Rock Star (Dream Weaver #2) (18 page)

             
“Yes.”

             
“Where…” Bile twisted my stomach…
His lips speak violence…
and pushed up my throat…
His hands speak pain.
The images from Nick’s memories invaded my mind.
He hurts me. He takes me.
“I need…” I swallowed the bitterness that roiled in my stomach.
Something I would willingly give him, but he takes by force.
“Where did those images—in your head come from?”
Please God, tell me he doesn’t really think of me like that.

             
“I can’t…”

             
“Nick, please...” And I fell apart. I wanted ‘normal’ back so bad it made me sick. I wanted my mom and dad. I wanted my life back. I wanted the raging chaos in and around me to blow over and return to something I could encapsulate in my heart and not have to chase after sanity. I wanted him to love me…but not like that.

             
He shoved the memory at me as though lobbing a grenade with the pin pulled. Images of Rico and the rape, the battering, the blood. Oh my god, I hadn’t even considered how those memories might haunt him. I remembered his ashen face when he and Ivy returned from the store room at Cash’s—they’d entered the ‘crime scene’ to find my missing bracelet. I remembered how I’d imagined the memories of the brutal assault splashed on the walls and floors like blood splatter at a murder scene.

             
The images jerked the air from my lungs. They froze me, silent and still, and all I could do was stare at his face. His eyes screwed shut in pain and his shoulders drooped forward like he was folding in on himself. A shudder racked his body as he thrust another memory at me. Again, they assailed my mind and shredded my heart: Nick’s mouth spoke words he would never say; his hands bruised me, beat me, smothered me; Nick did things to me that the gentle man I knew, would never do. It was no longer the face of the vile Rico DeLaRosa that hovered over me and took me against my will. Now—it was Nick’s face.

             
“Emi, I’m sorry.”

             
“How could you…?”

             
“It’s not me, Em. Please…” His voice was small, like the world sat on chest, like his next breath just might be his last. He turned to sit on the floor, drew his knees to his chest. He folded himself and wrapped his arms around his head as though protecting himself from blows. My gentle protector now writhed in the savagery that had once haunted me.
Oh my god, what have I done?

             
I dropped to the floor beside him and tried to wrap my arms around him, but he flinched away—flinched like I used to, after Jesse’s brother got done with me.

             
“I would never…” he whispered.

             
“I know.” My fingers burned to touch him.

             
“I swear, Emi. I would never…” This time a little more forceful.
              “I know, honey.” I ached to console him. “Nick? Honey, please…let me help you.” My fingers quaked as I raked them through his hair. This time, he didn’t flinch away.

             
His inner declaration,
I would never…,
became a repeating mantra in his thoughts.
I know, Nick. I know you would never hurt me. Not like that.
But the images continued ping on the inside of him like one of Sabre’s pinball machines, lighting up all of the raw emotions within him. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye socket until I was afraid he’d squish his own eyeball out. I pulled his hand away, slow and gentle. Force would only drive him deeper. My fingers slipped in the tears that bathed his face.

             
“Nick?” I whispered so softly it was mostly breath. “Honey? Who did this to you?”

             
“They did,” he croaked out. He didn’t have to elaborate. By now, we both knew that ‘they’ were always Rephaim.

             
“How long have they been tormenting you?”

             
He pressed his face to my hand as though it anchored him. “Since Christmas. They’ve been bombarding my sleep—when I
can
sleep—with nightmares. I’m afraid to close my eyes. Afraid to touch you. Afraid the images will become real and I’ll hurt you. They’re just so real.” His body crumpled into a trembling heap on my lap. “I’m sorry, Em. I’m so sorry.”

             
“Hush. The only one who should be sorry is me for being such an ass.” I wrapped my arms around him and shifted myself so his head rested on my chest. I rocked him like a child, and stroked his hair away from his face. “It’s okay, honey. Everything’s gonna be okay.” Somehow, I felt a little more assured of this, now.

             
Nick’s body continued to quiver. I rocked him in my arms and hummed the lullaby he once hummed to me. Time lost meaning, but it was over an hour before the seizures dissipated.

             
“Hey. You okay?” I whispered, afraid my words would launch a new fit of grief.

             
“I’m sorry, Em,” he said, but he kept his face pressed to my chest.

             
“It’s okay,” I whispered with conviction.

             
“It most definitely is
not
okay.”

             
“No, I guess not. Um…I’m sorry for getting angry with you before. For not listening. I just responded to what I saw in your head and I didn’t give you a chance to explain.”

             
He hauled in a bracing breath. “You don’t need to be sorry. I let them get to me. How could you not be utterly devastated by those images?” He pressed his ear to my heart, listened to its rhythm like it was greatest song ever sung. He kept his gaze on his fingers that trace the mole in the crook of my arm, still too afraid to look at me…or embarrassed by his weakness. His cell buzzed in his pocket, and he used it as an excuse to disentangle himself and try to preserve some semblance of dignity. But I liked that he let himself be vulnerable with me.

             
Nick snapped his phone shut. “Sabre wants us to get in some training tonight.”

             
“What? No, Ivy’s still here.” I went to the bedroom door and peeked out. Ivy still sprawled on the couch, softly snoring; the credits to Harry Potter rolled up the TV screen. “I can’t leave her here by herself. Especially with Thomas and William gunning for us.”

