flashed an adorable smile, and had let him know I was available if he ever wanted to go out. But because most high-schoolers are insecure, instead of my confidence being a turn-on, I had appeared super weird instead. Thankfully, college guys come to their senses and appreciate confident women. I was such an old soul in high school. Pure torture. College is much more liberating. “Thessaly, what are your thoughts?” Mr. Kender prompts. Startled, I snap my eyes to the front of the class. What is the topic? Crap. I fumble for a minute, trying to recall what he’d been lecturing about before I got distracted. “It’s improbable to define a perfect person,” I spout, hoping beyond hope I don’t sound like an idiot. Mr. Kender waves his hand, insisting I elaborate. The motion verifies I’m on the right track, so I continue, releasing a small sigh of relief as I start. “Say, for example, someone has Super DNA, or something; that wouldn’t discredit the slew of character or visible traits that makes them an imperfect human by default. Then comes personal biases of said traits. So… It just isn’t plausible.” Mr. Kender nods. “Fair enough. Thank you, Thessaly. Next? Your thoughts, please.” The old crush I’d been ogling just moments before gets a chance on the hot seat. But first, he turns around and gives me a charming grin. I lift a brow at him in a silent you had your chance, buddy. He mimics false hurt with a frown and turns again to face the front. Now he gets it. Too bad he’s a couple years too late. Not to my surprise, he takes an opposite stance on the debate, convinced that humans will turn into partial robots or some nonsense. Mr. Kender cuts him off, unamused, and continues picking on one unfortunate student after another. A genetically “perfect person” is a hot topic of interest right now. Everyone knows the upcoming deadline for the mandated blood draw is nearing. Tensions are high. Conspiracy theorists, with help from the media, have everyone whispering rumors about what these new advancements might mean for our evolution. Even now, in class, students have their heads pressed together, discussing what the future might hold.
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Maybe it’s just me, but what’s even more disturbing is that the centennial mark of Hitler’s reign coincidentally falls on the same day. Huh. Me? I’m doing my best to avoid the inevitable DNA submission process. Personally, I’d prefer to keep a little of my individuality intact, thank you. In fact, I’ve been skirting the push to get tested since day one. A dodge here, a duck there. Can you blame me? So, of course, it doesn’t surprise me one bit when Mr. Kender stops me short as I try to slip out at the end of class. “Ms. Allifair, the Clinical Trials people are asking for you again. The deadline is approaching. You realize you’re walking a fine line, right? You’re one of the few students here that hasn’t complied.” Indifferent, I blink at him, my blonde eyebrows raising. He huffs out a sigh and dismisses me. Free from the confines of class, I place my hands over my face and drag them down in a moment of frustration. I hate what is happening in our nation — an overbearing, overpaid government out for blood, literally. Perhaps I can play invisible long enough, and little ol’ me will be forgotten among the masses. A girl can hope. A LOUD WHISTLE startles me out of my inner diatribe against the government. My shoulders tense then relax when I see my best friend strolling toward me along the campus sidewalk. “Oy! Hey there, sweetheart!” I hoot out. Bram stops his stride, refusing to come closer. He gives me a practiced look of disgust before playfully spitting out, “What have I told you about calling me that?” Bram and I have been friends since middle school. Both our parents are convinced we are soul mates and will get married one day. We have this amazing, no-holds-barred friendship that most people often confuse as something more. To be honest, it confuses us, too, but we don’t talk about it. Add adulthood into the mix, and it only complicates things more. Seems like just yesterday we were awkward kids. I can almost picture him as he was back then: big, geeky glasses and a mullet/bob haircut. He still wears glasses, but only at night, and they are much sexier. I inch forward a couple steps. “How about ‘honey’?” There’s something magical about watching a grown man squirm. Especially a tall, dark, and handsome one. Sounds cliché, I know… but it’s true. Part of his genealogy dates back to a tribe of Native Americans, and although that was a long time ago, there is little evidence that amazing bronze skin filtered through the generations. I was once told that my great, great, great, thrice-removed grandmother had Native American in her. Or something like that. Regardless, it had filtered completely out on its way to me; not a single makeup company has a color light enough to match my alabaster skin tone. “Darrrrrling?” I quip in a sing-song voice. He rolls his eyes, and I step forward again. “I’m warning you. Don’t make me take out the big guns,” he insists while laughing and flexing his biceps. Bram is one of those guys who never carries around extra weight. Tall and thin — perfectly defined. Not the definition that comes from countless hours in the gym, but the Godgiven definition of a healthy man in all his natural beauty. “Seriously, Thess. By big guns I mean something else entirely. Don’t make me threaten to stop doing that ‘girlie thing’ when we watch movies together.”
