Authors: Kay Camden
The Alignment (33 page)
“Don’t wake up,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
“No, I want to come with you.” I get out with him and wind my arm around his waist. I wander about the lobby as he registers and pays, then we load our bags into the room.
“I’m awake,” I announce after I close the door and set the lock.
“You know that doesn’t matter to me,” he says, completely serious.
We strip and he follows me to bed, climbing in behind me, his warm body against my back, his lips on the back of my neck. And for the first time, I’m overtaken by something more that lust, something strong and deep and woven through me like it was there all along and I just had to find it. To recognize it. Like Orion in the night sky.
I twist in his arms to face him. “Trey.”
He looks into my eyes, captivated, his eyelids lowered, his lips parted, waiting.
“I love you,” I say.
“
Tá mo chroí istigh ionat.
” Like he couldn’t wait to say it to me again.
When I wake in the morning, he’s sitting up, surfing through TV channels with the volume muted. I reach for him and find a discarded newspaper in my path.
“How long have you been up?” I push myself up on my elbows.
“Not long. I get bored fast without you.”
“Let’s get up. I’m dying to get home to my own bed. Or, your bed.” I haven’t slept in my own bed in weeks.
After breakfast, we load our stuff into the car and he pulls onto the highway. For some reason, I’m reminded of my solo trip I took down this very same route a few weeks ago. Did I stay at this same motel, take this same entrance ramp? My memories contain a flavor of something that doesn’t exist here now.
“We should move into your house,” he says. “It’s newer. Bigger. Has a better view.”
“What about your garden?”
“We’ll just have to make trips over there to work on it.”
As much as I liked living with him in his house, I’d love to move back to mine. It would almost be like a fresh start for us. We could put all the bad memories behind. “I’d love to move back into my house with you.”
“Good. We can gradually move everything we need over there.”
“I wasn’t here a month before I got pregnant.”
He laughs. “You sure it’s mine?”
“Not funny.”
I look at him, his light-hearted mood, his face free of that scowl he must have worn for fifteen years. And I realize it doesn’t matter. What’s happened to us has been planned for centuries. The timing was a work of magic. And by consequence, two haunted people have found happiness. “Nancy wanted to get us together. She’s gonna tease me to death.”
He slaps the steering wheel. “We can make up a story. Something normal. No ancient spells triggered by Pollux and Mars.”
“I thought you were a bad liar.”
“I am. A story for you to tell. I’m not going to say a damn thing.”
“Okay then think of one.” I jab him in the arm.
“I am. I’ll let you know when I have it.”
“Smartass.” I laugh. “Was it really Pollux and Mars?”
“And a few others. I’ll show you when we get home.”
Hours pass with the landscape sliding by. I snuggle under Trey’s jacket now acting as a blanket and marvel again at the open space of this land, losing light and contrast with the fading day. After a while I break the silence. “Do you think we’ll be home tonight?”
“Yes. We’re making good time. There’s nothing in our way out here.”
The highway stretches out in a featureless straight line in front of us for miles. The needle of the speedometer points to ninety-five. We’ve been going so fast for so long that I don’t even feel the speed anymore.
“I saw you on your motorcycle when I was on my way to Black River.”
“When?” He takes his eyes off the road to look at me, more intrigued than I thought he’d be.
“On the day I drove in from Chicago. I stopped for gas in that town—what’s it called? We’ll be coming up on it soon.”
“Casper.”
“Yeah, you were there. I almost passed out in the lot. It was the first time I got sick.”
“How do you know it was me?”
“Your motorcycle. And the sickness. It had to be you.”
“No kidding. I stop there for gas all the time.”
“And I was stranded on the side of the road before that. You passed me right before the tow truck showed up.” I look out my window.
“That was you?” He doesn’t need me to answer. When I look at him, he’s shaking his head at the road ahead of us.
I lose myself in the monotony of the drive, and it seems like a miracle when we pass the town marker for Black River. We made it home before sunset. I reach to the floor for my purse, searching blindly for my Chapstick. When I don’t feel it, I lift my purse onto my lap and look harder. “I think I left my Chapstick at the last motel.”
“Oh, god. Let’s turn back.”
I check the zipper pocket. My groping fingers close on an unfamiliar object. I pull it out, turning it over in my hand from the smooth side to the textured side which is tarnished and worn with age. In the center is the same motif that’s carved on the stones encircling my house. Its simple beauty reminds me of the rings Trey now wears from his father.
