Envisioned (The Elemental Prophecy) (38 page)

Before our night of drinks and dancing, no doubt sponsored by some poor, clueless sap enraptured by Morgan’s charms, I have to attend my annual birthday dinner with my parents. They, too, are my opposites but that’s because they’re my adopted parents and are about as patient and good natured as it gets. It’s pretty evident that Chris and Donna are not my birth parents. The most obvious factor is that they’re Caucasian and I’m...
Unknown
. How’s 
that
 for an identity crisis? I never knew my birth parents and there is virtually zero information on them anywhere. Chris and Donna have tried to fill in the blanks but since I’ve been with them pretty much since birth, they are my real parents. And you can’t miss what you’ve never had.

I turn the faucet on and wait for the hot water to kick in before flicking on the shower. Once the steam begins to billow out from behind the shower curtain, I ease myself in and let the water wash away my weariness. I could stay in here for hours but I’ve got class this morning and can’t afford to be late again. Just a couple more months and I’ll have my useless Associates degree. 
Then what?
 A 10% raise from minimum wage? I shake the question out of my head to avoid further frustration at my indecisiveness and finish showering.

After selecting a pair of jeans, a fitted t-shirt and some athletic shoes, I opt to keep my long, wavy hair down in observance of my special day. I usually flat iron it to tame the volume and loose curls but the clock is telling me it’s not happening today. I apply some mascara, a little loose powder & lipgloss. I’m not really high-maintenance but I
am
 a girl after all.

“Good morning, Gabi!” my mom squeals from the kitchen as she pours some pancake batter onto the griddle. She’s beaming, her blue eyes sparkling with pride and affection. Her blonde hair is cut into a chin length bob, courtesy of Morgan, and she’s wearing yoga pants and an athletic top. Donna teaches yoga and Pilates at a local gym so to say she is in shape is an understatement. She’s got a killer physique but doesn’t plague us with gym-rat propaganda or deprive us of our favorite foods, Thank God. I just regret that I’m usually too dreadfully hungover on the weekends to attend any of her classes.

“Geez, thanks, Mom,” I feign embarrassment as I grab the fresh fruit smoothie that Donna makes for me daily. It’s her one healthy contribution to my diet that I’ll accept because I actually like them. She can keep those funky teas and wheat grass crap though. 
Ick.

“So the big 2-0, eh, Kiddo? Any special plans?” my dad asks from behind this morning’s Colorado Springs Gazette.

Chris's sandy brown hair is meticulously styled and he’s sharply dressed in his usual suit and tie. Being a Senior Engineering Project Manager at Lockheed Martin, he definitely looks the part: handsome, well-groomed and to outsiders, intimidatingly commanding. But to me, he’s the big softie that used to make blanket forts with me as a kid and cry at every one of my grade school play performances, even if I was just a tree.

“Other than slumming it with you two?” I smile. “Not really. Probably go out later with Morgan.”

“Sounds like fun, what time should I be ready?” he chuckles, winking a brown eye at me.

Not many people get to see this side of Chris. Being retired Air Force and a former boxer in his youth, people are usually quite intimidated by him. The same has been said about me, which has secretly made me wonder if he and I could really share the same bloodline.

“Looks like another brutal attack, honey,” Chris says impassively. Donna gives him a sideways glance and then shakes her head solemnly. “You girls better be careful tonight. And take your Mace,” he peers at me from over the paper.

That was more for Donna’s reassurance. Chris has trained me in hand to hand combat since I was old enough walk and he knows I can handle myself against any assailant. I’ve proven myself enough times in fights growing up, whether it was the typical mean girl or some ass-grabbing douchebag.

“Sure, dad,” I say digging into my birthday pancakes and bacon.

Classes are the same tedious, humdrum ramblings of useless information. Many of the students are buzzing about the latest ‘Ice pick Murder’ and there are even rumors of the campus closing until further notice. A third young girl was found dead from what seems to be thin stab wounds around the neck and chest. It’s as if the psycho was purposely aiming for the jugular. A shiver runs down my spine and I glance around me as I read quietly in the atrium between classes.

“Happy Birthday, Beautiful,” a deep, velvety voice murmurs.