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Oh no, he might as well threaten to end life itself! Movie Night has become my most favorite pastime. It’s also one of our few excuses to touch each other without it being weird; we take turns running our fingers through each other’s hair during the movie. Because platonic friends do that… right? I adore it when he closes his eyes as I run my fingers through his chin-length, chestnut hair. And I love when he pushes his palm from the base of my neck upward, grabbing and pulling my long hair ever-so-perfectly through his fingers. In a purely platonic way, of course. I refocus and meet his stare, my tough-girl stance faltering. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a sly grin. The man wins. I pull myself together and give him my best, most practiced look of disgust in return. The gap closes, and he pulls me in with his long arms. Even en-pointe, I barely come to the top of his chest. He smells like the outdoors right before a rainstorm. Bram is the yin to my yang; in his arms I am home. Then it hits me. The campus Clinical Trials Research Nurse Program has been making house visits during this last week of the mandatory blood draws. My parents’ employers both threatened to drop anyone who refused. Mom and Dad had no choice but to cooperate. They’ve been after me more diligently ever since, under the guise of “we’re waiting for you to come willingly.” Yeah right. “Let’s run away together,” I plead, looking into Bram’s dark brown eyes. His lashes do an astonished flutter, it’s both endearing and hilarious. I realize too late how my suggestion came across, what with the embracing and all. Leave it to me to make things awkward. “On account of the government leeches! The CTRNP has been to the house twice this week!” At the start of this new school year, I moved back in with my mom and dad so I could pay off student loans and save for a home. They gladly obliged, since I’m sure they were having withdrawals from not having their amazing only child at home. “Thess,” Bram’s deep voice purrs into my ear. “Yes, I’ll run away with you, but why don’t you just do the draw?” Yes… okay… keep talking like that and I’ll do anything. WAIT… no! Focus! “Never!” I gasp. “It violates my rights. You know, freedom to choose and all that jazz. I’m not in the mood to be violated!” I peek up at him through hooded eyes and bounce my eyebrows. Laughter rumbles in his chest as he breaks our embrace. He runs his thumb along my jaw. “Whatever am I going to do with you, Thessaly? You will be the end of me one day.” There is something different in his tone and body language. Curiosity, concern, confusion? I can’t make sense of the comment or of the strange energy he is emitting, and it makes me uneasy. I pick up other people’s thoughts and feelings, mainly those close to me. “It is a gift,” my mother would say. It can debilitate me at times, especially negative emotions. The knack for feeling these energies has advantages, too, though. Sometimes, I can neutralize tense situations by redirecting a conversation or activity. So, I do just that. “Well, how about I crash at your apartment for the weekend? The leeches have what they need from you; it’s unlikely they’ll come for me there. I’ll swing by my parents’ first and grab a few things.” “Anything for you.” He bows. Crisis averted.
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CHAPTER TWO
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ram and I head to the parking lot and through the rows of vehicles. Assigned parking spots go fast during open enrollment, so we requested spots in the most vacant area of the lot to up our chances of being near each other. After unhooking the vehicles from the charging docks, he climbs into his truck, and I plop into my ancient piece-o-crap after kicking the door to rattle it open. When I turned sixteen, my parents bought me this car. Back then, it was already six years old and poorly maintained. Fast-forward another six years, and here I have a car quickly coming to its demise. Newer vehicles typify the much-needed upgrades people have waited years for: lighter batteries, quicker charge times, and a much longer range per charge. Mine, on the other hand, still features many of the cumbersome traits of older electric vehicles. And, needless to say, she’s quite temperamental because of it. On a good day, it takes at least three attempts to start her up with the programmed voice activation. “Start.” Nope. “START!” Nada. “Start? … please?” Negative. “Start, start, start, start!” Not a chance. “Starrrrrrrt.” I roll my tongue behind my teeth. At last, the motor hums. Seriously? Is she partial to the trill of “r” now? Ugh. She also likes it when I deepen my voice and add “boss” to the request, too. Whatever. I glance over at Bram’s truck, knowing he always waits, and see him laughing at me… jerk. Without satisfying him with a reaction, I back out and head home. ONCE INSIDE, I take the stairs two at a time to my room, eager to start the weekend. I opt to change into sleep clothes for the sake of carrying fewer items in my weekend bag. I slide my jeans and underwear off and put on my granny panties and favorite gray, jersey drawstringshorts. Let’s be honest, who can actually sleep in a thong? This girl is on the cotton/full coverage team when it comes to my precious beauty sleep. I ditch my top, too, leaving my bra on since I would have to add it to my bag, anyway. Then I grab one of Bram’s old white henleys, pull it on over my head, and push the sleeves up to my elbows. I’m gonna have to go into straight stealth mode on my way out since my jersey shorts are more than shy of the fingertip rule, and Bram’s henley is almost to the edge of the shorts. Thanks to Florida’s winters, I can get away with shorts; winters in the south are temperamental and unpredictable. Even in January we still have some warm days. I stuff some lazy weekend clothes and a thong — just in case — into the bag along with essential toiletries, slip on ballet flats, and start back down the stairs.
