fingertips began to burn. She blinked, yanking with all of her might, but to no avail. They grew hotter and hotter and, finally, she screamed.
In a fit of painful terror, she yanked herself to the right, attempting to turn around and flee, even if it meant that her fingers would remain melted, glued to the door that she couldn’t seem to let go. But her feet were also glued to the spot.
She could not move, and the heat was rising through the floor into the soles of her shoes. The flames from the room drew closer, one of them reaching out to lick her cheek in a fiery kiss. Her toes grew warm, and then hot, the pain matching in intensity to the pain in her fingers.
She screamed and screamed, hoarse with the effort to release the agony within her through the roars she issued forth. She was no longer able to do anything but stand there and suffer. Behind her, somehow coming in louder than her own bellows, came Cassie’s casual words. “Sweetie, where’s the pie? White berry pie. Crap, Max ate it all.”
Annabelle awoke from the nightmare with a scream that hit the walls and was muffled by their sound-proof qualities. But she’d been heard, nonetheless.
Within seconds, the door to the second guest room crashed open and Jack came barging into the room, closely followed by Dylan, who’d stripped down to just his jeans. His hair was a mess and his eyes were red. He must have come directly from the bed of his own guest suite.
Jack, on the other hand, was dressed from head to toe in solid black, as usual, and didn’t appear to be the least bit tired.
He was at Annabelle’s side, fast as lightning. She lay there in the bed, looking up at him and breathing heavily, her chest hitching painfully. “Oh God, oh God, Jack –”
Jack said nothing, but pulled her into his arms for the second time that day. Annabelle buried herself in his chest and shut her eyes tight against the tears. Remnants of the dream lingered about her, touching her fingers and toes with a warning tingle. They felt warm, despite the fact that she shook terribly, as if chilled to the bone.
Eventually, Jack lessened his hold and pulled back slightly so that he could look down at her. Dylan remained where he was, watching from the foot of the bed, his expression a mixture of worry and emotional exhaustion.
Slowly and steadily, all uncomfortable sensation left Annabelle’s body. At the same time, a sense of well- being and strength stole over her, erasing the unease of her dream as if by magic.
Jack’s eyes flashed with keen intelligence, taking in the change in her expression with an expert’s recognition. “Bella, you need to eat something.” His tone was soft, his voice steady.
Annabelle looked from him to Dylan and then back again. The last of the tingling in her extremities faded into comfortable nothingness and, as she sat there, she began to feel very light. The bed seemed to shift beneath her. Whether she had stopped shaking or not, she couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. At that very moment, nothing mattered. Gloriously, mercifully, forgivingly – nothing.
Because she was high as a kite and she knew it. No food for twenty-four hours, a brisk run, and ten milligrams of hydrocodone, and she was on another planet.
It felt good.
She laid her head back down against Jack’s chest and mumbled, under her breath, “There is no greater pleasure than the cessation of pain.”
“Right. Definitely, food.” Jack didn’t wait for any kind of response this time. Instead, he stood, taking her with him. He carried her easily from the room, as if she weighed nothing at all. And that was exactly how Annabelle felt. Weightless. She lay in his arms as he moved from room to room, and she stared up at the ceiling as it passed her by. It was beautiful. The architecture was ingenious, was it not? All those long flat planes and perfect right angles and crown molding and textured paint jobs…
“Dylan, would you mind?” Jack said.
Annabelle heard Dylan come forward, doing something that she couldn’t quite see. Probably moving a pillow from the couch, because that was where Jack set her down. And then the man in black disappeared and Annabelle was staring at Dylan, who was draping a blanket over her. She curled into the blanket, noticing the texture of the fabric against the skin on her bare arms. It felt so
Jack was back, holding a plate in one hand. In the other was a glass of white liquid. Milk of some kind.
“Toast and soy milk, Bella.” He handed her the plate and she took it.
Annabelle looked down at the toast. It looked like the most unappetizing thing she’d ever laid her eyes upon. In fact, she realized, she had no desire to eat anything, much less dry toast. Not even the thought of chocolate stoked her interest. She just wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t interested in eating. She wanted to do something else – something more fun. Like sky diving.
“Eat it, Bella.” Jack’s tone was more insistent, this time. His voice, lower. Annabelle looked up into his eyes. It was a mistake. That blue-fire gaze was so compelling. She found herself lifting the toast to her mouth and taking a bite.
“Blech,” she said, the toast bland and crumbly on her dry tongue. “It tastes like crap.”
“It’s all I have at the moment,” he told her calmly, his voice soft. “And it tastes like crap because you’re high.” He took the plate from her and handed her the glass of soy. “How much Vicodin did you take, luv?”
“One pill,” she answered, before putting the glass to her lips. She took a few swallows, and though it was at least wet, it was as tasteless as the toast had been. She lowered the glass and met Jack’s penetrating gaze. “And don’t start with me, Jack. We have more important things to discuss.”
She was incredibly cogent for someone whose system was running on nothing but pain killer and endorphins, but that was hydrocodone for you. She handed the glass back to Jack. He took it without saying anything and put it and the plate on the coffee table beside him.
“You’re right.” He turned to Dylan then and leveled that same penetrating gaze onto the teenager. Dylan shifted where he stood, his bare feet sinking into the thick white pile of the plush carpet beneath him.
“Where is the laptop, Dylan?”
Dylan looked from Jack to Annabelle, who also waited expectantly. And then he sighed, apparently deciding that he had little choice, at the moment, but to trust Jack Thane. After all, it was obvious that Annabelle did. And Dylan trusted
“I hid it on campus. There’s a bridge over the river that students paint in. The panels are decorated by different groups. The laptop is behind one of the panels.”
“I know the bridge you’re talking about. It crosses the Mississippi,” Annabelle said as she curled more deeply into her blanket. She just couldn’t get over how great the material felt against her skin. “I love that bridge.”
The bridge Dylan referred to was a walk-way, meant for pedestrians only, though some bicyclists used it as well. It was composed of dozens of square panels on both sides, and each panel was painted in a different and interesting way by the various groups and clubs on campus. One was dedicated to the Black Engineers. Another belonged to a lesbian organization. Still others bore religious references. And so forth. Crossing the bridge was an education, unto itself, if you did it slowly and took time to read.
“Okay,” Jack said, forming his words as carefully as he formed his thoughts. “I need to know exactly which panel.” He turned his full attention on Dylan, even turning his body to face his. “I’ll have to retrieve it tonight.”
Dylan swallowed, and looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the amount of information he was sharing with Jack. But, again, he gave in to the inevitable and sighed, running a hand through his thick hair. “Fifteenth panel on the right. Under the rainbow.”
Jack nodded, once, and turned back to Annabelle. “How are you feeling?”
“Great,” she answered, smiling. It was true. She wasn’t looking forward to the medication wearing off, but at the moment, she felt a bit like Superwoman. No physical pain, no mental anguish, no sense of what it felt like to be human at all, actually. It was heaven.
Jack sighed, his dark blue eyes scanning her face as if he were searching for something he couldn’t find. As he did so, a thought occurred to Annabelle. If she hadn’t been high, it might have been a difficult issue to bring up, but as she was presently, it seemed like nothing more than a curiosity.
“Jack, are they going to do an autopsy?”
Jack blinked, momentarily taken aback by the directness of the question and the abrupt change of subject. And then he nodded. “Yes. And they’ll find nothing out of the ordinary.”
“You mean they’ll find that he committed suicide by overdosing on Klonapin?” she asked, shaking her head. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I told you, I’ve taken that before. It works slowly. At least, it always did for me.” She
