The Space Between (The Book of Phoenix) (3 page)

“Whoa!” I squeaked, dropping my coffee cup to reach up and grab the tight muscles of his forearm.

My stomach dropped five stories.

I seriously felt as though I’d fallen off the side of a tall building, plummeting in a free fall. My heart took off in a gallop, while my lungs ceased working at all. I looked up and fell into the pools of those deep blue eyes, plunging further and further under. The word “
dyad
” echoed from deep within me, as if my soul itself had whispered it. I didn’t even know what the word meant.

But I did know one thing for certain.

Before last night, I’d never seen this guy in my life—how could I ever forget
that
face?—but in some inexplicable way, I knew him. My
soul
knew him.

Chapter 2

  What the fuck does
dyad
mean? The word bounced around my skull as if I should know, but I had no clue. Of course, I couldn’t think straight about anything as those silvery-green eyes entrapped me in their snare, making my head buzz and whirl. I don’t know how long we stood there staring at each other, but my stomach finally stopped its plummet, though my heart still beat harder than if I were actually banging the girl. I knew she was different, but this was way beyond anything I’d expected.

Something poked me in the chest. The girl blinked, then let go of my arm. The rest of the world stopped spinning and came into focus. The bartender jabbed his finger into me as his mouth moved angrily and a piece of paper waved about in his other hand. I fished some euros out of the wallet that was somehow in my hand—I didn’t remember pulling it out of my pocket. Apparently, this gesture didn’t satisfy the bartender. The vibrations of his voice beat against my cheeks —he must have been yelling loudly and quickly and in Italian, because I couldn’t read his lips, but I certainly felt his anger—and it was all I could do to keep from punching his face. I was paying the dude, for shit’s sake! But green-eyes had stopped me once already, and I didn’t want to put her in that situation again.

The bartender’s mouth finally stopped moving, his breath stopped assaulting me, and his eyes went to her face. She spoke to him, then turned to me. Her fingers fluttered in front of her, and I had to force my gaze from her face to her hands. How did she get through security with all those bracelets dangling on her wrists? It took me a moment to realize she was signing.

“Do you know ASL?” she asked with her fingers, every one of them banded with a ring, though none looked like a wedding or engagement ring, I couldn’t help but notice. She tilted her head in expectation. Still in a bit of shock, I simply nodded. “He says he should call security. Did you really run out?”

My brow furrowed momentarily. Hearing girls tended to think deaf meant stupid, although it didn’t stop them from hanging all over me, wanting me to do sign language on their bodies. But this girl—she
was
different. And I didn’t want to make myself look any more of a jackass in front of her than I already had.

“Didn’t mean to,” I signed. “I was trying to catch you before you got out of sight.”

Her dark honey-colored skin blushed a bright pink. Something inside me—deeper than any other girl had ever reached—stirred. I read her delicious, plump lips as she spoke to the bartender, changing my words from catching her specifically to catching someone who’d walked by. I held up enough euros to cover my bill as well as all the tables surrounding me to show I hadn’t meant any harm. I did a lot of stupid things, but running out on my bill wasn’t one of them. Not in recent years, anyway. The bartender glared at me for a long moment, then snatched the money out of my hand, spun on his heel and marched back to the bar.

“Thank you,” I signed to the Beautiful Girl. Her eyes narrowed as they traveled over my face, then down my arms, taking in all the ink. I couldn’t tell if she was impressed or appalled. For a moment, I was glad I’d had to take out my piercings for security, then I berated myself for caring so much what she might have thought. She was one girl of thousands. We were in an airport, each of us headed to other cities.I’d never see her again, so why
did
I care what she thought?

Her fingers moved as she used Signed English, not ASL. Which was good, because I never did catch on to ASL and its grammar any better than I’d been able to learn Spanish in junior high school.

“You’re welcome, but I only did it because you obviously had the money to pay up,” she said with a saccharine-sweet smile. “And because I was raised well, I’ll forgive you for using me.”

“How did I use you?” I asked, honestly perplexed. I’d already thanked her for translating.

“You were trying to catch me?” she asked with another tilt of her head.

I nodded. “And?”

Her smile wavered, and she blinked. “Why?”

I didn’t answer at first. I really didn’t know why. I’d seen her, remembered her from last night, and my body had pretty much reacted on its own.

“I recognized you,” I signed, feeling like a lame-ass. But it was better to be lame than to tell her the truth—that I hadn’t stopped thinking about her since last night. The look she gave me told me she was about to leave. I’d become very good at reading faces and body language since the accident. My hands moved quickly. “Don’t go. Let me buy you a drink. Please.”

She looked down at the coffee cup and the brown liquid pooled at her feet, then up at me, then over my shoulder. She rolled her eyes.

“I doubt your girlfriend would like that,” she signed.

My girlfriend? I glanced over my shoulder to see what she was talking about, and there was the dark-haired model I’d been about to hit up in the club room before goldie-locks here sauntered by. Okay, so there were a few minutes I’d stopped thinking about this green-eyed babe in front of me, but now I’d already forgotten about the model who glared at us with fire in her eyes.

