Authors: Brooklin Skye
The Dreamers Series. Book I
Dreamers The Dreamers Series. Book I
Copyright © 2013 by Brooklin Skye
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013947823
I sigh heavily, dropping with a loud thud onto the mattress. I’ve made no attempt at unpacking yet. I choose to lie here instead, pretending my things will magically find their places on their own.
Moving has never been one of my favorite things, but today has been especially difficult. Not only is it the coldest day in October history, but it’s also raining.
At five foot seven, and one hundred and forty pounds, I’m no tiny girl and certainly not incompetent to handle light moving. However, I strongly prefer activities that don’t require manual labor. At this time of year, especially in this type of wonderfully dreary weather, I would much rather be playing with my new camera, snapping photos of the sloshy terrain, beautifully drenched by the rain and fog. That’s what my Friday’s usually consist of. Sadly, today I have to do the grown up thing and work before play. I’ve always hated that saying, and for a great reason—I don’t like to work. Today I had to self-compromise, promising myself the remainder of the weekend off. I can deal with that.
On the up-side, I have very few possessions, which lessened my load tremendously. I’m no hoarder, so my life literally does fit into a few boxes. Few or not, I am seriously procrastinating unpacking those damned things. The time in which I have to rest is small; Heather will be home shortly to impose her OCD in full force. She can’t stand clutter, and the condition of this room would not meet her approval—not even close. In the meantime, she isn’t here, so I will continue stalling while I still can.
I stretch, releasing the tension from my stiff muscles. The soft pillow top wraps itself around my body, relaxing me a little too much. I repeatedly rub my palms into my eyes, hoping to stir up a second wind. It’s been a long day, and my body is ready to shut down.
Fortunately, a loud chime from my phone pulls me into alert mode. I dig my phone from beneath the tangled sheet, surprised I even heard it go off. My eyes refocus slowly. It’s my sister, Mia.
New Text Message
Get moved in ok?
Yeah, just bout to unpack. Heather will be home soon :)
Tell her I said hey, and drop me a text 2moro to let me know how your 1st night went.
K, I will. Tell the boys I love ‘em. TTYL <3
Sadness swallows me as I realize I won’t get to see my nephew’s every day anymore. As eager I am to get out on my own, I’m going to miss them all.
Honestly, the only reason I put off moving for so long was so I could help Mia care for Alex and Aidan, the twins. Mia is very independent and driven; that’s why it was no surprise when I found out she was taking on school, work, and full-time single parenting. Her husband Daniel was killed in a car accident last year, and she was left with raising twin toddlers alone. Instead of falling into depression she decided to further her education. She was accepted into one of the best medical schools in the country, Emory University, and is working toward her Obstetrical degree. I’ve done anything I can in order make her life a little easier since Daniel died. In exchange, I had a roof over my head and a couple of insane, yet sweet, rug rats to run me ragged every day. Now that both of the boys are in school, she doesn’t need me full time anymore, which freed up enough time so that I could begin studying photography at an art school in Atlanta.
The classes have been great; I adore being able to find beauty or charm in the simplest of things. You have to have an eye for bringing out the best from the worst, the beautiful from the ugly, and love doing it too. Photography requires being able to tap into a sixth sense—x-ray vision. Without that you’re never allowing yourself to see beneath the surface. That’s why it’s the perfect career choice for me. I can see beneath the surface of anything, and my vision goes beyond three dimensional, figuratively speaking of course. I’ve found beauty in one of the most unbeautiful things—death. Finding beauty in death led me to explore photographing cemeteries. Oakland Cemetery is by far my new favorite location to shoot. It is a beautiful, extremely old cemetery, with huge oak trees and fascinating history. Some of the headstones are too old to even read. Others tell tragic stories of men, women, children—even some of Atlanta’s elite.
Gone with the Wind
author Margaret Mitchell is buried there, surrounded by thorny rose bushes and greenery. You can get lost in the vastness, feel sorrow from its tragedies—swell with pride as you look through the rows upon rows of our confederate soldiers.
