Hyde, an Urban Fantasy (4 page)

“That’s my girl. I love you, but keep your hands off my ice cream, would you?”

“I lo—” She stopped herself just in time. Now was not the time to say something she’d never said before. “Have fun.”

“I will.”

He hadn’t heard her first words, which was good. He’d probably jump on the first plane back if he heard her say them. After a quick goodbye, she dropped her cell phone on the nightstand and changed into sweats.

Wanting to get the smell of sex out of her pores, she went down to the little workout room tucked in a corner of the apartment building. Calling it a gym was a stretch. All marketing. It looked a heck of a lot better on the brochure. The room was bare save for two cardio machines, a bench, some free weights and a couple lifting bars. It wasn’t fancy enough for Carter, didn’t have a big set-up, locker room, loads of sweaty men and a boxing ring like his did, but it was good enough for her.

 In fact, the fewer shirtless, sweaty men she saw, the better. Because then she’d probably start comparing them to the guy from this morning, and none of them would measure up, and she’d keep feeling the feelings that she was feeling and—

She ran. Sure, it was on a treadmill which meant she wasn’t actually escaping anything, but it helped her focus. One foot in front of the other. A slow release of the soreness in her muscles as they warmed. Forced thoughts about puppies and shoes overtaking the brief images of
him
.

After a long workout and another shower, she crawled into bed. Her bed. No one else’s. Not even Carter’s. Her hands gripping the covers, she closed her eyes. On her way into the bliss of sleep, she vowed to only rest during daylight hours. If
that
was what happened when she slept at night, she’d have to find a way to become nocturnal.

And she succeeded. For three nights, she drank pot after pot of strong, bitter coffee, keeping herself awake with long conversations about nothing at all important with slightly bewildered classmates and with marathon TV-watching sessions. Reality television was a sure-fire way to escape from reality. Those people were crazier than she’d ever be. Oh God, she hoped so. Her eyes ached, but she only allowed herself short thirty-minute naps throughout the day. Never at night. Nights were frightening. And so long. So very long.

Skipping all the sex scenes, she’d gone through seven trashy novels, her exhaustion leaving her with no recollection of what they were about. She wasn’t even sure if she’d actually
read
the words and not just turned the pages at regular intervals.

Foreign images occasionally flashed through her mind. Bizarre images, troubling ones.
A woman wearing red, her back to a door, her hair so dark it looked black against her fair skin, her eyes closed.
Then another.
Inside a club with crowds of people raising their hands above their heads, smiling, bouncing in unison.
And somehow even more disturbing were the ones of the man she’d woken up next to, his hands on her, hands in the process of making her body feel incredible. The puppy-thoughts weren’t working anymore—she needed to come up with a better alternative.
But what’s sweeter than a puppy?

On the fourth night, she put a horror movie into the DVD player. Not the best choice for someone who was currently
living
a horror movie, but at this point, adrenaline was the only way to stay awake. The never-ending nausea kept her from drinking more coffee and her friends were starting to wonder why she had suddenly become so friendly. She blinked and . . .

Jerked them open again. The scene in front of her wasn’t of lustful vampires and sassy heroines, it was a garden filled with beautifully manicured hedges and trimmed grass. As her heart took a flying leap into her throat, she looked down to where she was sitting. Flagstone steps. Their sharp edges settled into beige mortar. No people, thank God. No bed. As she jumped up, she saw the large, wooden door. The same door her underwear had been hanging from a few days ago. She sprinted across the lawn, out onto the street. She knew her way home—she’d made the trip just the other day.

At least she was
wake
-walking this time. And clothed. Horrified, but thankful she’d ended up
outside
the house and not in it—or with someone
in
her—she made her way out of the coastal Lighthouse Point neighborhood without seeing anyone. This was South Florida, so no one but tourists left their air-conditioned homes or cars to tackle the humidity. As she crossed Federal Boulevard, into the lower-income area of Pompano Beach, her shoulders slumped.

Maybe she
was
going crazy. Great, she could get her own show. Too bad her mother wasn’t still alive—it could have been a mother/daughter train-wreck on MTV. She reminded herself that she’d been through harder things. And had come out okay. She’d be okay. She would. Probably.

Maybe she’d have to ask for help. Not something that came easily to her. Carter had always just offered, in return only wanting what she was unable to give him—her heart, her body, herself.

Safely inside her apartment, she started to take off her clothes. But stopped. These weren’t
her
clothes. The short skirt and tight tank-top were
way
too skanky to be part of her wardrobe. She pulled off the thin, burgundy jacket, turning it to examine the tag. Sure, as if she’d find a note that said, “The jacket you are wearing belongs to,” with a name penciled in. Where the heck did it come from?

Her hand gripped something stiffer than the fabric. Reaching into the pocket, she pulled out an off-white cocktail napkin. “Static” was written in gold cursive script. Under that, someone—
m
e?—had written a phone number. Local, but no name. She turned the napkin over and swallowed hard as she read what had been scribbled in the same handwriting as the phone number. When she could no longer bear to look at her own name on the thing, she flipped it back over, read the phone number again, and reached for the phone.

“Good morning, Mitchell Turner’s office. How can I help you?” an airy voice asked at the other end of the line.

