A Wicked Choice (3 page)

All of their hands went into the air.

“Is that all of your truth
s
or did you do it in response to your neighbor?”

All of the hands fell by their sides.

“Let’s try this again. Who wants to try out an earthly existence
,
while the others
abide here with K? There are no wrong answers here.”

The collective looked at one another and shrugged. Several put up their hands. A few shook their heads. A couple
of them
appeared completely bewildered, as if nothing made sense any more.

K2 had his hand high. C2 kept hers
by
her side. He looked at her and frowned. “Are you saying you don’t want to try this with me?”

“No
,
love. I have no interest.”

“Will you still be here when I resume existence here?”

“Always,” she replied, sweeping her hand along his face.

“It’s settled then. We are to become a collective of individuals. What do you think
,
K?”

K scratched the side of his face. “I think this is going to be a complete mess, but what else do we have to do? I’ll travel back and forth as need be. But I will
never
be apart from you
in your heart
, do you hear me?
Never.”

C’s eyes filled with tears. “I couldn’t stand it if you were not a part of this experiment.” She put her hands up to K’s face, leaving them a millimeter away from his skin.

He closed his eyes as the energetic bliss rolled off her fingertips and
filled
his heart
with love
. “
Mon amour
…” he said softly.

“How delicious,” one of the Galaxy Dancers said.

“I think he’s given in too quickly. He needs to keep a firm hand with her.”

“
I agree.
He’s
caving in to her demands
.”

“Well, she needs to stick up for herself more with him. This has been a long time coming!”

Realizing what was happening, the group glanced at one another in bewilderment.
“What’s happening to us?” they said in unison, resuming their point of comfort.

“You’re
evolving,
” C said tenderly. “It’s going to be okay.” She sent a
shielded
solo thought to K.
Tell me it’s going to be okay, love.

We can only hope,
sexy girl
. When evolution happens, it can be disconcerting and chaotic, like that star fragment.

Yes, but remember the result of my hitting that star fragment.

His eyes shone tenderly.
I am looking at the result.
He flicked his mischievous gaze over at her lovely body, then at his sex-appendage, once more glittering with light.
But
in truth, we know not what will happen.

Feeling a tug at her corporeal form
,
she experienced a moment of alarm. “It’s happening, K. My intention set the process
in motion already!
”

“Wait a moment!” K appealed. “We have much to discuss! I want to teach you more about Earth policies and Earth rules and the like!”

C’s form began to get transparent. “I’m sorry, K, I can’t stop what I’ve set in motion.”

The collective began talking in a cacophony of sound. Their previous unity was broken.

“Get back to unity. We can keep her from leaving if we work together!” someone called.

“It’s too late! It’s like she said. The process has begun via the spoken word and intention!”

“I don’t like this…any of it,” cried another.

They all watched in horror as C slowly disappeared
from sight
.

K
’s
heart was being shattered.
A jagged tear formed in the front of his torso. B
roken pieces of
crystalline heart
exploded out of his now torn apart chest. He threw back his head in agony. “It’s too soon, sexy girl.”

“I’m sorry, K! I’m so sorry,” she said, as she
became
completely
transparent
.

The Galaxy Dancers, no longer held together by their core, wafted apart, reaching for one another without success.

