Protecting Shaylee (The Fae Guard Book 1) (2 page)

I finally reach the restored, five-story brownstone that I grew up in and bound up the stairs to the elegant, wood door. Through the beveled glass window, I can just see around the corner, into the formal living room, on the right.

Balloons. Damn!

“Mom!” I call out for her as I step inside, shaking off the cold and hanging my coat on the tree stand in the entry. She never listened before, when I told her I didn’t want a fuss made over my birthday, so why would she listen this year? I sigh and walk into the room. The front room is light and open, with a large bay window taking up the whole wall on the right side of the room, looking out onto the street. The wall across from the entrance holds an enormous fireplace. Two vintage, Hepplewhite chairs flank it on either side, matching the rest of the Victorian furniture. Across the large mirror, over the mantle, a sparkly sign boasts the words “Happy Birthday!” And, of course, those ridiculous balloons floating in the air, their thin strings tied to sconces scattered on the walls.

The left side of the room has a wide, open arch, leading into a beautiful dining room with wood-paneled walls and an elegant chandelier, shimmering in the sunlight. I wander into the room and groan when I see the long, oak table, set with china and crystal for eight people. Across from me, the small door, leading to the kitchen, swings open, and my mom bustles in with a tray of cookies and sweets, humming “Happy Birthday.”

Violet Bryden is almost my complete opposite. I am tall and slender; close to five foot ten inches with long, straight, white-blonde hair. She is a petite woman (a good six inches shorter than me), with chocolate-brown hair that is always twisted into an elegant chignon. Her Irish heritage shows in her pale skin; the smattering of freckles, strewn about her face. She has warm brown eyes in contrast with the bright blue of mine; so like my father’s. I am—in fact—his spitting image. I even inherited his unusual, white skin. Rather than tanning in the sunlight, we almost look as though we are luminous. There was no shortage of albino jokes, from my friends, growing up. See, even though my mother’s skin is pale, there is a pinkish hue to her skin, giving her a rosy, healthy glow.

She stops when she sees me, and her face brightens with an excited smile. “Shaylee!” She exclaims, “Happy Birthday, honey!” She sets down the tray and hurries around the table to envelope me in the warmth of her sunshine and the sweet smell of cinnamon. Mom always smells like she’s been baking. I hug her back, and inhale the aroma that always reminds me of home.

Once I step back, I give her a stern look. “I thought I told you no party. Again . . .” I’m not really mad, and I’m sure she knows it. I just don’t care for birthdays. Every year I feel as though I’m counting down to something that will change the course of my life.”
I like my life just the way it is, thank you very much!

Her cheeks actually take on a little tinge of red, and I giggle at her slightly guilty face. It lasts for only a moment before a twinkle appears in her eyes and she goes back to beaming at me. She knows that if I was truly upset, I would tell her. I don’t keep things from my mom. In fact, I don’t say anything I don’t believe. It just isn’t in my nature to be dishonest. So, I either say what’s on my mind, or keep my mouth firmly shut.

“How could you think we wouldn’t celebrate your twenty-first birthday?” She reaches up and puts a hand on either side of my face. “I can’t believe you’re so grown up. I’ve been excited—and dreading this day—for years.” Her eyes mist a little, and her smile turns almost wistful.

I laugh and take her hands down from my face, giving them a light squeeze. “You act like turning twenty-one is a pivotal moment in my life. I assure you, Mom, being able to legally drink doesn’t change the course of my life. She just smiles at me and returns to the tray, taking it out to the front room, where she sets it on an elegant, mahogany, coffee table.

“Eight place settings, Mom?” My irritation creeps into my tone. She just winks at me and then returns to the kitchen. I sigh in defeat and follow her in there to help with the preparations for a party I can’t escape from.

We busy ourselves in the kitchen, and I fill her in on how I’m liking my classes at NYU and my job at a children’s shelter in Hell’s Kitchen. I’m halfway through my senior year and yet, I haven’t settled on a major. I want to do something that will help protect children, but I can’t seem to find the perfect avenue. Unlike most parents, my mother never pressures me to lay down a definitive plan for my future. She’s always told me that I should enjoy being young because, all too soon, my life will cease to be within my own control. I figured she meant the demands I would face as an adult: boss, husband, children, etc. However, there were times when her response seemed cryptic, and I wondered if she meant something else.

Everything is finally ready, and we are sitting at the large island in the center of the kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea. I’m still curious about the amount of place settings at the table. I know she will have invited my three best friends and my father’s sister, Rhoslyn. But, I have no clue who the last spot is for.

“Mom, don’t avoid my question. Why eight?”

She sips her tea and beams at me. “Aden is coming.”

I feel my jaw drop in shock. I haven’t seen Aden in two years. Aden Foster was a sporadic presence in my life, as I was growing up. He was a friend of my father’s, although he was, at least, twenty years younger, and he stayed with us in the apartment, on the fourth
floor of our house, for a couple of days, two or three times a year. After my father died, he visited more frequently, almost every other month. He was always indulging me: slipping me candy behind my mother’s back, playing board games with me, even taking me out for ice cream or to the zoo. He was my hero, second only to my father.

“Aden!” I run to the front door as fast as my six-year-old legs will take me. He turns from shaking my father’s hand and swings me up into his arms before I barrel into his legs.

“What’s up, Buttercup?”

I giggle at the nickname. “I’m not a buttercup! That’s a flower.”

“Nah, the flower is named after you, Buttercup.” He kisses my cheek and then props me up on his shoulders, before bouncing down the hallway to the den across from the kitchen. On the way, he greets my mother warmly, bending down to give her a kiss. When he stands up, he pretends to stumble, and I begin to fall. I scream with excitement rather than fear; I know he’ll catch me.

