Burdened (A Burdened Novel) (2 page)

Eric has had the hots for Glen for as long as I can remember and she keeps shutting him down. It’s funny to watch her get mad when we all talk about it.

“Ha! Yeah, Glen can ride to the party with Eric, and the rest of us will figure out how we are going to get there. No biggie, right Glen?” Stephanie, another of our group, taunts or instigates a situation.

“I think you all can just go straight to hell and take Eric and his ride with you,” Glen calmly states, looking around the parking lot.

We laugh at her nonchalant sarcasm.

“Okay, all jokes aside, we have a few more days to figure out how we are going to get there.” Joy lowers our excited mood with her ‘poop on the party’ personality; yet, we love her.

“True,” we all agree. “What are you guys getting ready to do? Want to go to the mall?” Rachel never wants to go home after class. She is always trying to find something
do.

The girls and I all kind of favor.
Rachel is the tallest of us. We all stand five-foot-three to five-foot-five, with long hair and golden skin, because we spend so much time in the sun whenever it is out. We don’t just hang out and do nothing—our days together are spent shopping, eating, and partying.

But today I am in no mood to go to the mall. I really just want to go home and lay around the house with no company.

“No, I’m all set. I’m going to head home. Call me when you all get back.”

“Okay, see you later, Tracey.” They chime behind me as I walk away.

Getting in my Mazda 6, there is a flyer on my window. They are really planning on advertising this party everywhere.
Really, flyers?
And on my car of all places. I hate shit on my car. Throwing the flyer to the backseat, I turn up the radio. There are little-to-no cars left, and I am so ready to be at home, on a couch, watching something not relevant to life.

Maybe there will be something on MTV, no, E, no… Maybe there will be a good movie on HBO, no, maybe on FX. Yeah, FX always has a good movie on. I’ll sit back in the family room and
wa—

There’s a loud screech and a hard bang. I jolt forward and back—my body slams against the seat. Blinking, trying to get my eyes to focus, I’m dazed; my vision fades out then back in. I think—I think I just got hit waiting at a stop sign. Panic kicks in as I look myself over. Am I okay? Oh my goodness, am I hurt?

What the hell! Somebody just hit my damn car! I grab my head, feeling it starting to throb. I think I hit my head on the—

A tap pulls me from my self-examination.

No, the idiot who just hit me is not tapping on my damn window!

I open the door, pissed. “What? What the hell? You just hit me!” I yell, still trying to get my eyesight to focus.

“Um, yeah, I know.” I look at him. “I am so sorry.” The apologetic voice comes from a perfectly chiseled face that responds to my anger subtly.

He looks at me with slanted, brown, prominent eyes. When he turns a little away from the sun, they turn a slight hazel. His strong nose ends in a rounded point, and his hair—maybe black or brown, depending on how the sun hits it. Very attractive lips that say ‘Hey, I am here, kiss me.’ He is tall-enough to block the sun and that adds to his presence in a way that is equally hypnotizing. And his shoulders are broad-enough to block a tackle from a football player.

“I know this is probably the worst thing that could happen right before your break. I am truly sorry. I can get the car fixed for you.” His exposed arms show off his tanned skin tone, which somewhat glistens from the rays of the sun, and it’s as if I’m watching it soak up every ray.

I swing my legs from the car and step out. The world seems to shift. I grab my head, feeling dizzy. The earth feels like it’s moving beneath my feet, and I lose my balance.

He catches me with a quick grab of my arm and cuff of my waist. There is a tingle, slight burning feeling, where his hand touches my bare arm.

He makes sure I’m standing on my own,
then quickly pulls his hand away. The earth shakes again and I become a little wobbly. He touches my shoulder, holding me in place, and makes sure not to let his hand touch my bare skin.

“Um, are you okay? You look a little out of it.” His voice is lyrical and smooth, with a base sound that adds a manly tone.
Faultless. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

Damn, he’s talking to me. Remember words, Tracey, say something.
“Um.” Better words. “Yeah, I think so. How did you hit me?” My voice sounds distant to me, and too calm.

“Completely not paying attention.
I came here to pick up my cousin from school and didn’t see him. While searching the parking lot and texting him, I kind of lost focus on the important part of driving.”

“You do know you are not supposed to text and drive, right?” Holding my head, I walk around to the back of my car, checking for damages.

He follows. “Again, I apologize for any damages. I will get everything fixed.” His voice, now factual, has lost the apologetic tone.

Examining the back of my car, there are no real damages, besides some scratches and a ding by my license plate. But as my mom would say, ‘the damages can be under the car and not noticeable, honey.’ “Well, looks like the only real damage was to my head.” I lightly let my palm touch my head, feeling a knot start to protrude from the side of my forehead.

“Can I take you to the hospital? You do seem a little dazed.” He moves to look at the car. “And after we leave the hospital, we can take your car to the body shop, because even though it doesn’t seem like there are any damages, doesn’t mean there aren’t any under the car.” Really, Mom?

“That’s true, but I don’t think I need to go to the hospital. My head just hurts. I think I will be okay once I get something to eat and a Tylenol.” Each of my words comes out slowly. “I am just going to head home and maybe go to the body shop later.” I scrunch my nose, feeling disoriented. “I think I need a nap.” My thought process is off. I put my hands out to my sides when the earth starts shaking again.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says in a concerning tone. “You may have a concussion and it’s never good to go to sleep. You could slip into a coma.”

“Humph, maybe.”
A striking pain shoots through my head. I reach up to touch it, seeing him do the same. His thumb grazes my hairline next to my temple, and that’s it. Everything goes black, and my body hits something hard. Maybe the car or…the ground.