“I don’t know her,” I said. “Just met her. Definitely not my girlfriend.”

Green eyes looked over my shoulder then back at me right as my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked down at the text from the model behind me: “Club room in 5 mins. right?” Goldie-locks glanced at the screen, then gathered her bags and walked off.

Her body mesmerized me as she seemed to glide across the floor. Her long, hippy-like skirt and loose pink top hid what I’d seen last night at the show. She didn’t have a traditional dancer’s body—her arms weren’t long and spindly, and her legs were thick with muscle, but shorter than most dancers’. And, although softer than it should probably be, her body curved in all the right places. I knew from my time spent with wannabe professionals that big tits got in the way when dancing and narrow hips made better lines, whatever that meant. They could have their boy bodies. I’d take the curves on this one any day.

I shook myself out of it—again—ran to grab my carry-on and, ignoring the model, sprinted after the girl who’d really captured my interest. And much more, if I dared to admit it.

After several steps of matching her pace, I finally got her to stop and talk to me. As soon as those green eyes were on me again, I faltered, once more losing my mind. I forced my brain to focus.

“Please let me replace your coffee,” I insisted. “You don’t have to sit with me if you don’t want to, but let me do this.”

She hesitated as her gaze swept all points around us as if avoiding my face, then finally it returned to me. She nodded and followed me to the café down the terminal. I bought her a cannoli to go along with her cappuccino—last chance for a true Italian one, I told her. After paying for our order, I found a small table with two spindly chairs and barely enough room for our carry-on bags. I was admittedly surprised when she sat down with me.

“So what do I call you? I’ve been thinking goldie-locks in my head, but those curls are really caramel colored.”

She blushed again, and I could literally feel the heat from her skin. The girl would drive me insane.

“L-E-N-I,” she signed.

“As in L-E-N-N-Y K-R-A-V-I-T-Z or as in—” I made the sign for
lay
and pointed at my knee.

Her mouth opened in a broad smile and by the way her body shook slightly, I knew she was laughing. She told me it was the latter.

“I’m J-E-R-I-C,” I shared before we both dug into the creamy goodness in front of us.

The cannoli might have been a mistake. I had one hour with her, only sixty minutes, but it was impossible to sign with ricotta-covered fingers. Watching her suck the sweet cheese off, though, made it worth it, although it also made me hard.

“How do you know the difference in sounds?” she asked when she was finished. She must have seen the confusion in my eyes. “Like how to say my name.”

Ah. She was perceptive.

“I haven’t always been deaf,” I replied. “I was in an accident eight years ago. I was fourteen, so plenty old enough to remember sounds.”

Her face darkened. “I’m sorry. That loss must have been difficult.”

I didn’t tell her what else I had lost—so much more than my hearing. We had an hour, and I wasn’t about to make it a mopey hour of depression.

So I shrugged and made light of it. “I gained some superpowers, so it’s all good.”

She laughed again. “And what would those be?”

I tapped my temple with a finger. “I can read minds.”

“Oh, I see. And you did such a good job with the bartender a few minutes ago.”

I smiled, trying to think fast. “I hear thoughts, but can’t speak my own.”

She tilted her head again in that way she does, a gleam in her eyes. “So what am I thinking right now?”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to say?”

Her skin flushed even deeper. As if to distract herself—or me—she picked up her coffee cup and tilted her head back to finish the last drops. What
was
she thinking?

“You’re thinking you’d like more cappuccino,” I signed.

She laughed. I wished I could hear it. “Nice guess, but I’m good. I’m hoping to sleep on the plane, not bounce around it on a caffeine high.”

Another reminder she was leaving. We both were. Life was a bitch. This girl fascinated me. Not only did she affect me like no other female had in my extensive foray with them, but she was literally the girl of my dreams. I’d been sketching her for years, and here she was in the flesh. I licked my lips. I couldn’t help but wonder what that flesh tasted like.

Her hands moved again, returning me to reality.

“Why Italy?” she asked.

Heh. Good question. I studied her face as I debated how much to tell her about my screwed-up life. She stared back, waiting for my answer with genuine curiosity.

“I’d planned to see family,” I hedged, and added, “but didn’t find what I was looking for.”

“In Sulmona?”

Of course this question would come up. The coincidence was too . . . coincidental.

“I ended up in Sulmona yesterday after spending a few days on the eastern coast. It was a place to stay on my way to Rome.”

She nodded, but a shadow flickered across her eyes, and I could tell she wanted to know more, but she didn’t ask. Which was good because I wouldn’t tell her, but I didn’t want to come off as a douchebag. Not when I might have finally won her over. Even if it was for only a few more minutes.

“So where to now?” she asked, changing the subject for me.

“I’m on standby for a flight to Paris. There I hope to catch a flight to Miami.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“Yes,” I said. The real answer wasn’t so simple, but no need to get into details. I wanted to know more about her, but here we were talking about me. I needed to change that. “What about you?”

