Page 157 of Rush of Jealousy

Graham rinses out the conditioner and then takes a wide-toothed comb and brushes through my damp hair, removing tangles and playing with the locks. It feels divine.

“Do I need to go to the police station to write a report or something on the incident?”

“Collins is providing all of your contact information and if any witnesses need to produce a statement, they will be contacted. However, Austin had a clearer view of what went down, so his testimony would most likely trump yours.”

I nod. “Everything happened so fast. It was like I wasn’t even there.”

He kisses my forehead, running his hands down my arms that are buried under the water. “I don’t even want to imagine what my life would be without you in it.”

Graham dries me off, wraps me into a fluffy robe, and hands me my toothbrush already loaded with paste. When I finish brushing, he carries me to bed. The covers are already pulled back and waiting for me to bury myself inside.

Graham joins me on the other side and settles himself behind me. He wraps his arms around me. “I love you,” he whispers into my ear.

“I love you too.”

And then we drift off to sleep.

28

The feel of the heat wakes up my senses. I move my head to the left, slowly opening my eyes. I blink hard. Through the moonlit darkness, I see the crimson liquid pour from his hairline at the temple. Suddenly eyes shoot open and stare at me through the blackness. Chocolate brown eyes. Beautifully eerie and mimicking mine. I jerk back and feel the coldness of the blowing air. The pain stemming from my lower back surges, making me groan and double over from the pressure.

No. No. No.

This can’t be happening. Not again. I move my attention back to the body. A perfect body—now broken. The tremors start from my core, as my stomach twists from the sight. I find myself on the carpeted floor, crawling to the door in the corner of the room. I need a toilet.

Oh, shit! I make it to my feet. My hands press on the door to open it. A closet! My torso doubles over, my face staring at my knees in the darkness. I straighten myself and find another doorway. The light seeping out from under it helps me find the handle. I turn.

Nooo…

The pool of blood on the floor makes me crumble into a heap. I can feel the moisture saturating my skin. I blindly wipe it off, feeling it spreading instead. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the only thing I can see are the brown ones staring back—the whites filling with a vibrant crimson red. All the beauty gone…lifeless.

James!

My body lurches up in bed, the feeling of sweat dripping off my brow. Another nightmare. It was just a nightmare. I pat my hand to the other side of the bed, finding it empty. A door flies open, and a dark figure rushes to my side, fumbling with something on the nightstand.

“Fuck.”

The light switches on, illuminating my shaking body. I pull my knees up to my chest, my head resting on top, rocking back and forth. I am naked, except for the blanket covering my lower half.

“Sweetheart, what happened? You alright? You had a bad dream about last night?”

“Not from last night.” From the accident that took James away from me—the source of most of my nightmares.

Tears fly angrily out of my eyes as I remember the color of blood. My stomach dry heaves, warning me of what is next. I dart out of bed, searching the room for the bathroom, finding a series of doors, all closed. I shudder at the déjà vu feeling, still unsure of what is real or not. I have been in this bedroom many times, and I am struggling to find the bathroom. It is like my brain is having connectivity issues.

Graham’s body shadows mine as he sees my dilemma and confusion over my surroundings. He pushes around me, taking me by the arm, opening the middle door in the back of the bedroom with ample speed. I hear a blur of soothing words—followed by a series of unintelligible curse words—none of them registering as being coherent. I fall over the open porcelain bowl, feeling my hair being pulled back from my sweaty neck. I retch the acid and bile from my system, grimacing and crying over the vinegar aftertaste. I grip the seat, my body lunging forward with each heave. Tears streak down my face, dripping into the water. I push away from the toilet, closing the lid and hitting the handle to flush. I slide to the floor, pressing my heated face to the cold tiles.

“No, please, leave me here to die,” I whine, feeling my naked body being tugged upward. “Please…I need to die alone.”

I hear a rustle and then padding and the creak of the door. I curl up in a naked ball and welcome the shivers penetrating through me, calming down the flaming heat. Seconds later, Graham is back—going against my wishes, of course—and has me lifted into a soft blanket and transported out the door. I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror in passing, cringing at my blotchy skin and swollen eyes. He carries me downstairs and into the living room, placing me on the sofa and handing me a mug of hot cider.

I whisper a “thank you,” barely recognizing the scratchiness of my own voice.

The TV is on with the local news channel covering the scene at The Shack. I listen as several reporters talk about the fireworks going off inside—causing the mass chaos as patrons tried to escape.

My forehead wrinkles over this discovery. “Fireworks?”

“Yes."

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