I have never felt anything like this. I have been touched by many guys. Well, not
touched
but touched—brushed by them in the hall, held hands, given a hug. I have kissed a few guys, and not even with my first. Yes,
that first
. None of them ever had that type of effect on me, where I was knocked unconscious. This cannot be good. My dad is so going to kill me.

I wake up on a bed, in what seems to be the nurse’s office. It smells of rubbing alcohol and those blue, hockey puck-looking tablets that are thrown in the toilet and turn the water blue. It doesn’t stink, but it is not helping my headache any, either. My ass hurts and my head is pounding.

Pushing myself to sit up, the room begins to spin. It adds a nauseous feeling to my problems. Moving with more precaution, I slowly reach for my head. Stopping when I see a figure moving in my peripheral vision.

I want to look, but out of fear of what I might see, I will not, because if it’s him—the hot guy that hit me in the parking lot—and I barf, this situation could get a whole lot more embarrassing.

Without turning my head, I peek out of the corners of my eyes.

There they are—those masculine, broad shoulders even a concussion cannot make you forget. Clearly!

Wait—is he sleeping? His shoulders are moving steadily and calm. He can’t be just staring at me and not saying anything. I question turning my head, not only because I don’t want him to see me look at him, but also because I fear my worsening headache.

Unable to not look, I turn my head, taking less than a second. Maybe even a millisecond.

“What are you doing?” Busted! “Practicing for the exorcist?” he retorts sarcastically.

I’m caught. What type of an excuse can I use for this? Trying not to turn my head fast to look at you, in case you were looking at me. NO!

“Um, I was, um, trying to…stretch…my…neck slowly…to avoid, making my head hurt worse,” I say stupidly, taking one word at a time, just to implicate I was saying each word as it came into my head.

He gets up from the chair and walks in my direction.

That walk
. He seems to sway across the floor, his shoulders moving with each step. Left foot, right shoulder, right foot, left shoulder. I quickly peek at him, hoping he doesn’t see. I notice that he doesn’t slouch and his jaw is tight.

I look away as he gets closer. I have no idea what he is going to do or say. I do know he’s close and I want him to touch me again.
As long as I don’t pass out…again.

His hands are in his pockets as he approaches the bedside. “Would you like to go get some ibuprofen for your head?” he asks, bending over, looking at my forehead. Well, I assume he’s looking at my forehead. “The nurse is still here, and she has been waiting for you to come to.”
Hands
still
in his pockets. “You feeling okay?”

I must be looking foolishly, because he said that as if it was the second time he’d asked me. “Umm, yeah, I think so.”

“Okay, let’s go see what the nurse has for you. Maybe she can do something about your headache.” With his hands still in his pockets, he offers me his arm to grab.

I refuse to take his arm. Not that I do not want to touch him, because I
definitely
want to touch him. I just figure, if he wants to help me, he would have offered me a hand for more stability. Offended, I say, “Nah, that’s okay, I got it.” I shoo his arm away.

Still not looking at him, my grip tightens around the edge of the bed, readying myself to stand up. Not sure if I’ll be able to do so without help, but I’m willing to take the chance.

His breathing changes, sounding impatient. I must be taking too long for him. I peek at him through my lashes. He’s looking at me, rising one of his smoothly, thick-laid eyebrows. “You sure you got it?”

“Yes.” I drag out slowly. “Getting impatient?” I ask, sounding a little more aggressive than I intended.

The truth is, I am incredibly dizzy and not sure if—when I stand—I will be able to continue standing. I am also giving the spinning blue and black tiles on the floor time to settle.

“Nope, just didn’t want you to hit the floor.” He smirks cockily. I can no longer avoid looking at him.

Taking him all in, my eyes brush over his slightly-scruffy chin and nicely-trimmed mustache above it, noticing he doesn’t have any hair hanging over his upper lip, like most guys do. I really hate that.

My eyes continue to drift, making their way to his plump, raspberry-colored bottom lip that requests that I get up from this bed and kiss it. Maybe even nibble on it for a second.

He licks it, making my idea of tasting it so much more.

He is dressed down in dark, denim jeans and a black t-shirt, matching his Nikes. He just looks amazing, standing there with his broad shoulders and thick arms waiting for me.

Yeah! Waiting for me to stop staring at him like a total dork! What am I thinking? Come on, Tracey, get your shit together.

That smirk reappears, and his head slightly tilts forward, making some of his shorter hair fall onto his forehead. I can’t determine how long his hair is, but it looks like the top is longer than the back and sides. It has a slight wave effect, also requesting ‘Feel me, Tracey.
Come, rub your delicate fingers through me.’

He closes the distance between us, removing his hands from his pockets. “Come on, let me help you,” his voice, soft and caring. It sounds unexpectedly perfect, welcoming me to trust it.

His hands reach out, grabbing my sides, and my heart stops, taking my breath away. I feel his soft grip faintly tighten as he grabs my waist and lifts me slowly off the bed. He places me down gently, my landing is soundless, like a feather floating to the floor.

“Thanks,” I mutter without a breath. We make direct eye contact, when I look up. Something I’ve been trying to avoid since I’d passed out.

His eyes, looking back in mine, swirl from the hazel-brown they were to a green-brown. It is fascinating, stunning even. I can only stare into them, watching the color fill.

He quickly blinks and moves back, taking a little longer to reopen them. My expression must have given me away. I didn’t notice how aware I was of his hands still being on me, until they were gone—a sense of comfort and warmth going with them.

“Come on, let’s go. It’s getting late and you probably need to get home.” His voice is deep, different from the one he used moments ago; it’s stern and precise.

“Um.”
He looks up, not to me but over my shoulder towards the doorway. I look at him suspiciously, pointing to his eyes. “You have
something
going on up there.”