After I land in his arms, he puts me over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes, and we go continue on to the den, to play with my toys.

I shake my head to dispel the happy memory. My mother is watching me with an eager look. She’s expecting me to be excited by the visit, I’m sure of it. After my father died, Aden’s visits became more frequent. He began to stay with us, almost every other month, for at least a weekend. I would always wait by the door, impatient for my Aden to arrive.

“What time did he say he’d be here, Mom?” I’m standing at the front window, anxiously searching the street. I hear my mother chuckle behind me.

“He said he’d be late, Shaylee—close to midnight. You should have gone to the dance with your friends.” I don’t respond to her comment. We’ve had this discussion many times over the last month. The sophomore formal was tonight and though I’d been asked by two boys, I’d opted to be home when Aden arrived. I’m sixteen; there will be more dances. I wasn’t going to get into it again, besides, it was too late now. I know she’s worried that I’ve developed a crush on Aden, and though I’d never admit it out loud, she’s right. I know it’s irrational; he has to be at least twenty years older than me. Though . . . as long as I’ve known him, he hasn’t changed in appearance at all. He is still really hot. His muscular body gives him a rugged look that makes my friends and me all swoon. His is, quite simply, perfection. I sigh at my ridiculous thoughts. I know how silly my crush is and I’m determined to hide it before I make things awkward.

After another hour of sitting by the window, I see the white-blond hair of my favorite person, exiting a cab in front of my house. I jump up and run to the door. Flinging it open, I throw my arms around him as soon as his foot hits the top step. His laughter rings out and he swings me around.

“What’s up, Buttercup?” He puts his arm around my shoulders and we walk into the house as I chatter on about what’s been happening in my life.

My mom comes down the long staircase, on the left side of the hallway, and leans up to give Aden a kiss on the cheek. From his six foot four height, he has to lean down for her to reach him. He puts his other arm around my mom’s shoulders and gives her a squeeze.

“Hi, Violet. How are things?” He keeps his arms around us and starts down the hall to the kitchen. Aden can never resist Mom’s cooking.

“Things are light. The darkness stays away.” Mom always answers him with something ambiguous like that. It’s weird, but Aden seems to get it, so, whatever.

When we reach the kitchen and he sees the fluffy angel food cake sitting on the counter, he smacks a kiss on the top of each of our heads. “Awe, you really do love me.” He makes a beeline for the cupboard and grabs three plates.

The phone rings as we sit down to our dessert and Mom grabs the cordless from its cradle on the wall. “Brydan residence,” she answers.

“Sure, just a second.” She hands the phone to me. “It’s Killian.”

I grab the phone with a smile. Killian is one of my best friends, and one of the boys who’d asked me to the dance. We’d been dancing around the idea of becoming a couple and I think he was hoping the dance would be the perfect opportunity to take our relationship to the next level. He is almost three years older than me and, since it was his senior year, I felt bad for ruining one of his last dances. But, I encouraged him to take me out one night this week, so we could see where our relationship was going. I really like him and I want to give us a shot. If it helped rid me of my stupid Aden crush, even better.

I excuse myself and take the phone across the room to the den. “Hey, Killian! How was the dance?” I’d told him he could call me after, since I knew I’d be up late, waiting for Aden.

“I missed having you there, beautiful.” No matter what our relationship, Killian was always free with the endearments when it came to me. It made me go warm inside and feel special.

“I know. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. Do you still want to go out this week?”

“Absolutely. How about I pick you up on Tuesday night and we’ll catch a movie?”

I hop up from the couch and do a little happy dance. When I turn towards the kitchen, I see Aden frowning at me and whispering to my mom. She winks at me before turning to say something to Aden. She pats him on the cheek and then gets up to take care of the dishes.

After I finish my call, I walk over and give Aden a big hug. He seems a little less tense after whatever my mother said to him.

“Goodnight, Aden. I’m glad you’re here.”

He kisses the top of my head then affectionately tugs on my pony tail. “Sweet dreams, Buttercup.”

Aden had always protected me. Especially when Killian and I had a nasty breakup, near the end of my freshman year of college. We’d been a couple ever since our first date and, in the beginning, it was easy and so fun. We had so much in common and oddly, we even shared similar looks. His hair and skin were almost as light as mine. Though, as he aged, his features began to darken little by little. Genetics, I suppose.

Eventually, Killian had become controlling and overly possessive. I had begun to get uncomfortable, so I told him we needed to take a break. He got angry and I could feel the rage radiating from his body. He yelled that he wouldn’t let me go, and I would be sorry if I went out with anybody else. I was seriously frightened. Aden was in town that weekend, and I sobbed in his arms until I’d fallen asleep. The next afternoon, Killian called to apologize, and he kept his distance from me after that. He was always there, watching, but he never approached me. I was pretty sure Aden had had a talk with him, but neither of us ever brought it up.

During that first year of college, I was living in the dorm, and I didn’t see Aden as much. I was all grown up and when I did see him, I was surprised to find myself noticing the sexy dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. I noticed how his shirts stretched across the muscles in his chest and the way his pants hung low on his narrow hips. I noticed his strong, chiseled jaw and sensuous mouth, and I wondered what it would be like if he kissed me (Don’t judge. It’s not like I did anything about those observations while Killian and I were still together.) I daydreamed about the white-blond hair he kept just a little shaggy, longing to find out what it felt like to run my fingers through it. But, I wasn’t stupid. I knew he saw me as a kid sister, and I would never jeopardize our relationship. So, I shoved those feeling down deep, and locked them away.

Then, on my nineteenth birthday, we crossed that invisible line. The next day he left and never came back. He hadn’t even said goodbye. I was torn to shreds. I’d lost my best friend, my hero, and . . . he broke my heart.