             
Nick stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “Emari, I’m…”

             
I heard the apology coming. “No,” I said as I turned and wrapped my arms around his waist. “
We
are going to figure this out. Figure out how to get these guys out of your head and keep them out.”

             
“There’s only one way to keep them out.” Reluctance tainted his voice.

             
I closed my eyes, denying the truth. “I know. Kill them. Right?”

             
He nodded. “I’m not opposed to killing them. I just want it to be for the right reasons.” Nick was callous about killing another person. I had to remind myself who these ‘people’ were, and what they’d done to us; to humans and other Caphar. But even then, killing felt repugnant.

             
“Wait. I can extract the memories. Can’t I?”

             
“You could, but it’s not that easy. It’s one of those things we’ll have to teach you.”

             
“Then, have Sabre do it.”

             
“I’ve asked him. He won’t do it. He says it serves me right for dragging you into this mess.”

             
I harrumphed. “Yeah, well Sabre’s already acknowledged he’s an ass. Come on,” I tugged him toward the bed. “Remember that night before Christmas,” I asked, once we settled amidst the pillows and blankets on my bed. “When you stayed up all night and deflected all the bad dreams that tried to invade my sleep?” I was an even worse basketcase, then. But Nick stood watch over every image, nightmare or memory that assaulted the gates of my dreams.

             
“Of course I remember. I have an eidetic memory. Remember?” Nick tapped the tip of my nose with his finger.

             
“So, all Dream Weavers have an eidetic memory?” I asked, snuggling against his warm chest.

             
“Mostly, yes. As Caphar reach the end of their lives, they have a harder time accessing memories. Probably because there are so many centuries of memories stuffed inside their heads. It’s a myth that humans only use ten percent of their brains. It’s an ever-changing series of connections as each memory is created. Caphar just have the ability to create more connections. But why did you ask about that night?” Nick yawned the words.

             
“You haven’t been getting any rest. You’re not going to be any good to any of us if you’re wiped out. I’d like to try and do that for you. If you’ll show me how.”

             
Nick’s eyes widened and turned to blackened pools. “You don’t have to do that, Em. I’ll be okay.”

             
“But I’d like to try,” I said as my fingers traced the curves of his arm muscles.

             
“Em…those images—they’re vile,” he argued.

             
“Yeah? Like I haven’t seen and lived them before?”

             
Nick’s eyes crunched together and darkened with pain. “Not like this, you haven’t.” His body tensed as the memories seized him again and rolled through his muscles like a clap of thunder.

              “At least let me try. Let me do something for you for once, instead of being on the receiving end all the time,” I pleaded. “Honest. I can handle it. I promise.”

             
Nick’s eyes narrowed as he calculated my determination. “I don’t mind…”

             
“But I do. Please? Let me try. I’ll stop if I can’t handle it.”

             
“I’m so tired of being afraid to touch you.” His warm fingers traced down my cheek, softly trembled on my lips. And then his lips met mine and he pulled me against his body. His touch fanned fires on my skin, my cheeks radiated warmth. Then, in my mind, Nick showed me how to deflect the memories and images that haunted his sleep; how to callous the pain they caused.

             
“Here, slide down. Let me be the guard for once.” Nick slid lower in the bed and rested his head on my chest. His hands, hot and tentative, slid around my waist. “Close your eyes,” I mimicked the same hypnotic tone he’d always used on me. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Relax,” I intoned. “I’ll cover everything. You just get some sleep. Okay?”

             
He nodded against my breast and I traced his eyebrows with my fingertips, memorized the coarse texture of his hair, the clean man-soap smell of it. With my thumb, I pressed away the anxious lines that creased his forehead, and stroked the tension out of his eyebrows. One by one, his muscles relaxed under my touch and soon he joined the soft snores of Ivy in the other room. He looked so innocent, laying there asleep in my arms. Just a little boy, who needed a lot of love, and someone to kiss his boo boo’s when he fell down.

*          *          *

              Nick once told me that Caphar only needed an hour or so of sleep in a week. So three hours later, when he finally stirred, we were both a little shocked. He jerked upright and out of my arms.

             
“How long did I sleep?”

             
“Apparently long enough,” I smiled and stretched languorously, content that, for once, I helped him.

             
“Emari, how long?” He stood and searched for his shoes.

             
“Three hours. You must have really needed it.”

             
“Shit! Sabre’s gonna kill me. I gotta get home.”

             
“Okay, potty mouth, chillax. What’s the big deal? You needed the sleep.”

             
“Chillax? You’ve been watching too much Disney Channel,” he smirked.

             
I shrugged. “Seemed appropriate to me.” I sauntered over to him, wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled myself against him. Nick wrapped me in his strength and warmth. His skin scorched against mine and his lips blazed a trail from my forehead, to my nose, to my mouth. My heart pounded in my chest and vibrated all the way to my toes. I closed my eyes and breathed him in; and drew a sharp gasp as his lips caressed the softness of my neck. The memory of another weave flooded my mind; Nick, the vampire,
the consummate predator that made you passionate for your own death.

             
With a frustrated growl, he pulled away and pressed his forehead to mine and held my face between his searing hands—I could almost hear the sizzle. His breaths panted from his chest in fast heavy waves.