“Just do one thing, mon amour,” K cried. “Whatever you do, don’t fall in love with an earthling.” He frantically looked around him to see where she had gone. “Can you hear me? Did you hear what I said?
This is important!
Can you hear me, C? C? Can you hear me?
” When there was no reply,
hot
tears emerged from his eyes and floated away into the starry surroundings
, as the remains of his shattered heart drifted out of his chest
.

~~~*~~~

If you enjoyed reading about K and C and the Galaxy Dancers, please read on to
explore
their lives in Book I of the Wicked Series
.

About the Author

The Fun Part: Calinda B was told early on that she should be a writer. She heard frequent praise for her writing, as well as her sense of humor. Scoffing at such admonitions and praise, she went on to pursue her life of adventure, chock full of the things that make up a well-rounded adventurous life: music (
yup, she was a singer in a rock and roll band
), dance (
even performed hip hop in Russia
), rock climbing (
ever hung from a rock wall a few stories up? Yikes!
), fire walking (
taught high-ranking Moscow fire officials how to walk the coals
), kayaking, scuba diving (
she's in love with sharks
), travel, and falling in love again and again.

Living in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with the love of her life and her two cats, she has now chosen to put fingers to keyboard and write - when she's not in pursuit of another adventure!

The Daily Grind: College educated, Calinda B has worked in the world of computers and technology for a long time. Before that she worked in the world of health and fitness. Throughout her career she has relied on her writing abilities to write articles, ad copy and web content.

"
A Wicked Awakening is a must read....it awakens memories of soul connections that we crave and it quenches our inner-beast's desire for loin-quivering, heart-quickening narrative." - Meloney Hudson, author
 
of
 
Sexy, Spirited and Strong: Becoming a Positive Energy Woman, producer of television shows and commercials

Chérie “Cheerio” Manhattan leads an active, picturesque life with the love of her life, Cam. A dance and aerobics instructor at her local community center, Cheerio is well-loved by her students, but taken advantage of by her boss and co-workers. Cam hates her inability to stick up for herself, wishes she was stronger. Little does he know how strong she really is…Cheerio meets a mysterious, gorgeous man during a night out dancing with her best friend. “Sexy girl,” he whispers as he grabs her from behind, swaying with her to the music, causing waves of electric pleasure to flood her body. Disappearing as fast as he appeared, Cheerio tells herself he mistook her for someone else, and goes about her life as Cam’s shy and reserved girl. But she can’t stop thinking of that tall, mysterious, dark-haired man who made her feel sensations
she never knew she could feel…

Following that encounter, bewildering dreams and strange encounters herald life changing events. One night after a terrifying incident at her community center, Cheerio dreams of painful, long buried childhood memories. Rocked to the core, Cheerio begins experiencing very strange things, and that mystifying man returns to her life, claiming to be there to help her save
her life, her heart from evil…

Fumbling to find herself and her power,
Cheerio
finds out much more about her past, present, and future than she ever dreamed possible. Her incredible strength, her passion, her voice, and her innocence can only be found with the mystery man’s help…and through a wicked awakening.

This book is rated R and intended for mature audiences.

Last night, when I was tucked in between the sheets of twilight and dawn, I wonder if plans were being made, transactions secured, and documents being sent to the cosmos with the name Cheerio Manhattan stamped in bold in the header. Perhaps the floating islands of the cosmic sea had shifted in subtle ways along their orbits, causing fragments of stardust to twirl my way. Maybe spiral arms of gas and dust had morphed into a new galaxy causing shimmering light waves of disruptive energy to surge towards my house. Or maybe life was just rolling along the way it was meant to – with surprise and wonder. What I do know is that I awoke with cheer in my heart to the sun kissing my shoulders, two cats kneading my stomach with their stiletto-like paws, and absolutely no sense of foreboding or anxious anticipation for the changes that were heading my way.

As a child, I often didn’t wake in such good spirit. Frequently, I felt a vague disturbance lodged deep inside of me, festering like a pool of decaying poison. Sometimes, late at night, I could feel this sense of darkness just out of reach. It whispered to me. It cajoled. It beckoned. It appeared as a nebulous sense of unease, a memory just out of reach. At night, when the shadowy gloom threatened to whip me into a state of anxiety, I conjured up images of wildflowers – fields of yellow blossoms, swaying softly in the bright sun. Only then could I sleep.

I was thinking about this as I walked…ran, really…from the parking lot to teach my aerobics class. I’m not really a walker. Can’t seem to stand still. Instead, I bounced along, a tiny frown upon my face; my thoughts wrapped around my cryptic, dark past as I headed to a neighborhood of Seattle, Washington known as the U-District. The district is a tidy, middle class mix of long established homes, coffee shops, and offbeat clothing stores. Huge, evergreen trees stand in majestic spires. The houses along the street boast timeworn gardens that trail over rock walls. The gardens stream color bursts that cascade and flow like blossom-laden water rolling over rocks in a bountiful creek. I pause for a minute to inhale their beauty and fragrance. There’s nothing like a Northwest garden on a warm summer day. Then, I turn, look up, and see the non-descript brown brick building where I teach Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