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A couple steps down, apprehension takes root at the base of my spine. With a glance over the banister, I can see the front door wide open. Did I leave it open? I rack my brain, trying to recall my journey through the house and up the stairs. No, I’m sure I shut it. I tiptoe down a few more steps, dread seeping in, the chill inching up my back the further down the steps I venture. The leeches wouldn’t stoop to the level of breaking and entering, would they? At the bottom, I put down my bag and pick up the umbrella Dad left leaning against the wall in the corner of the foyer. The sounds of muffled voices from the living room startles me. One of our two couches is visible from where I stand a few feet from the entryway, and no one is there. But I feel certain that’s where the talking came from. Assuming the voices are in the part of the living room I can’t see, I take a deep breath, raise the umbrella, and walk in that direction. A low tinkling sound precedes a serving tray attached to my mother’s hand as she passes through the dining area and toward the second couch. She should be at work, something isn’t right. From where I stand now, I have a better view outside, so I look toward the open door. A white CTRNP van is parked in the driveway. I shake off the fear of being robbed and hung by my toes in the shower, tiptoe back to my bag, and replace the umbrella to its rightful location. Super ninja stealth mode on, I run to the door, peek out to be sure there are no prying eyes, and hightail my pajamaed self to the car. Not this time leeches, not this time. Back inside Betty — that’s my car’s name, by the way — we play the ‘getting started’ game, and she honors me by starting after the average three rounds. I pat her on the dashboard in gratitude, put in the coordinates to Bram’s studio apartment, then let Betty do her thing. She’s not as great at auto-driving as newer vehicle models, so I’m always on the ready to switch the driving to manual mode. Once in motion, I relax again. “Radio on, Betty!” I command. “Be involved to evolve!” the radio chimes. Oh, here we go. Last year, the Commission for Immunity and Evolution Studies — I like to call them the COMMIES — announced the commencement of the DNA Networking Act. In short, it means the government has the authority to gather blood samples and genetic information on all US citizens. Participation is a nationwide requirement; no one can decline to undergo testing when summoned. Home of the free. So much for that. “Leave your mark upon this world and know your genetic blueprint assisted in bettering humanity. Enhance the lives of your progeny a thousand-fold,” a woman’s voice announces through the speakers. “Know what, Betty? The DNA Networking Act is unjust… and just plain rude. A disease-free nation sounds commendable enough, but it messes with the natural order of things!” Betty is great at lending an ear. This call-to-action brings a rush of emotions I’ve been harboring since the COMMIES came into our home with the CTRNP and insisted my parents submit. That day was the first time I’d seen the COMMIES’ new authority in action.
