The Firefly Effect (2 page)

“True.” Leave it to Leah to see the glass half full. I think that’s what I like about her. She has such a sunny, silly disposition. Besides, it’s not as if I’m flat broke. I’m still getting book royalties every month, and then there’s the money in my savings account.

“Let’s see, what am I forgetting? Oh, you might need to replace the filter on the sink. The water tastes like chlorine so you’ll want that. Um…thermostat’s by the bookcase. Linen closet’s at the end of the hall; should be plenty of clean sheets and towels. I already gave you the Wi-Fi password. Can you think of anything else?”

“Yeah. Which way’s the beach?”

Her infectious giggle brings a smile to my face. “That’s the spirit! Out the front door, take a right, walk straight for three blocks. If you end up in the ocean, you’ve gone too far.”

“Check. Start drowning, turn back. Got it.”

“Have fun. I’ll come up and see you one weekend soon. Oh, and I expect the first signed copy of this book before you sell the movie rights and become rich and famous and forget all about little ol’ me.”

“You got it,” I promise. Jeez, her optimism knows no bounds.

“Call me if you have any questions, all right? Now scoot. Go get a tan on those pasty white legs. I have to get to class, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay. Study hard.”

After Leah’s bubbly chatter, the place seems unnaturally quiet by comparison. Not in a bad way, though. More like in a way that would be conducive to a really relaxing mid-afternoon nap.

Instead, I stifle a yawn and set to work hauling in the rest of my stuff. Upon further investigation, I discover that the modest brick house has two bedrooms, each with its own private bathroom. One seems to be decorated in a more feminine taste, but in the end I decide on the other one. It has a larger bed and French doors that open out to the patio in the back yard. There’s even a gas grill outside. Not that I’ve ever used one before, but I’m sure I can figure it out if the mood hits me.

Wandering over to the dresser, I pick up a small framed photograph and study it curiously. I’ve never met anyone in Leah’s family, but I assume this must be them. She looks the same so it must have been taken fairly recently. Over last year’s Christmas holiday maybe, judging by the red and green sweaters. They’re all crowded together, arm in arm, wide smiles plastered on their faces. A middle-aged man and woman, Leah with her impish dimples and sandy blonde hair, and some guy standing taller than the rest of them.

His hair is brown and at first glance appears to be slicked down with gel, but upon further inspection I see that it’s tied back in a long, sleek ponytail. He’s smiling too, but his head is turned slightly as if he got distracted by something at the last minute, so half his features are obscured. But from what I can tell, he seems to be a decent looking guy.

So this is the dingleheaded brother with the weirdo friends. Replacing the photo, I shake my head with a laugh as it suddenly occurs to me – I don’t even know his actual name. Leah rarely ever mentioned him, and the few times she did she always referred to him as Butthead. All I remember her saying about him is that she wished he didn’t live so far away because she would love to set us up.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I just couldn’t see myself going on a blind date with someone who apparently looks like an MTV cartoon character.

Stretching contentedly, I heave a blissful sigh before strolling over to the French doors and flinging them open. Brilliant sunlight sparkles through a ribbon of clear blue sky. Palm trees sway gently in the warm breeze, the grass has been freshly cut in anticipation of my arrival, and I can hear birds chirping gaily through the foliage, welcoming me.

Singing along with them, I unpack my things and make myself at home.

Five days pass before I venture out to the beach.

I’ve been working tirelessly, taking breaks only long enough for meals and my afternoon strolls down to the Gas ’N Go for a cherry slush. Thanks to this daily ritual, I’ve become acquainted with two new people – Mr. Sutton, a retiree who lives down the street and spends an obsessive amount of time digging in his flowerbeds, and Mike, the gabby cashier at the convenience store.

Mike is tall, buff and built like an NFL linebacker. He is also gay. I know this because the first time I stopped in for a slush, I was instinctively weirded out by his talkative, never-meet-a-stranger approach. I thought he might be hitting on me. That is, right up until his boyfriend came bopping in to remind him about his four o’clock hair appointment. Now we chat like old friends.

Anyway, after five days I figure I deserve a day off since I have managed to complete two whole chapters. Besides, I reason with myself, what’s the point of being in Fort Walton Beach if I stay cooped up indoors all the time? That would just be a travesty. So I slip a swimsuit on under my shorts and tank top, throw a few essentials into a tote bag, and make my way down the sidewalk to the public access beach.

The day turns out to be cloudy and humid with red flags flying. Apparently there’s some tropical disturbance or something out in the Gulf of Mexico, so that’s probably why the sun isn’t out. Still, it’s pleasant. I stretch out on a giant towel and immerse myself in a book selected from the canoe shelf while my toes burrow in the warm, white sand. Lost in my reading and lulled by the soothing rush of the waves, I stay out longer than I intended. But that’s okay. I have nowhere to be, and that’s a luxury I’m willing to take advantage of.