I’m not just any aerobics instructor, mind you, but a kick-ass, in-your-face, line-out-the-door aerobics instructor. While most of the time, I’m shy and hesitant, stuttering over words when confronted, fading into the background in crowds, as an aerobics instructor, I’m told I’m awesome. I tend to dismiss such praise; all I know is that I love teaching aerobics. It is, in my estimation, perhaps the only thing at which I excel.

You’d never have guessed that I’d become an aerobics instructor. As a teen, I shrank from all sports, hated gym class. The asthma I had as a child, and had nearly outgrown as a teenager, was always a useful excuse to get out of anything. “B-b-but Mr. Skol, I can’t run today. I can b-b-barely breathe,” I’d wheeze and whip out my inhaler. Mr. Skol always rolled his eyes and let me watch, instead of do. I’d stand on the edges of the playing field, hugging my stomach, wishing I were somewhere else. For team activities, I was always chosen with reluctance as a last resort. The team
leader would glance my way, look to see if he or she was mistaken, then shrug and wave a hand in my direction. Last one picked, every time. It was humiliating.

I shook my head, coming back to the present. “Come on back, Cheerio. Stop these gloomy thoughts.” I urge my 29-year-old body into a jog, semi-short strawberry-colored hair flying around me like a flame.

My given name isn’t really Cheerio. It’s Chérie Abella Manhattan. I adopted the Cheerio nickname in high school. In my junior year, our Advanced English class had a guest lecturer named Amelia Frances Goscelin. Ms. Goscelin, or “Gossy” as she requested to be called, was a fun and funny speaker whom we had all truly enjoyed. She spoke with passion and detail on the writings and upbringing of the Brontë sisters, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne, bringing their stories alive. I was fascinated by their tragic history. Raised by a violent father and a sickly mother, they found a way to channel their suffering into creativity. Charlotte found true love, married her love, and then died. At least she was happy in the end.

Then Gossy regaled us with stories of Louise Arner Boyd, an American explorer of Greenland and the Arctic. Louise Boyd became the first woman to fly over the North Pole. Defying stereotypes of what women could and should do, she traveled the Arctic, becoming a noteworthy and celebrated scientist. A legendary figure, I was captivated hearing her writing: “Polar bears, seals, musk oxen and foxes are there. The farthest north wireless station Eskimonaes (a village) where people live is far behind us. Hunters go little further north. The nearest settlement is Scoresby Sound and ahead of us the great icebergs and fields stretch. Cold? Yes, of course, but there’s unearthly grandeur about it all and I love it.” Louise Boyd truly lived a life of adventure.

We had all sat riveted to Gossy’s every word. When she left the classroom, she called out “Cheerio!” in her lilting British voice. My friends and I, social outcasts all, had taken to using the term when we hung up the phone on one another. Then, one day, one of my friends called me Cheerio, and the name stuck. I always liked the name. It made me feel wise and sophisticated like Ms. Goscelin, and it reminded me of women and their epic life stories.

Turning the corner, I arrive at the community center. Bouncing my lithe, greyhound of a body, clad in black spandex and red, black, and grey Puma athletic shoes, through the community center glass double door, I sail into the Big Room, #1A. It’s the biggest room in the community center. My classes are very popular, and we need the large space. I drop my vivid red and green cotton Guatemalan bag of CDs waiting to be transferred to my iPod, my iPod, and various workout clothes onto the floor, put the iPod into the dock, and feed a house beat disc into the machine. The thump, thump, thump bass beat fills the silence, and I immediately start my hop, hop, jump, twist, “gets the blood moving” warm up. The liquid of my being starts to pump through my arteries and veins, my muscles start to heat, and all thoughts of my dark past, and plans future, ebb into the distance. I am alive, awake, and present for the task at hand.

I love to dance, as in L.O.V.E. can’t live without it, love. When I dance, I can’t help but smile and laugh. I’ve never understood the serious dancers…you know, those people who politely
sway to the beat with a grim look on their faces. To me, dance is pure joy. The rhythm fills me. It’s like a primordial heartbeat filling my body with delight. I leap, reach, turn, jump, rise, and skip. I feel this soaring sensation, this roaring in my veins, and I’m just about to make a wide, flamboyant turn when a shrill, high-pitched voice calls out to me. My expansive moment immediately shrinks, pops, and disappears.

“Cheerio…” It’s Jill Primcott, the manager of the community center. Jill is a middle-aged woman, a bit ‘tight in the head’ if you ask me. She’s all about the numbers of paying customers and the schedule of classes and all the things I can’t be bothered with. I’m not sure if she really likes me…okay…
I KNOW she can’t stand me, but she knows I bring in the students. My classes are always overflowing, so she tolerates me. “Cheerio, can I have a moment?”

“Right now...?” I reply. “I only have a few minutes before students arrive.”

“This will only take a second. Pronto...”