“Did you give this to me?”
“A long time ago. It’s for protection.”
I close my fingers around it, wondering when he would have first wanted to protect me. It warms in my fist.
We turn into his driveway. All I want to do is collapse into bed with him and stay there forever. River dashes out of the woods at us, and he stops the car. “Someone’s here.”
“No…” I groan, too tired to be worried.
“Something’s not right,” he says, as if someone being here could ever be right in the first place.
We pull up to the house. He lets all his breath out. “Christian. That’s his car. I probably shouldn’t be relieved.” He looks over at me with torment in his eyes.
“He beat us here?”
He nods slowly like his mind is somewhere else. “We stopped in Chicago.”
“Be good.” I slide my hand over his. No confrontations tonight. I just want to go to bed.
He stares out the windshield, and I wonder what’s going through his head.
“I will,” he finally answers with a strange, almost sad tone, a tone I remember hearing coupled with his voice once before. It takes me a moment to recognize it as regret.
He takes another deep sigh and closes his eyes. “Shit,” he says more to himself than me.
“He’ll understand.”
He opens his eyes and looks into mine. “He drove his own car, which means he’s going to stay awhile. Let’s go in, I’m dead tired.”
I’m already pushing open my door.
We head straight into the house, not even bothering to get our bags. The house is dark and quiet. Trey gives me a puzzled look and checks the bedroom while I wait. My feet are glued to the floor.
“Must be out back,” he says on his way back through, and I drag myself behind him to the kitchen and out the back door, closing it behind me.
Christian is standing at the far end of the deck. All four fingers of his left hand are bandaged. Hearing us, he turns around. Bloodshot eyes, rumpled clothes, the shadow of a beard—he’s either on something or hasn’t slept in days. Or both.
“Trey, god Trey. I can’t…” Christian blurts out. He winces as if in pain and presses both of his palms hard against his eyes.
“What?” Trey squints at him.
Christian’s hands drop to his sides. His eyes open and cut through me. He pulls a dark object out of the back of his pants, and I find myself looking down the barrel of a gun.
Trey freezes.
“Trey, god, I have these compulsions, and I can’t…I’m so sorry.”
“Christian. You don’t have to do this. Give it to me. I can help you.” Trey’s voice is controlled, but my ears are tuned to the underlying panic.
“No you can’t. Fuck! You can’t!” Christian shouts. His eyes don’t leave me. His gun doesn’t leave me.
I want to run, but there’s nowhere to go. I wouldn’t get the door open in time. I wouldn’t get over the porch railing fast enough. I catch Trey’s almost insignificant movements, poising himself to lunge.
“Christian,” he says again. Trying to buy some time.
Christian screams words I don’t know. I watch his finger pull the trigger once, twice, three times. Time slows. Trey lunges, knocking Christian into the railing. Reflex has thrown my hands out in front of me. The dying sun reflects off an object in my hand, casting an arc of light around my vision, and the only thing I hear is Trey screaming my name.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks go to—
My husband and best friend, who helped me build a life that allows me to write. My happiness, my settled mind, my peace—I owe to you.
My mother, whose enthusiasm keeps me writing, whose desire to share adventure with her children helped build my writer’s mind.
Ginny, because the help you offer may be second nature to you, but to me, its value, and the peace of mind it gives, are immeasurable.
My sisters, two non-readers who fought their way through awful early drafts.
My editor Debra Argosy, a language tyrant who’s always right. Not just about writing. About everything.
Karen, my lifelong friend, whose praise means so much because I know how discriminating her taste is.
Laura, I will never forget your insight about TB and his garden. Your requests for more to read are the highest compliment because I know how busy your days are.
Kathy, my favorite member of the best book club, who gave an awful early draft of my book as much thoughtful discussion as she’d give to an award-winning bestseller.
Phillip, for telling me my pitch was all wrong in the most straightforward but gentle way.
Rosemary Whittaker, a talented writer whose warmth and encouragement reach across oceans.
Pam Schuster, an expert who injected my book with trustworthiness.
Stephanie and her inspiring website bekindrewrite.com, because sometimes the most rewarding compliments come from strangers.
Ray Rhamey and his website Flogging the Quill, for the best constructive criticism I’ve ever found on the internet.
The people in the Irish Learner’s Forum—your passion for the language is contagious.
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