The Counseling (6 page)

Tears mist across my eyes and I dare not blink for fear they'll fall down my cheeks and I'll have to explain myself to everyone around me. I'll have to tell the other girls that I'm crying over
a guy
and that I don't know how to move forward with my psychic abilities thanks to an evil, vindictive ghost. Sure, this retreat is for people like me, but we all have our own stories, our own burdens we bring with us, and our own crosses that we must bear.

Chris claps her hands to get our attention. "I know what this party is missing! Music! We should turn the CD player on. Glenn?"

He shouts out, "Tending to the burgers, my love."

Feeling grateful for the distraction, I stand to volunteer. "I'll do it, Mrs. La'Coston."

"How sweet of you, Kendall. The CD player is in the front room. Just click it on and we'll be able to hear it out here."

"Yes, ma'am."

I wipe my hands on the napkin and make my way up the tall wooden staircase on the side of the hill to the main house. Elephant ferns stretch across the path, impeding my progress up the steep steps. Once at the top, I see the headlights of a black sedan that's backing out of the driveway, and I wonder if perhaps Oliver Bates has finally arrived.

A million questions run through my mind over what I should/could/will/won't ask Oliver Bates about handling my gifts and dealing with the spirit world. Questions that will have to wait until the retreat officially starts, in the morning. Right now, my duty is to hit the music switch.

In the front room, I weave through the myriad couches and furniture to the shelf where the stereo sits. I press the power button, and soon the crooning voice of Frank Sinatra fills the air, piping down to the cookout area. I turn to head back to the party and trip on something bulky that sends me flying over the shaggy rug; I land on my arse with a thud.

"Ouch! Damnit!"

Good thing I hit something semi-soft. Three more steps and I would have been on the flagstones, and that wouldn't have been pretty.

"Why don't you watch where you're going?" I hear someone shout.

"Are you kidding me?" I scream, my butt cheeks stinging through the fabric of my Simply Vera jeans. The perpetrator of my trip lies supine on the floor next to a beige armchair. "Who leaves a guitar case in the middle of the—"

It's not just any guitar case but one with familiar stickers. The Beatles, Rolling Stones, the Doors, Jimmy Buffett, Hall and Oates, Bon Jovi, and Nine Inch Nails. How could this have happened twice in the same day?

Someone is in front of me and I gradually lift my head. I follow the length of black sneakered feet up to too-too-tight Levi's and then farther up to a black T-shirt with an electric blue stingray in the middle of it. Up even farther, I see the sun-glassed, knit hatted guy from the airport who chastised me before. I'm about to give him a good piece of my mind when he reaches up and, in one fluid motion, peels off his shades and jerks off his cap.

I'm staring into the eyes I've seen so many times before in my visions, along with that black hair dotted with gray at the temples, even though this guy is no older than I am.

I'm face to face with none other than Hershey Eyes.

"Y
OU
!" I say with force.

"You!" he echoes.

So ridonkulous that we both do that you/you thing. Obviously for different reasons, though. Me because it's the living, breathing vision of Hershey Eyes, and him because he's all Mr. Attitude about his frickin' guitar.

"You're that klutz from the airport," he says.

"And you're the idiot who keeps putting his shit on the floor."

He pulls back somewhat in surprise. "Do you have any idea how valuable that ax is?"

I crinkle my brow. "I thought it was a guitar."

He rolls his gorgeous dark chocolate brown eyes and his black eyebrows lift. "An ax
is
a guitar."

"Oh." I stab my fists to my sides, pulling my T-shirt a little too tightly against the girls. "Whatever it is, if it's so important and so valuable, why do you continue to leave it where people can fall over it?"

"I was told someone would be taking my bags to my room."

His lips are moving, but I've ceased hearing what he's saying. My heart slams away in my chest like a demolition crew whacking down a condemned building. I actually dreamed about this guy. Just like I did about Jason Tillson coming into my life. How is that possible? Then I harrumph to myself. Anything's possible when you're a psychic/sensitive/medium/empath.
Hello!
Does this mean that Hershey Eyes and I are going to hook up, like Jason and I did? I don't
think
so. Sure, this guy is a babe in his own right—those eyes with the perfectly formed jet-black eyebrows over them and the absurdly long charcoal eyelashes that have no business being gifted to a guy—but he's rude and is totally Mr. Attitude. Where are his manners? Can't he just apologize and be nice about the whole tripping incident?