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“Mr. and Mrs. Allifair,” the representative said, “thank you for your hospitality today. As you can see, we scheduled the closest Clinical Trials Research Nurse Program to attend this meeting. We’ve been in contact with your employers. Companies, like yours, aren’t financially established enough to keep their doors open without government aid. The Commission for Immunity and Evolution Studies funds small corporations, but only if they agree to support and aid the DNA Networking Act by employing individuals that have completed their testing. It’s an easy way to help ensure the longevity of these up-and-coming businesses. I’m sure you understand.” All the while, the CTRNP was setting up their equipment. Mom and Dad were caught off guard. I wish they had put up a good fight. But before they could so much as blink, the rubber tourniquets were around their arms, and a pen was placed in their opposing hands to sign the release. The unscrupulous manner in which it all went down was enough to convince me to do everything I could to avoid them, if possible. Stupid DNA mess. Truth is, I’m just an average person. I have no real plan for skirting them forever, but at least I win today. I AM ALWAYS THRILLED to escape to Bram’s amazing studio apartment on the outskirts of town… with a garden to boot. Though, he doesn’t love it when I call it a garden. “A conservatory” rather. Botany is his major — specializing in wild plants used for medicine and food. My attention span is about five minutes anytime he tries to talk about it. If that. There’s a code: when I talk about my passions, or he talks about bees or trees, we say “Annnd, time!” at the first sign of boredom. This prevents the other person from wasting breath talking into thin air while the other is no longer listening. I walk up the steps to Bram’s apartment and peek inside the silver vintage mail slot embedded in the center of the door. The sudden tickle of something moves up my arm. I jump up, squeal, and slap my arm spastically, while stomping my feet like a child having a tantrum. Bram’s manic, rolling laughter resounds behind me. In mid-act to turn around, I lose footing on the top step and fall backward, landing hard on top of him. The impact causes my head to swim, my eyes to lose focus, and a dull pain to settle in my chest, making it difficult for me to take in air. Bram’s warm breath flits over my hair as he groans. Then I feel the sting of his teeth as he bites down on my shoulder to counteract his discomfort. “Damn, Thess.” He exhales, winded. “If I would have known it was that easy to get you on top of me, I would have pulled that move years ago.” The length of his warm body shifts under me. At this point, I’m still too dazed to move or speak. Maybe it’s because the wind got knocked out of me, but also because I have this tingle balling up low and hot in my belly. Lord help me. Willing my insides to cool down, I stay still as Bram continues to wriggle — and harden — beneath me. I finally find my voice. “Bram,” I say, breathless. “Mmm?” Oh jeez. The sound of his deep baritone hum causes those tingles to start expanding into an ache… of the non-platonic sort. “Um. I need you… to stop… wiggling.” For all that’s holy. Please stop. Or don’t…
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I squeeze my eyes shut and try to calm my body’s increasingly traitorous response. Bram’s breath hits my earlobe and travels down my neck. I let out a soft whimper, and he stills. I lie prostrate and unmoving in a Thessaly-and-ground-Bram-sandwich until common sense kicks back in and tells me I have to get up first. I roll over onto my hands and knees, and glare at Bram as I rise to my feet. As he pushes up to a sitting position, his deep brown eyes lock onto mine. In the same, conflicted gaze from earlier today, they slide down my body, checking for damage. The length of my jersey shorts gives him pause, and his breath hitches; he clears his throat and coughs to try covering the sound. Heat rises to my cheeks as he attempts to finish the damage assessment. I’m far from naïve about what that was. In our long-time friendship, becoming more aware of each other as emerging adults was bound to happen. What took me by surprise is how hard and fast it’s coming - heh, that’s what she said. I’d be lying if I tried to deny how gorgeous Bram is. I’m just unsure how to handle it from here on out. Or if we should handle it at all. BRAM AND I keep to ourselves for the next hour, both trying to cool off from the scene outside. For some reason, he seems to be having a harder go at it though. I watch in amusement as he does what he can to avoid me, fidgeting and busying himself with random tasks. After a while, he walks to his industrial-looking twelve drawer locker unit situated beneath the television I’d been entertaining myself with, pulls out a pair of sweatpants, and tosses them in my lap. I look down to the sweatpants and back up, meeting his glare and raising a brow in question. His own brow raises in response. With an obnoxious sigh I stand and, to rile him up, drop my jersey shorts on the spot, pausing for only a moment before stepping into his sweatpants. Since when can’t he handle seeing me in my pajama shorts? The man’s being impossible! Before I can top my display of obstinacy by spouting a witty remark, he steps forward, presses against me, and slides his hand to the back of my neck. The pad of his thumb circles my cheek, and the stubble on his chin grazes my jaw as he moves to my ear. “Careful, Thess, I’m struggling right now.” “Oh?” The question comes out with a sigh. My knees threaten to give, and I sway slightly, his sudden fierceness doing unexpected things to my body. At the movement, he wraps an arm around my waist and presses his palm hard and flat against my lower back to steady me. His almond-shaped eyes look into mine with an intensity I’ve never seen from him before. Then his long fingers twine into the fine hair at the base of my neck… and he pulls. My head falls back, and my eyes flutter closed. A soft, unintentional moan releases from my parted lips. All at once, his body tenses, causing my eyes to spring back open. Those brown eyes lock onto mine again, but this time they soften as he lets go of my hair and drags his thumb along my bottom lip. Then he steps back, turns around, and walks to the kitchen. On shaky legs, I make my way to the futon and sink down, curling into myself. I try contemplating Bram’s unusual behavior — and how I need a cold shower — but the confusion and chaos my body feels overwhelms me. I drift into a dreamless sleep, instead.