“Atlanta. Home’s just outside of there.” And now I imagined her words with a sweet Southern accent. “For now anyway. My dad’s company moves him a lot, so I’ve lived all over.”

So much for the accent.

“And what were you doing here?” I asked.

Her eyes drifted away for a moment, taking on a distant look.

“Chasing a dream,” she said as her gaze returned to me. “I’d always wanted to be a dancer, since I was a kid. Life didn’t turn out as I’d hoped, though. You know how it is.”

I grimaced. I certainly knew how it was. I’d had my own dream once, but the accident had killed it. I wasn’t cut out to be another Beethoven.

“My great-uncle arranged for me to spend a month over here to dance with the company of a friend’s son,” she continued. “I take care of him, so he said this was the least he could do for me in return.” Her eyes glinted again, and she smiled mischievously. “Truth, though? I think he just wanted to spend some time with his lady friend.”

“Can’t blame a guy.”

She wrinkled her nose and laughed. “He’s eighty-three years old!”

“All the more reason. When you only have a limited time, a guy has to make the most of it.”

She locked her eyes on mine, and once again, they trapped me. Her head tilted, as though asking if I spoke of myself as much as her uncle.

“How do you know how to sign?” I asked.

“My uncle. We learned together. He said he was too old to learn a whole new language like ASL, so we learned Signed English. I was pretty relieved to see you using it. You’d have to go slow for me to follow ASL.”

I nodded with understanding, but I didn’t get a chance to say anything else, because my phone vibrated on the table, startling the hell out of both of us.

The airline had a seat for me on the flight to Paris.

Was it bad I enjoyed the look of disappointment in Leni’s eyes when she saw the text?

We both stood and gathered our things. My gate was on the way to her own, so she walked with me. I eyed the line of passengers waiting to board, and the thought of getting on that plane—of leaving the Beautiful Girl of my dreams—nearly threw me into a panic. Damn. I
needed
to get on the plane. Not only to get back to the States but if I didn’t break this . . . whatever it was . . . with Leni, I thought I’d be jacked up for life. She was
that
kind of girl, but I was not that kind of guy. She put her stuff down to sign, then looked up at me with wide, green eyes and a small smile. Ah, shit. I was already jacked up for life. How would I ever be able to forget her?

“It was nice to meet you,” she signed. Then she held out her hand. I didn’t want a handshake. I wanted to yank her into my arms, press her body against mine, hold her, grab a fistful of those caramel curls, kiss her like she’s never been kissed before, taste her mouth and her skin . . . I cleared my desert-like throat and took her hand.

That feeling of the floor dropping from my under my feet hit me again, though not as strong as before. The word “
dyad
” returned in my mind and the feeling I knew this girl, much more than was possible, exploded again from somewhere deep within me.

Leni licked those full lips of hers. “They’re calling your flight for the last time,” she mouthed since my hand still held hers. As though she might have forgotten, she slipped her hand from mine and signed the same thing. “Don’t want to miss your flight, do you?”

Yes
. I wanted to tell her.

I gave her a smile and signed instead, “I can read lips.”

She returned my grin with a sexy smile of her own.

“Take care, Jeric,” she mouthed before turning and gliding down the corridor. My heart faltered a few beats at the thought of how my name sounded rolling off those lips . . . that tongue . . .. If I only knew what her voice sounded like.

Once the plane was in the air, I reached for my backpack stuffed under the seat in front of me and pulled out my tablet and the used-and-abused, leather-bound notebook inside. I thought I’d look her up on Facebook, but realized I didn’t catch her last name, so I went straight to the notebook. I kept notes of my search in it, but also used it for communication when texting on my phone didn’t work and even had a few sketches in it. I was far from a great artist—my true talent was music. Or, at least, it had been before the accident. Now my talent lies in things much more sinister.

I flipped to the picture I’d drawn a couple of weeks ago after waking from a dream, one I’d been having for years. As I had previously, I’d felt the need to sketch the girl who had me waking with a painful boner. Now that I’d met her in real life, I couldn’t deny the girl in my sketches depicted Leni—curly hair, exotic green eyes, full lips and breasts, dark-honey skin . . . As if the absolute best features of African and European heritage had been blended together to create my Beautiful Girl. The Leni I’d just met would probably never wear the leather bra, miniskirt, and knee-high boots I’d drawn her in, but damn if she wouldn’t look hot in them. The vision came to me clearly. Too clearly. I had to place the book over my lap to hide the full-blown stiffy pressing against my jeans.

Damn. I needed a distraction. I needed to get her out of my head. Several airline bottles of rum dumped into my Coke weren’t enough to blur the image of Leni’s face in my mind. When the smoking hot flight attendant ran her finger over my arm then dropped a napkin with a message on my tray (“Meet me upstairs?”), I couldn’t resist. I snuck up the spiral staircase to the empty upper level and found her in the bathroom wearing nothing but heels and thigh-high stockings, tendrils of bottle-bleached hair barely hiding her fake tits. Flight attendants like this had made me a lifetime member of the mile-high club—they wanted nothing more than something to make the long flight more interesting. My perfect kind of girl.