“Um . . . Good morning.” Eden took a deep breath to regain control of her vocal cords. “I . . . um . . . need to speak to Mr.—” She’d missed the intro. “With Mitchell. “

“Of course. Are you already a client?”

“No.”

“Let’s see.” The sound of pages turning. “He could fit you in on Thursday morning at 11:30.”

“Is there anything sooner? I really need to talk to him.”

“Hmm. . . He is pretty busy. He has a half hour this afternoon, but if that isn’t long—”

“That’s fine. I’ll take it.” A half an hour should be enough time to introduce yourself as a total moron, shouldn’t it? A hello-help-me-figure-out-what-the-heck-is-wrong-with-me conversation with a total stranger?

“At one o’clock?” the woman asked.

“One is fine. Thank you.”

“I just need your name and phone number. If you will be billing our services to your company, I’ll need that information as well.”

“No, it’s just me.” Wondering where she would get the money, Eden gave the woman the information she’d asked for. Then the line went silent. Had the woman hung up already? “Hello?”

“I’m still here. Eden Colfax. Okay, Eden, we’ll see you at one.”

“Wait! What . . . um . . . what does Mitchell actually do?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

Eden imaged the woman rolling her eyes and taking an eraser to her name. “I’m not selling anything. I was given his name by someone who thought he could help me.”

“Who gave you his name?”

Good question.

“We like to thank clients who refer people to us.”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t get her name. She seemed to think Mitchell could help me, but I wasn’t sure of his exact job title.” Not a lie. A carefully crafted truth to cover her ignorance. Was that a lie?
Yes, Eden. I think that constitutes a lie.
Her stomach dropped a bit, and she silently whimpered, ‘
But I never lie’.
At least, she never
used
to lie.

“He’s a life coach,” the woman said. “Do you still want the appointment?”

A life coach?
Yeah, she sure as heck could use one of those. “Yes, please. One o’clock. Thank you.” Eden hit the end button so hard the phone bounced out of her hand onto the floor.

For the next half an hour, she wondered what a life coach would be able to do for her and who had stuck that napkin into her pocket. She’d be okay. She’d be okay. Some life coach named Mitchell was going to help. Maybe. Unless another woman named Eden had stuck the note in her pocket before lending her jacket to a nearby sleepwalker.

Sure, that made
much
more sense.

Eden got to the life coach’s office at 12:45 and sat on the edge of her chair for the next ten minutes. The walls of the building were glass, the majority of it clear. The only opaque one held the door she assumed led into Mitchell Whoever’s office. That made Eden even more nervous, imagining that some stranger was staring at her from the other side, judging her before they’d even met. Continuously. Unlike the beautiful woman at the reception desk who judged her
briefly
with every glance.

The woman, who dressed more like a socialite than a secretary, smiled politely whenever she caught Eden staring. “He’ll be with you soon,” she said.

“Thank you.” Eden flipped through one of the business magazines from the end table and tried not to squirm. She scratched her neck, wondering if her nerves were making her break out in hives.

“Let me check if he’s ready for you.” The woman stood up from her desk, slid her hands down her pencil skirt and went to the door. She was probably desperate to get the hive-covered wreck out of the waiting room.

And, quite frankly, Eden was too. The faster this was over, the more likely she was to recover. Eden jumped out of her seat and followed.

Mitch was sitting at his desk with his lunch spread out in front of him when he heard a knock on the door. “Come in.”

Jolie stepped partway into the office. “Mitchell? Your—”

The door opened farther, allowing Mitch a full view of who was standing behind her. When the woman saw him, the color drained from her face and her jaw dropped slightly.

He stood up from his chair. “Oh, shit.” And then he laughed. “Change your mind?”

Jolie was probably getting dizzy from turning her head so quickly back and forth between him and the girl. Both women had the same expression of surprise, but, unlike Jolie, the supposed-sleepwalker looked like she’d flee if he blew air at her. Tempting.

“Or maybe you came up with a better excuse,” he said.

She looked at Jolie. “No, I’m here for . . . something else.”

Jolie smashed her lips together briefly and then said, “Your one o’clock is here.” She stepped back to let the girl pass. Which she did . . . reluctantly.

“Thanks, Jolie. I got this one.”
Had this one, actually.
Mitch sat back down and threw a few fries in his mouth as Jolie glared at him and slowly shut the door on her way out. He wondered if she’d be pressing her ear against the door. But with the shades drawn across the one-way glass walls, he couldn’t check. Not that he cared that much. Or expected the girl’s visit to be a long one. “What do you want?”

She was openly gawking at him, breath shallow, one arm crossed over her chest, the other caressing her shoulder. Her gaze ran over him, then darted to the couch, giving him the feeling she’d like to see him stretched out naked on it.

Flattering, but he’d learned his lesson from their last meeting. “What. Do. You. Want.”

She jolted at his words, blinking rapidly and dropping her arms. Yep, he’d been right. On the couch. Naked. He could tell from the depth of her blush.

“You’re the life coach?” she asked. Her voice was how he remembered it—during daylight hours—nervous and unsure. Nothing like the husky pitch she’d had the night before.

A nod was all she was getting from him.

She took a few steps toward him and stopped. “So what? Do you just tell people what to do?”

Ah, hell. He was feeling generous. She could have another. Nod.