Page 7 of Haunted

“Fuckin’ hell,” I mutter as the bright light of the bathroom stabs at my aching head.

I walk to the sink, turn on the tap, and splash cold water on my face. Lifting my head, I look at my reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes stare back at me. I have rings under my eyes, and my black hair looks fucking wild.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and memories of the dream rush behind my closed lids.

When the dreams started back up again a couple months ago, they were different than the ones I had before. The woman was always the same and so was the dark setting with the tiny sparks of light. She never spoke, but I always felt her eyes on me.

This dream was even more different. It was outside in the broad light of day. In a place I know well. What that means, I have no idea. I just wish it would stop.

I used to only have one every couple of months, but since they returned, I have them several times a week. Before tonight, my last one was two nights ago. It’s fucking with my sleep, meaning, I’m not getting much, and it pisses me off.

Why can’t she just tell me what in the fuck she wants from me? Even if she only needs help in my dream and she’s not out there somewhere powerless and in dire need, she could at least tell me what in the hell she needs me to do.

I push away from the sink, start the shower, and don’t wait for the spray to warm before I step inside. The cold water hits my sweaty body. Bowing my head, I step under the showerhead until the water meets my shoulders. The cold distracts me from the haunted amber eyes and my unanswered questions.

Once the water warms, I lift my shoulders a few times and twist my head back and forth to loosen the tense muscles. I stay that way for a while, until the throbbing in my head lessens. The pain in my chest is still there, but that too has tapered slightly.

Turning the water off, I step out and grab a towel. Wrapping it around my waist without drying off, I leave the bathroom and go to my closet, where I find a pair of jogging pants. After slipping them on, I head toward the kitchen and the coffeepot on the counter, knowing there will be no more sleep for me.

I step to the window with my coffee cup in hand and look out into the darkness. The streetlights a couple houses down give just enough light to see littered and overgrown yards. The houses aren’t much better with their peeling paint, dilapidated porches, and cracked windows.

I turn my head to the side and look at the bookshelf that has my collection of books and CDs. Further to the left is my flat-screen TV. It’s not huge, but it’s not small either by any standards. Beneath it is my Xbox console and games. Behind me is my brown suede couch and love seat, with a recliner between the two. There’re tables at the end of the love seat and couch. Itwasn’t an expensive set, but it’s still a nice one. My kitchen has matching dishes and pots and pans that I bought at an outlet store. My bedroom set matches too, but again, it’s another department store purchase, nothing fancy.

I’ve worked my ass off on changing this house from a two-bedroom, two-bathroom dump into a decent-looking home. My yard has green grass, and I cut it weekly. The outside was freshly painted two years ago, and my porch is level.

My parents worked hard all their life to ensure my brother, sister, and I had everything we needed. We may have not gotten the stuff wewanted, but we always had food on our table and clean clothes on our backs.

As an adult, I may not have the finest things in life, but I live comfortably, even if I am surrounded by shady shit all day long. I’m happy where I am, and I’m happy knowing I’m in a situation where if my family needs something, I can more than likely get it for them.

I turn away from the window and chug down the rest of my coffee before putting the cup in the sink. Leaving the kitchen, I walk to the garage where I have a weight bench. Lying back, I grip the bar, blow out a breath, and push upward. Straining sure as hell doesn’t help my head, but it feels fucking great on my muscles.

It also pushes away the vision of a woman with sorrow in her amber eyes.

I SLIP MY WALLET IN my jeans and have just swiped my keys off the bar when there’s a knock at the door. Irritation has me stalking over and yanking it open. As soon as I see the small person on the other side, my snarled words die in my throat and somethingwarm fills my chest.

“Hey, Uncle Luca,” Aria, my six-year-old niece, chirps as she bounces past me into the living room. I turn and watch as she beelines it to the kitchen where I know she’ll ransack my cabinets for any sweets.

I turn back to the door just as my twin brother hits the bottom of the steps.

“What are you doing here, Theo?” I glance down at the phone in my hand. “The shop opens in thirty minutes.”

He blows out a breath as he takes the last couple of steps.

“I know,” he answers. “We won’t be long. I haven’t had a chance to go to the grocery store in the last week, and we ran out of bread for her lunch today.”

I clench my jaw and push back my need to growl. This isn’t the first time he’s had to come to mine, Ella’s, or our parents’ to get food for Aria. Theo tries, but he’s just never been a good single dad. Sure, he loves Aria; you can see it in his eyes when he looks at her, but when it comes to caring for her and providing her the things she needs, he does a shit job. I can’t count how many times we’ve had to get groceries for them or buy her clothes that actually fit her. Lord knows what would happen to the girl if we weren’t around.

“Fine,” I bite out, then spin on my heel to make sure Aria grabs herself something healthy.

“Why isn’t she in school already?” I ask over my shoulder. “It started a couple of hours ago.”

“His alarm didn’t go off.” Aria supplies the answer before Theo can.

Again, I have to force back a nasty remark. I’ve had many conversations with Theo about the terrible job he’s doing raising his daughter, but I refuse to do it in front of Aria.

I walk over and grab a loaf of bread and the peanut butter before going to the fridge for the jelly. I step beside Aria at the counter to make her sandwich as she pulls grapes from theirvines and stuffs them in a baggy; every few she plops one in her mouth. With a father like Theo, she’s been forced to grow up faster than her almost seven years.

“Gimme,” I tell her, and bend over with my mouth open.

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