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CHAPTER THREE
T
he smell of food wafting from the kitchen wakes me. I open my eyes to the golden haze of early-evening light filtering through Bram’s floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Before joining Bram in the kitchen, I let my gaze take in the scenery of his conservatory. Outside, just beyond the glass, brick wraps around the perimeter, enclosing the conservatory at the back. The top is open to the sky above, letting in all the sunlight, wind, and rain nature provides. A rumble from my stomach betrays my general dislike for Bram’s home-cooked meals. Despite his best efforts — bless his heart — the man can’t cook. Not that I can do any better, though. “What’s for dinner?” I ask, rounding the corner of the large antique brick column separating the living room from the kitchen. Portions of Bram’s studio dates back to the original building from the 1940s. The brick is whitewashed in spots as if someone poured white chalk paint over various areas. It’s beautiful and gives the entire apartment a special charm. “My famous spaghetti,” Bram stirs a thick red liquid as it pops and bubbles. “Oh, you mean jarred sauce and noodles?” “Yeah, but this time I made a special side dish.” “As long as it’s not a wild plant. I told you I refuse to die being an experiment!” I lean against the brick and cross my arms. “Hey, you said if I tried it first, and didn’t die within eight hours, you’d trust me and give it a shot.” A mischievous grin pulls at his lips as he reminds me. “Okay, fine. Good thing you’re cute and smart. So… what are we trying tonight?” “There are several names for it, but I call it ‘smilax’. The young shoots that vine up and sprout out of the top can be eaten raw or cooked. These were from this past summer; I forgot I had some stored in the freezer. Roots from certain species are an ingredient in root beer. There’s more I can share, but your eyes are glazing over already.” He winks. “Ah, you know me too well.” I grab plates and silverware, head to his futon, and set up the TV trays. Bram had sautéed the smilax in garlic butter and peppered it. To my surprise, it’s incredible; the flavor is similar to asparagus but less woodsy. I know he is proud, so I offer thanks with a quick kiss on the cheek. “Don’t forget… I cook, you clean.” Bram piles his plate on top of mine and reclines back, patting his stomach. “Yeah, rub it in.” I blow a strand of hair out of my eyes and lean forward, propping my elbows on my knees. That “full bellied” exhaustion creeps in, and I have to talk myself into standing. Bram knows I go into a comatose mode at night after eating, and he finds my lack of energy amusing. He flippantly circles his hand, encouraging me to get on with it. Begrudgingly, I push off of the futon, grab the stack of dishes, tuck our drinking cups under my arm, and mosey into the kitchen. “You realize I clean every time, right?” I yell over my shoulder as I turn the corner. “Try that thing called cooking. Problem solved.”