I sigh and follow her high-heeled footsteps and jiggling body down the hall. Her hair, the texture and hue of dried liver, is pulled back severely in a bun. The result of this hair-do is a face as taut as cow hide stretched to breaking on a tanning rack. When she looks at me, I often feel a stab of fear. Those eyes are a cold black, like a frosty midnight on Halloween. Her massive behind quivers with each hammering clack of her high heel. It’s a wonder the heels don’t snap off, she steps so hard on the floor. As she pounds the floor, one foot points straight ahead and one turns in at an awkward angle as if she is attempting to trip herself. A funny image pops into my head as I picture the floor tiles cringing when they hear her approach. “Work as a team!” their tiny voices shriek from behind their stone faces. “Everyone, hands together!” they cry. I smother a smile at this image as Jill pushes the door of her office open and lumbers in, letting the heavy wooden door swing towards my face. My hands instinctively reach out to stop the door from slamming into my forehead. Furrowing my brow, I pause before her desk. Her dumpy frame, shrink-wrapped in a floral print dress, eases into the chair with a thud.

“Cheerio…” she says. She peers over the top of her glasses at me with a look that is both vile and contemptuous.

I am taken aback by her venomous look. What did I ever do to her?

“…I need to let you know that there’s been a change in the schedule and you are on for the week of August 3rd. You know we have the yearly Northwest Auction Gala fundraising event, and even though I know how much you hate big events, Kate and Sue can’t make it.”

“August 3rd!?” I say with a groan, and then quickly shut my mouth. Yikes! What am I thinking? I am not in the habit of talking back to a superior, or to anyone actually. Besides, Kate March and Sue Klink are Jill’s favorite employees. They are some kind of inseparable administrative assistants, under Jill’s beck and call. Who knows what they do? I never actually see them working. Darkly, I wonder what excuse they gave to get out of the fundraiser as my protest drifts, unnoticed,
to the floor. August 3rd is when I’m supposed to go away with Cam, my boyfriend of two years, on a rock climbing adventure. With my day schedule as an aerobics instructor and his studies, combined with his evening schedule as counselor for abusive men in recovery, we seldom get any Cheerio and Cam adventure time.

She abruptly interrupts me. “Wait, let me finish. There’s no other way. Done deal... I’ll give you the 12th through the 15th and that’s the best I can do.” She again looks up over her reading glasses and gives me a chilling glare. Her face appears evil and frightening as she glares at me. A strange halo of darkness surrounds her head for one brief second causing my eyes to widen in alarm. Then, she nods. I am dismissed. I slink down the hall to teach my class, head hanging, hoping that the floor tiles rebel and swallow Mrs. Primcott on her next stomp down the hall.

After class, I head for home in my beat up, barely breathing Red VW, to give Cam the bad news. We’ve been living together for about a year now and are still getting the kinks worked out of our relationship. Cam is a nice guy, comfortable in his own skin, with blond hair the color of wheat. He’s what most women would call a manly man – drinks his beer out of the bottle, thank you very much, confident with his physical abilities, doesn’t like to process feelings, but he does try to be kind and thoughtful. His hair is often unkempt with a fringe of bangs that hangs in his warm honey-hued brown eyes. Around 6’ 1”, Cam has a well-proportioned muscular build defined by years of rock climbing. His hands, in particular, are wiry and strong, as evidenced by his mastery of climbing holds, all requiring a viselike grip. His pleasantly handsome face, infused with boyish charm, looks up distractedly as I arrive home to our aging farm house dwelling.

Our two-story house, bequeathed me by a favorite uncle, is a treasure. With a faded, wooden exterior, peeling beige paint and huge, arched windows, it sits atop a hill, just north of Seattle. It overlooks a dense stand full of evergreen trees and rhododendrons out the kitchen window, a grassy front yard, a tree-lined pasture along the driveway, and a distant vista of pure, white peaks. On clear, rain-washed days we can see the Olympics out the living room window and the Cascades out the bedroom window. They are utterly breathtaking. A small flower garden popping with color grows just next to the front and side of the house. Inside, the walls are painted with vibrant oranges and reds in some rooms, and sea greens and blues in others. We have Art Nouveau vintage posters and batik wall hangings peppering the wall. I pick flowers from the garden as often as I can and put them in colorful glass vases in the kitchen and dining area. I love this old house. It’s lively and festive throughout. As I enter the front door, I glance around and smile.

“Hello, Cheerio,” Cam answers absentmindedly, pushing back his hair. He’s sitting in the small dining area surrounded by books about the cycles of violence in men and charts depicting something called the ‘Hearts and Flowers’ phase. Huge picture windows flank both corners of the paper strewn room. His laptop glows, awaiting its next task.

“Hello, Cam.” I plant a friendly kiss on top of his head.

My two cats, Mac and Jack (named after one of the best beers in the Pacific Northwest), stroll into the room. Now, you might think this is odd, but Mac and Jack speak to me using thought
bubble-like communication. I can understand them just fine. Mac and Jack are twin ruddy Abyssinians. Mac, a sturdy football player of a cat with short reddish hair ticked with black, rubs against my legs suggestively with all the ardor of a lover.

He’s been like that all day
, he thinks.

Head in the books
, Jack, his spry, sleek brother adds.

No time for rubs or treats
, Mac offers.

Can’t be bothered
, Jack continues.

When are you going to feed us?
Mac finishes. These boys get to the point of things as quick as a flicked whisker. Just give me the news and move on: that’s their motto. Mac flips his tail for emphasis and rubs his small cheek on the corner of the cupboard, watching as I retrieve the bag of cat food.