It’s only later that evening, as I’m sinking down into a tub of sudsy bathwater, that I feel the slight sting across my shoulders. Maybe paying a buck for a cheapo bottle of sunscreen at the dollar store wasn’t such a smart move. Because apparently you can get sunburned even on a cloudy day.

Feeling lazy, I soak in the tub until the water gets cold. After rinsing the conditioner from my hair, I wrap myself in a fluffy towel while examining my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Yep, my shoulders are pink all right. So are my cheeks, but I don’t mind because it gives me a healthy glow. I shrug and grin at the rosy, bright-eyed girl in the mirror. If I wasn’t aware of the dangers of melanoma, I’d do this more often.

But I am, so I moisturize like crazy. And since I’m in the mood to pamper myself a bit tonight anyway, I slather my entire body with the new Bronze Goddess lotion my mom got me for my birthday. It smells heavenly, so I spritz on some of the perfume as well. Now I really feel luxurious. And…I don’t know. Antsy, somehow. Like I want to do something impulsive and exciting. Something out of character for me. I almost wish I had somewhere to go or something to do.

Or some
one
to do.

It’s been a long time. Longer than I care to remember.

Maybe my sister is right, maybe I should get out more. Stop focusing so much on the fantasy world of my novels and open my eyes to the real world for a change. Stop writing about great sex and start having it. Madelyn swears I’m becoming a hermit.

But sex comes with strings. Hell, even a smile or a flirtatious word can come with strings. Strings and lasting consequences.

Trust me, I know.

I opt instead for a glass of wine and the book I was reading earlier on the beach. Instead of getting dressed, I simply unwrap the towel from around me and spread it over the sofa to lie on while the lotion soaks into my skin.

It feels nice, lying here naked under the soft breeze of the ceiling fan.

I turn on the TV and flip through the satellite radio channels until I find music to my liking, something with a sexy post-grunge sound. Then I immerse myself once again in the novel. It’s a horror story written by an author I’ve never heard of before, and I’m finding it enthralling.

Dreamily scanning the pages, I try to make it to the ending while sipping my wine and listening to the music. But eventually my eyelids grow heavy. Alcohol makes me sleepy. It always has.

Before long, I drift off into a pleasant dream.

~ Chapter Two ~

Jesus, Mary and Joseph on a bicycle.

It’s her, all right. Melanie Lane.

Sprawled out fast asleep on the sofa of my beach house, naked as the day she was born. I have to blink several times to convince myself I'm not hallucinating. Every single perverse fantasy I ever had during those long, crappy years of high school is replaying in my mind like a porn movie on loop. And the subject of those fantasies has suddenly popped up right in front of me like a wish granted by a genie.

One helluva generous genie, I might add.

When Leah told me who she’d rented the house out to, I wondered if it was the same girl. Letting it slip that the new tenant was a writer only confirmed it. But I had to see for myself. I couldn’t stand it unless I knew for sure.

This
, however, is something I never expected.

Wetting my lips, I swallow hard as my hungry eyes devour the sight. A tousled array of dark hair is draped over the arm of the sofa, still damp from a recent washing. Both arms are stretched leisurely above her head, eyes closed, those luscious pink lips parting as she sighs in her sleep. I frown slightly as my mind travels back to all the acerbic insults that originated from that snarky mouth of hers. To the contempt she never even tried to disguise.

My unscrupulous eyes travel on their own volition down to...

Oh, heaven help me. Those tits. Those spectacular, glorious tits.

A million times in the past I'd visualized what those curvy breasts would look like without the barrier of cotton from the sickeningly cutesy graphic tees she used to wear. I mean, come on – Hello Kitty? What, did she think she was six? Give me a break.

As vivid as my imagination might be, I can honestly say it never even came close to doing them justice. I might have stopped to wonder if they're even real, if I hadn't been around to witness the evolution of her adolescent body. I can still remember the first time I noticed her growth spurt. Beginning of eighth grade.

She wasn't exactly happy that I'd noticed.

Probably didn't help that I'd pointed it out to everyone around.

Still mesmerized, I reach down with one hand to adjust the painful erection struggling to break free from the confines of my jeans. My eyes stray farther south to the hidden folds between her thighs and my fingers linger on my crotch a little longer than necessary. Oh, fuck me – I knew it. I
knew
it! She shaves her pussy. Either that or she has it waxed.

Hot damn, I’d love to be the person in charge of
that
highway maintenance.

I drop my hand in a hurry, considering it would be pretty hard to explain if she were to wake up and find me standing over her, rearranging my dick like some kind of deviant. For a fraction of a second, some juvenile part of me wonders what would happen if I suddenly starting screaming
fire!

Would she run out of the house naked? Talk about a YouTube-worthy moment.

Then I decide I really don't relish the idea of having to explain my little prank to the neighbors or the fire department. So that’s out.

No, this situation requires a more...delicate approach.

The way I see it, I have a choice. And I need to make a decision fast, before she opens her eyes to see me gawking at her like a deranged creeper.