My photography hasn’t quite fully developed into a career. I make enough money to live—barely, just not enough to live independently. When Heather’s roommate took off, I thought it was a perfect opportunity to take the plunge into adulthood. I couldn’t imagine a better roommate. She’s smart, responsible, funny, and eye-candy for my hetero-doubting moments. She is the hottest non-man that I’ve ever laid eyes on. Heather has been my best friend since middle school—eighth grade, actually. She was, and still is, timid, and preferred to stay entirely incognito. Her face was the same round shape as it is now with a beautifully bronzed, natural tan that any girl would kill for and the most fascinating caramel colored eyes I have ever seen. Her black hair was shoulder length at the time, and trust me, that was the first thing to go once she announced that she was gay. Now she sports a messy Edward Cullen style hair-do, thank god! Seeing her throughout school in dresses and ponytails was downright awkward. Mainly because I had her figured out early on. Even before she said the words, I knew she was gay. Things weren’t very good for her after she came out. She lost most of her friends. Obviously nobody wanted to be seen with the gay girl. Ridiculous locker room lies circulated through the school, leaving her tormented and isolated. She even pulled back from me for a while. I waited for her to come around, and she did once she was comfortable in her own skin. Beginning to end, I didn’t care what she was. To me, she was always MY Heather, and that has never changed.
After graduation she went to some fancy school up North to study music production. I stayed behind to help Mia. We kept in touch for a while, but eventually drifted apart, until a few years ago when we happened upon each other through a social networking site. Turns out she had just moved back to Atlanta. I suppose the rest is history.
I could reminisce all night about old times, but I know I need to go back to work or I will never get done.
I sit up, and just in time too, as I hear the front door open. Keys drop on granite the countertop, accompanied by Heather’s infamous jingling pockets. I swear that girl could never sneak up on anyone; she sounds like Jacob Marley, pulling his rattily old chains behind him. I can’t see the necessity of carrying twenty dollars’ worth of change in your pocket, but clearly she does.
The jingling stops right outside my door.
“Hey, Kid.” Heather taps lightly on the door, alerting me to her presence.
I sit up, attempting to look like I was actually working. “You’re home a little early.”
“I thought you might need some help unpacking.” She visually scans the room. “Clearly I was right.”
“I’ve been working,” I lie.
“I can see you’ve been working—real hard.” She smirked. Heather’s signature head shake began, showing her disapproval in my lack of initiative. “You’re hopeless, and lazy.”
I gasp loudly as I pluck a pillow from the floor, pitching it towards her head. “Lazy?”
Heather dodges the pillow and jumps down, lying next to me on the bed.
“So, how about I order some pizza, and then I will help your laaazzy butt unpack?” She stretches the word.
Just hearing the word pizza makes my mouth water. I don’t recall eating anything today. I could definitely use some food about now.
“That is the best idea I’ve heard all day long. I’m starving.” I whine.
“Yeah, I thought you might like the suggestion. What’cha want on it?”
“I just want plain cheese. Don’t get all that other junk on it, please.”
“You’ve got it,” she says as she turns toward the door.
“Yes, ma’am,” she calls over her shoulder, trekking toward the kitchen.
I remain in my lying position for a moment, soaking in the fact that I’m finally in my own place. I’ve been here a million times but it feels so different knowing that it’s my own space now. Admittedly it’s kinda strange how Lana, Heather’s old roommate, left her own stamp in the room. It’s not a paint choice Heather would have ever chosen, making easy to identify the personality behind the décor. Heather has made no bones regarding the fact that she detests the charcoal gray paint and thick black curtain panels, claiming it’s morgue-like. She is hoping I will brighten it up, but I love it just as it is. I’m unsure about Lana’s character as a person, but I definitely appreciate her taste for dark contemporary décor. I never really had the pleasure of meeting her personally, only talked to her on the phone once or twice.
Whatever happened between she and Heather didn’t end well. Apparently they didn’t make a friendly split. Lana left, or was told to leave, I don’t know which, rather suddenly. I’ve often wondered if it was a romance gone bad. Heather refuses to confirm or deny anything. In any event, I’m certainly not complaining. I’m undeniably stoked to be here.
“I’m gonna love it here!” I call out to Heather.
“Give it about a week. You’ll be sick of me,” she calls from the kitchen.
“If that happens then
can move, because I’m in love with my new room.”