I look up to find my good friend, Jared, beaming down at me. We’ve been close since high school and I’ve always been drawn to his laid back demeanor and sincerity. Being over 6 feet tall, with sparkling emerald eyes and a hard, muscular body, Jared is clearly more than a catch. His humble, good natured attitude makes him that much more attractive. He could have gone off to any college of his choosing to play soccer but when his mom was diagnosed with breast cancer 3 years ago, he opted to stay local. He is just an all-around good guy and one of the few people I genuinely love.

Jared sits then pulls a little box out of his backpack and hands it to me tentatively. I’m tempted to stow it and open it at another time when I’m more equipped to handle my vulnerability but I don’t want to offend him. I open the box and inside lays a little silver picture frame, enclosing a photo of Jared and me in the 9th grade. I was new and quickly made enemies among the popular girls who felt threatened by me and Jared willingly took me under his wing. The picture was taken outside of my house, when Jared picked me up (chauffeured by his older brother, James) for the Fall Formal. I wore a dark plum dress, my long, dark curls cascading down my back. My Dulce de Leche complexion looked clear and radiant though I was visibly anxious standing next to a dapper young Jared in my department store frock. Even then, Jared was handsome: chestnut hair, bright smile and glittering green eyes.

“Oh Jared...I love it,” I choke, my voice trembling.
Do not cry...You better not freakin’ cry!

He really is one of my oldest, dearest friends. And while I may have admired his good looks in secret, our friendship is exceedingly more important than any romantic possibilities. I quell the foreign thoughts and clear my throat in an over-exaggerated manner.

“Glad you like it. So, um, any plans for tonight?” The static in the air from the tender moment swirls and sticks to us like humidity and I’m thankful for the changed subject.

“Dinner with the folks, drinks downtown...You game?”

“Hell yeah!” he exclaims and we fall back into being normal.

Dinner is at an upscale steakhouse in downtown Colorado Springs and Chris spares no expense. It’s dimly lit, plush and I get a whiff of mouthwatering meats, leather and big spenders as we are greeted by the prim and polished hostess. I immediately regret simply upgrading my shirt and replacing my white tennis shoes with plain black heels. From what I can see, most of the women are donned in cocktail dresses in rich, lush fabrics with the killer heels to match. Morgan would not be pleased with me if she could see me now.

“This is a special occasion, how about some wine, Kiddo?” Chris asks once we are seated. He isn’t overly strict and knows that I enjoy the occasional drink (or 2 or 3 or 8), but he’s never offered alcohol outside the privacy of our home.

“Sure, dad,” I reply, shyly, as if I’m 12 again, sneaking a taste of cheap, water-downed beer.

Chris orders a delicious, full-bodied bottle of red that I’m sure is substantially pricier than the $5 grocery store libations that I’m used to. It’s the perfect combination of sweet and tart and feels like silk in my mouth. I let my eyes close and feel the smooth liquid slide down my throat. When they reopen, I notice that I am being watched by a set of sad grey eyes. When I return her gaze, the young beautiful woman at a nearby table returns her attention to her mundane house salad. Her date, a much older and rounder gentleman, digs into his Porterhouse in ecstasy, his mock napkin bib catching droplets of grease and steak sauce. I instantly feel sorry for her; she’s so slender, her pale skin clings to her protruding bones like glass wrapped in silk. It’s evident that her waifish figure is no accident as she looks at her partner’s saturated fat-laden plate in longing. Like Jared says,
‘Homegirl needs a sandwich.’
I smile at our little inside joke, thankful that though I wouldn’t consider myself skinny, I’m fit, strong, and comfortable in my own skin. Nope, I’m not a salad-eating chick.

“So Gabriella, any more thoughts about your plans after graduation?” Donna inquires, breaking me from my reverie. She is simply asking me; not nagging like most parents would when questioning their child about the future. Chris and Donna have never done that. They’ve always taught me to live for today because tomorrow is not promised. Now looking back at my underwhelming list of achievements, I’m wondering if they were too laid back.

“Not sure yet, still considering the military. I just don’t think I can do another 2 years of college without having some sort of real passion for something. Plus I’d love to travel and see the world,” I reply as our waiter places luscious entrees of steak and lobster before us.