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“Yeah. Nope. You know very well that cooking is the bane of my existence. I burn water, for goodness’ sake.” No really, I do. I’ve lost count as to how many times I’ve tried to boil eggs and forgotten about them. Only when the water evaporates and the shells start to attach, burnt, to the bottom of the pot, do I ever remember. Nothing like the delicious smell of char to serve as a gentle reminder. Timer shmimer. “Good luck finding some poor man to take care of you the rest of your life.” Bram laughs at my ineptness. “Who needs a man, when I’ve got you?” “Oh! Damn, hit right where it hurts!” “Why don’t you have a dishwasher again?” I ask every. Single. Time. “Let’s see… how long have I lived here? By my best estimation, that’s, oh, the twohundredth time you’ve asked me. The answers are still the same.” Because. That’s usually his answer. Or it’s tradition; Bram’s parents didn’t have one, nor their parents, nor theirs… yada yada. Builds character is another good one. “Yeah, well, I don’t like your answers.” I flip on the hot water, plug the drain, swirl some dish soap in, and let it fill. While it fills, I coat the first dish in sudsy water and get to work. Of course, that’s when my com-band, hanging loosely around my neck vibrates, alerting me to a call. “Bram! I’m getting a call and my hands are wrist deep in your lack-of-a-dishwasher.” Bram rounds the corner and flips up my com-band’s display. Before the caller’s name can flash in front of my eye, Bram taps the touchpad at my neck to connect the call. “Dammit, Bram!” I whisper-yell before clearing my throat to provide the caller a polite, “Hello?” Bram leans on the counter, crossing his arms, a smile playing at his lips. “Thessaly! Callie’s voice blares through the earpiece just as her round, pink face flickers onto the quarter-sized optic screen. I cringe and wrinkle my nose at the shrill volume. “Callie?” Bram mouths. “Hey, Cal!” I give Bram a warning glare. As expected, he leans forward and taps on the speaker, knowing full well my hands are in use and I can’t defend myself. “You’re in deep shit!” I grate out. “Oh no, why?” Callie’s voice fills the small kitchen. “Not you, Callie,” I reassure her. “Hey Callie-Bell,” Bram chimes in. “Callie-Bell? What the hell, Bram?” “Aww, I kinda like it,” Callie coos. “Has a certain ‘ring’ to it, don’t you think?” “Don’t. Just don’t. You two are impossible.” “Yes, yes we are,” Callie agrees. “Anyway, LOOK what I have with me!” She presses a half-full glass of wine up to her cheek in adoration. “The girls and I are going out tonight and getting a head start while we get ready. Video hangout starts in fifteen minutes. You should join us!” “Yay! Because you know how much I love to do makeup, strip my clothes, and drink cheap wine on a group video!” I said with as much feigned enthusiasm as possible. “Yeah, well, you know we need you. You’re the ‘hot friend’, the one who gives us all a chance to go home with someone.” “Oh, please,” I laugh.
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“Can I come to the video hangout?” Bram pleads with a dirty grin that, thankfully, Callie can’t see. “I’m afraid I have to decline this time, Cal. I didn’t pack going-out clothes in my bag. Maybe next weekend?” Callie pokes out her bottom lip before allowing her excitement to return. “Definitely! Hey, you two have fun tonight. With… whatever it is you do together. I seriously don’t know how you keep your hands to yourself with that one.” Callie bounces her brows, and Bram beams at me from behind her virtual face. “Speaker, Cal.” “Oh, shit. Forgot!” She winks. “Well, hey, I’ll talk to you later. You and the girls stay safe and make responsible choices, okay?” “Always, Thess. Always. Bye, girl!” She blows a kiss, and the optic screen flickers as it clears. Bram flips the display back down to sit flush against my com-band, then leans against the counter again. “Yeah, how do you keep your hands off this one?” “Go away and let me finish hand-washing all your dishes.” An embarrassed smile pulls across my face, even while the playful animosity drips from my words. “As you wish.” He smiles, kisses me on the cheek, and returns to the futon. Callie’s call had proven a good distraction to the tedious task set before me. I had managed to wash several dishes during our conversation. Wrapping up, I do a quick scrub and rinse of the silverware, wipe the counter, and join Bram. The next few hours are uneventful; we opt-in for Movie Night but opt-out of “doing the girlie thing,” much to my dismay. The new tension between us is something we need to work through. My heart twinges at the thought that the change in dynamic may be harmful to our close friendship. But there’s no denying something more is building and has been for quite some time. The days of ignoring it are coming to an end, whether or not we want to admit it. As the final credits begin to roll, we open the futon and arrange some pillows and a blanket on top. Sleeping together is never an issue, but there’s a tense energy coming from Bram this time — frustration and regret. It hurts my heart. Since he’s much quicker to pass out, I offer to take a shower while he goes to sleep, and I’d make my way to bed soon after. He gives me a quick nod and meets my eyes with a silent thank you. I bow in jest. With a shake of his head and an appreciative smile, he lays down and closes his eyes. THE SHOWER IS PHENOMENAL; my back aches