“Yeah whatever, Cupcake.”
I hear Heather switch on some music in the living room, falling heavily into her favorite comfy chair.
“Pizza will be here in thirty, Kid,” she yells over the flowing words of Florence and the Machine.
“Awesome, I’m going to take a cat nap. Holler for me when it gets here.”
I close my eyes. Silence wraps around me like a warm blanket, lulling me into sleepy daze. Rain pings on the window sill, filling the entire room with my favorite sound, one which even music can’t compare. The dark curtain panels sway slowly as whispering winds creep through the open window. The peace overcomes me and I feel myself drift into a comforting sleep.
I stand by the window, gazing into the courtyard. As the rain drizzles a thick fog is begins to coat the lush wet grass with a glowing haze of smoke. The wind whispers, spiraling leaves into a beautiful tornado of October foliage. A harsh chill hits my face, whipping my hair across my cheek sending shivers through the length of my body like frozen bolts of lightning.
Shadows seem to dance in the distance, giving the illusion of movement in the courtyard. One shadow in particular catches my attention, stilling my eyes into place. It’s not an illusion, nor is it a shadow; someone is there, leaning against the farthest tree—eyes fixated in my direction. He watches in an intense, yet expressionless trance-like state until he notices I see him too. For a moment he is bewildered, but bewilderment is quickly replaced by…something; something I can’t quite read. A sideways smirk glazes his lips as his head tilts quizzically to the side, indicating that he is well aware that I’ve noticed him, and he likes it. He stands upright and begins pulling towards me, his movement fluid—feet never seeming to touch the ground. It’s hard not to notice how absolutely stunning—beautiful—he is. His hair is dark, darker than any black I’ve ever seen, and messy. Rain drips from the ends, soaking his chest, which is bare and creamy white. His jeans are dark too, rugged and worn. His black boots make no noise in the saturated mud as he approaches.
I step back, blinking a few times, challenging my mind for reality.
As my eyes open I notice he now stands directly below the window, at least twenty feet beneath, looking upward, locking our gaze. An evil smirk covers his creamy pale face.
“You can see me.”
“Yes, of course I can see you,” I respond.
He extends his hand, opening his palm toward me, beckoning.
“Jump down.” His deep, sensual voice wraps around me like a haze of cool mist.
“It’s too high,” I whisper, in a trembling voice. “I’ll fall.”
“It won’t hurt, you’re dreaming.” His voice caresses my ears once again.
I pull back slightly, holding my hands in front of my face, looking for some indication that he is telling the truth. This feels too real to be a dream. I decide to test the old cliché, pinching my arm with all my power—nothing.
“I am dreaming.” I smile at him, no longer fearful.
“Now, jump down,” he prods. “I’ll catch you.” His voice carries through the wind, blowing a menthol mist across my face.
This strange beautiful man stands, waiting to catch me in his arms. His voice is hypnotizing, his scent magnetic. I want to be close to him—need to be close to him.
I lean forward, close my eyes, and let go…
“Sydney!” Heather catches my shirt as I nearly fall from the opened window, ripping me backward.
My head hits the hardwood with a thud, and searing pain shoots down my neck.
“What the hell were you doing?” Her throat strains in anger, as she screams.
“I don’t know.” I try to catch my breath. “I was asleep.”
Heather drops to the floor next to me, putting her head in her hands. “If I hadn’t come in here…”
“I’m fine Heather, other than the concussion you just gave me.” The room spins slowly as I sit up.
“You were hanging halfway out the damned window,” she snaps. “I kept that window shut for a reason: it’s not safe, there’s no bars, no screen—it’s just dangerous. Don’t open it again.”
“Look, I’m sorry I scared you, but could you please stop screaming at me? I didn’t purposely do it. I must’ve been sleepwalking or something. And I didn’t open the damn window. It was already open when I got here today, thank you very much.”
“No, it was not open. I had that window nailed shut,” she barks accusingly.
I see no point in arguing further about this. I nearly fell out of a window twenty feet above the ground, and would have had it not been for Heather. I owe her gratitude; I owe her my life.
“Thank you,” I whisper genuinely, leaning over to softly kiss her cheek.