“Just let me know and I’ll go see the recruiter with you, Gabi,” Chris chimes in before digging in with enthusiasm.

Colorado Springs is a true military town. Housing Peterson AFB, Schriever AFB, the Air Force Academy and Fort Carson, just about every person in town has some connection to the military. For that reason, the city is bustling with the arrival of new people and businesses.

“Honey, your dad and I have a little something we’d like to give you to help you celebrate your big day,” Donna says towards the end of our sumptuous meal, her gentle eyes gleaming with pride.

She hands me a yellow envelope and an elaborately decorated gift bag. I open the card and 3 crisp 100 dollar bills spill out onto the white tablecloth. I look up in surprise; surely dinner is more than enough. Chris and Donna smile warmly, yet there’s a hint of something else. Sadness maybe? They urge me to open my gift and I store the card in my bag to read later to avoid a public outburst of tears. Inside the adorned bag lies a beautiful Coach bag and matching wallet. I squeal with glee and jump out of my seat to hug them. Just as I pull away from their loving embrace, I hear the familiar mantra of the Happy Birthday song. 
Oh no!
 I cringe but my parents are so happy I can’t bear to groan in annoyance. I graciously accept my decadent piece of chocolate cake and blow out the candle, genuinely thankful for the overwhelming amount of love that surrounds me.

Once back at home, I scurry to my room to prepare for my night out. Dinner has lasted longer than expected with the copious amounts of food and wine and I know Morgan will be here soon. Right on cue, the doorbell rings. Donna answers the door and I hear the click clack of Morgan’s Louboutins approach my bedroom.

“Happy Birthday, Bitch!” she squeals holding up a bottle of Moet from her designer bag.

Only Morgan could look this stunning coming straight from her part time job at a high end salon. She’s wearing a tight one shoulder coral mini dress and dangerously high heels. Her hair of the month, a long sleek jet black ponytail, sweeps her backside with each exaggerated movement. She’s also brought a rolling carry-on that houses an array of beauty arsenal, all ensuring that I’ll get the Morgan Pierre makeover magic treatment. She takes one look at the sleek black pants and flouncy black top I’ve laid out and cringes with disgust.

“Oh hell no, Gabs. This will not do you justice after I’m done with you. Here.” She fishes out something from her carry-on bag and tosses it to me. It’s a sexy black lace dress from one of Morgan’s favorite stores, meaning it is way out of my modest price range. “It’s yours,” she smiles, showing off her magnificent, gleaming white teeth.

I get a glimpse of the attached price tag, realizing that it’s about three times more than I’ve ever paid for a dress. “Morgan, I can’t accept this! It’s too much!”

“You can and you will. And you will rock the hell out of it! Now let’s get you ready so we can go turn some heads,” she says sitting me down and getting to work.

When Morgan is done creating her masterpiece, I almost don’t recognize myself. My creamy skin looks flawless and my gleaming hazel eyes are accented by shimmering kohl. My lips are perfectly pouty and glossed and my onyx hair cascades in soft ringlets down my back. I smile my approval and Morgan hands me a glass of the champagne that she’s expertly popped without alarming my parents. We toast to my birthday and her hard work and then head out to conquer the night.

We step into the lounge bar, surpassing the line of waiting customers huddled together trying to keep warm in the frigid night air. It’s March so the temperature is still quite low, plummeting as soon as the sun sets. Of course, Morgan knows the doorman and he lets us right in. We bound up to the hostess station where we are escorted to a VIP table behind a red velvet rope. When Morgan goes out, she goes 
all
 out! Chilled champagne and glasses are stationed at the little table centered between plush leather couches. The lounge is draped in rich jewel tones and emanates a sexy Middle Eastern vibe. The lighting is a dim rose tint and I instantly sway my hips to the sensual tunes bumping from the speakers. The place oozes eroticism and I love it. I try hard not to look overly impressed and dazzled but can’t wipe the stupid grin off my face. Already feeling the warm effects from the champagne, I let my steely façade roll down and replace it with a carefree smile. 
This is my night
.