He snaps his fingers in front of me. "Hello? Are you even listening?"

"Huh? What? Sorry. What were you saying?"

He shakes his sort of long hair that just reaches the neck of his black T-shirt. "Never mind. So what's the deal here?"

Questions start roller-coastering in my mind, up and down, side to side. "Why did you just now get here?"

"My driver took a detour and ended up on the ninety-nine in massive traffic."

I bite my bottom lip and nod. "Why didn't we just ride in the same car? You know, since we were at the airport at the same time?"

He lifts his arms. "Beats me. Does it really matter?"

"Certainly not. I wouldn't want to be stuck in a car with you for that long of a ride."

He quirks a smile at me. "Ouch. Score one for the pretty brunette."

The flush on my cheeks moves down, gradually consuming my neck and chest.
Why
am I letting this jerk get to me? "So, do you want to, like, join the party or whatever?"

Smooooooth, Kendall.

"That's why I'm here."

I reach out to help pick up his guitar case, but he tenses. I see now that he's wearing leather gloves, like the ones my dad uses when he plays golf. I don't know whether this is some sort of a fashion trend where Hershey Eyes lives or if he's just waiting for his tee time at the nearest country club.

He notices me staring at his gloved hands and shoves them into the pockets of his jeans. "I'm fine here. You can get back to the party."

Trying not to be offended, I straighten. "Are you coming down?"

"Eventually."

"Okay then." Our eyes lock, and I sense my knees actually going weak, like they're suddenly made of Jell-O. Give me a break! I need to get some distance from Hershey Eyes, so I dash down the stairs and find Jessica and the Pucketts, who are trying to decide who the cutest guy here is.

"Check out the new guy," Maddie says to Erin with a nudge of her elbow.

I don't have to glance over my shoulder to know who it is.

"Who's he?" Harper asks.

"Yum," Jess notes. "Does it matter?"

"Are you all in heat?"Willow comments. "We don't have to go there."

Jess and the Pucketts just snicker.

I pick up my half-eaten hot dog and begin to cram it in my mouth just to have something to do. After I swallow, I concur with Willow. "We don't have to go there."

Jess winks over at the guys and says, "Oh, honey, we're
definitely
going there."

I manage to satiate my sudden appetite with an ear of corn and two fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. Glenn and Chris have shut down the grill, but they've started a small bonfire in a rock pit over in the clearing. The soft music tints the chilly night air, and I feel myself being drawn to the warmth of the flames. Everyone is making small talk, and people are meeting one another, so I snatch another Diet Coke from the cooler and decide to offer an olive branch to Hershey Eyes.

Even though it's after sundown, he's put his shades back on, blocking off those rich brown orbs from others' view. I go over to the chaises near the fire pit, where he's stretched out, wolfing down his third—yes, I counted—hot dog.

I extend my hand politely and say, "I'm Kendall Moorehead from Radisson, Georgia."

He looks at my hand like it's going to cause him physical pain if he takes it, so I pull it back to my side. Ohhhhh-kay.

"I just thought you should know my name, since you're, like, hating me and such." I add a smile to my snarky comment for good measure.

He lifts his gloved hand and puts the last bite of his hot dog in his mouth. "I'm Patrick Lynn," he mutters with his mouth full. "And I don't necessarily hate you."

Returning my ignored hand to my jean pocket, I lower myself to the chaise next to him. "I don't necessarily hate you either, so we're even."

"Fair enough." He actually follows that with a chuckle.

Time to try and make nice. "So where are you from, Patrick Lynn?"

Chewing the final bite of his hot dog seems to take a few moments, then he says, "I live on MacDill Air Force Base, just a bit south of Tampa."

"Ahh ... military brat."

"Yep. My whole life. Air Force has been all I've ever known. My dad used to be part of NASA."

"Whoa! Has he gone up on the space shuttle?"

Patrick shakes his head. "Nah ... he was supposed to, but his mission got scratched because of some horrendous storm or something. He mainly flies a computer terminal nowadays."