from the fall, and my insides are still on super high alert from Bram’s crazy male intensity. Boys. Sheesh. I seize the opportunity to use his razor — guy razors work so much better than the female equivalent. When I’ve passed enough time in the shower, I step out and stall a few minutes to give myself a once-over in the mirrors. Bram’s modern bathroom contradicts the old-fashioned setup the rest of the apartment exhibits. Opposite the sink and toilet, a mirror spans the wall. Above the facilities, another full-length vanity mirror covers every inch of remaining space. The mirrors behind me present a backside view of my body. My long, wet hair clings to my shoulders and descends to my lower back, releasing rivulets of water down my curves. I’m petite, but not everywhere; my waist, hips, butt, and thighs offer just enough soft and squeezable weight. I adjust my view toward the mirrors in front; my defined collarbone shapes into a wide V, directing eyes toward my chest. My somewhat small breasts allow a glimpse at the curve
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beneath, outlining their shape. I inhale and exhale, watching my chest rise and fall, as I embrace who I am, both inside and out. Movement outside suggests Bram is up and may need the bathroom. I dry off, wrap my hair, dress in clean underwear, and put back on the jersey shorts and henley. Dressed, I appear thin, I’ve often thought; my arms and legs belie what’s offered beneath. After a final once-over, I open the bathroom door to step out, but before I cross the threshold, I am jerked forward by my wrist and spun around. The sudden motion sets my thoughts into a tailspin. Disoriented and overwhelmed, cognitive reality slips; the intuitive fight-or-flight instinct takes over in its place. My back arches in response to a tightening around my arms and torso, and my legs and feet lash out in a desperate attempt to get free. Rage consumes me, and my fists clench, pressed tight against my sides from the hold I’m in. My vision blackens at the edges as fear tries to take anger’s place. Shaking my head to force myself to focus, I look down and note that the arms wrapped around me are thick and muscular. A man. I continue wriggling and flailing, and my head bumps the man’s chin. The pounding of my heart skips and stutters, and I lean forward to rear back. But before I can slam my head into his jaw, the towel is yanked off my hair and wound over my eyes. Behind me, the man is using both arms to hold me tight against his chest while someone else takes the opportunity to blindfold me with the towel. As I realize there’s more than one person involved, the overbearing chill of panic fills me, setting the hairs on my arms on end. Pulses of adrenaline hit, and I remember I still have a voice, “BRAM!!!” I scream. Tears seep into the towel pressed against my eyes. “BRAM!!!” I choke out, at the cusp of drowning in fear and anxiety. I try to throw my head back again, but the towel’s knot acts as a barrier. These men have me at their mercy. “Hey! You’re up, man!” the guy hollers. Oh no. No, no, no. At the sound of more footsteps approaching, fear clouds my mind again, and I struggle vehemently in his arms. The footsteps pause, and a heavy, stifling stream of sickly sweet smoke hits me in the face, causing me to struggle for air. To keep from inhaling, I tighten my mouth and hold my breath. “She needs more than that,” my captor insists. There’s a moment of strange silence following the admonition. Hesitation? “Come. On. Man,” he says through gritted teeth. “It’s too late to back out.” More silence. What’s going on? Why isn’t the other guy talking? The man holding me lets out an angry grunt. “Just give it here; I’ll handle it!” One arm frees from around my waist. A big hand grabs both of my small wrists and grips them together. The sound of a blunt’s tip stoking crackles as he inhales deep. Before I can react, his hand is on my forehead pushing my head back at an angle, and his mouth is hard on mine, blowing the smoke into my lungs. I try to wriggle my head free, but the angle and his hand placement make it difficult. He keeps his mouth firm, refusing to let me breathe out the smoke. The room swirls and shifts under my feet. One second his lips are on mine, the next I hear the thud of a punch, and he is flying away from my body. I land forward on my hands and knees, gasping and coughing. Pandemonium ensues. Male voices yell, and feet stomp and shuffle nearby. Several feet. This is my only chance to escape, so I pull the towel off and glance around to get my bearings. If I run past the kitchen and turn left, I’ll be at the door. My head swims, and I can see a blur of two bodies brawling on the ground near the futon. One more blur stands over them,
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attempting to break up the scuffle. Focusing is too difficult and time-consuming to catch a good look at their faces. The substance coursing through my blood makes the world feel like it’s dropping away under me; when I try standing to run, my legs won’t cooperate. I manage to crawl around the corner and reach the door. Willing myself to reach up and grab the doorknob, I pull myself to a standing position while turning the knob at the same time. The door opens, and I tumble out just as my vision wavers, and my legs give way again. Strong arms catch me as I go down, then blackness washes over me.
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