Fiddling with the tab of my soda, I say, "That must have been hard on him."

"He dealt with it. Just like he dealt with Mom leaving him. Sticking him with me and my kid brother, Brandon."

I want to reach out to him, but considering that he wouldn't even shake my hand with his gloves on, I figure he's got some sort of skin-to-skin phobia. Instead, I try to empathize. "I'm sorry about your mom. I lost my mom too. Well, my birth mom, that is. She died when she had me."

His head cocks toward me, but I can't see his eyes. "That's got to suck."

"It does. But the family who adopted me is wonderful."

"Well, you're lucky for that."

He toys with his gloves for a moment and then tugs off the right one. I think I'm going to get a makeup shake, but nothing of the sort. He just stares at his hand and taps the leather of the glove over his palm. We sit in silence, sipping our drinks and gazing up at the night sky, while others scurry around us making small talk.

As if on cue, we simultaneously move to place our soda cans on the small table between us. Our fingers touch and...
bam!
A spark. A jump. A minuscule moment of contact that could power an electric car. My skin completely tingles where it's touching his, and I try to read him, this quirky Patrick Lynn with the stray grays and protective cover. Suddenly, I know he's not the rude jerk he's pretending to be. There's more to Patrick Lynn.
Much
more. But there's a barrier. A reef of sorts, churning information like rolling waves that slap at me. He's ... blocking me. A wall of energy gushes from him, nearly knocking me back in the chaise with its force. Patrick is trying to cover up something and hide himself from the rest of the group under that knit cap, gloves, and shades.

"Stop," he says firmly, jerking his hand away and plunging it into the safe haven of his leather glove.

"Stop what?" I ask innocently.

"Don't try to read me, Kendall."

"I'm ... I'm ... er ... I wasn't..."

"Yeah, you were. Leave it alone."

"It's just that—" Oh, well. He busted me. Maybe it's not the nicest thing to try to read someone you just met. "Sorry."

He wets his lips with his tongue and lets out a sigh. "So am I. Believe me. So am I."

Before I can ask what he means by that, Chris rings a loud bell to gather all of us together. Patrick stands. Reluctantly, I stand too and follow Patrick to the group. Jess pats the bench next to her and motions me over with her head. Although I can't actually see Patrick's eyes, I feel them on my back as I make my way through the small group and take a seat.

He's got secrets and questions, of that I'm sure. Hopefully our host for the week can provide the answers for him. I know I can't. It's weird enough that I had visions of him. I can't be his salvation too, and I shouldn't even try.

Chris steps up and speaks loudly to all of us.

"Kids, I'm thrilled to introduce you to the host of your Enlightened Youth Retreat. From television's
Ethereal Evidence,
help me welcome psychic and medium Oliver Bates!"

We break into applause and the outside lamps of the complex click on as bright as airplane lights. At the top of the staircase I just went up and down stands a man in a black suit and a gray-striped shirt. He makes his way down the steps, careful not to trample the elephant ferns like I did. At the bottom, he waves.

"Welcome to all of you!" he says.

I may not be sure of a lot of things, but of this I'm certain: "Oliver Bates is
much
shorter in real life than he is on television," I whisper to Jess.

"Shhhh."

"I'm like five-six on a good day, and I bet I'm taller than him."

She growls, "I said, shhhh."

"That's the illusion of television for you."

"Kendall, would you
be quiet.
"

I stifle my giggle and pay attention. Oliver walks through our crowd of thirteen and shakes everyone's hand. He knows our names on sight. I don't know whether that's because he's psychic or because he read our applications and memorized our information.

Standing in front of me, he smiles kindly and offers me his hand. "Kendall Moorehead. I'm so glad we could fit you in for this week."

"Thanks, Mr. Bates"

"Call me Oliver."

"Okay ... wow, then—Oliver. I appreciate your having me."

He covers our joined hands with his other one and pats for a second. He's connecting with me somehow, but the transfer of information is one-way. I'm not sure why he's doing this, so I try that blocking thing that Patrick did on me earlier, sending out a mental barrier. Oliver pauses and then smiles at me.

"Very well, Kendall. We'll talk soon." And then he moves on to Jessica.