Brain Storm (A Taylor Morrison Novel Book 1) (2 page)

His previous ‘I don’t know what happened’ look had changed to a calculating, accusing one. I stopped mid flap, confused. It didn’t take a genius to know whether or not you threw coffee at someone, but from the accusing glare he was nailing me with, he had made the leap to blaming me. Somehow he knew. Almost before I did.
 

My gut clenched as instinct kicked in. This guy was trouble and I had managed to put myself right in his sights. I felt my hands start to shake as I gripped my shirt, my heart pounding in my chest as adrenaline surged through me. Locked in his gaze, I couldn’t seem to look away from him, so I had a ringside seat when the guy who had been in front of me in line, stepped over and popped Denzel a good one. Right in the kisser.

The sight of his head snapping back from what appeared to be a really strong right cross brought me back to reality. I watched him stagger, but kudos to him, he kept his feet. Whoever he was, this guy could take a punch. My rescuer was preparing to follow up with left hook, and I quickly stepped into the danger zone between them. Everything in me was screaming to get away from there, but I couldn’t very well leave, and let him get beaten up for something he didn’t do. There
was
some sort of code, wasn’t there?

“Whoa! Whoa there!” I had my hand splayed across the puncher’s chest, trying to keep him at bay. “It was an accident!”

“That’s right, buddy. It was an accident,” Denzel chimed in.

I looked behind me, exasperated. He might have been talking to his attacker, but it was me he was looking at, the accusing look still on his face, mockery in his voice. I might have felt badly about him getting punched for something which technically, he didn’t do, but he certainly wasn’t helping to calm things down now. His attitude, along with the too familiar ‘buddy’ didn’t go unnoticed by my defender. I felt his muscles bunch up under my restraining hand, ready to let fly with another punch and braced to hold him back.
 

“Back off!” I silently mouthed the words at Denzel, hoping he’d take the hint. Apparently he wasn’t completely oblivious to his peril, because he held up his hands and took a step backward in retreat.
 

“Please. It really was just an accident,” I said, turning my attention back to my defender. “I appreciate what you’re doing, but it’s not necessary.”

“It sure didn’t look like an accident,” he mumbled the words, glaring over my shoulder at Denzel. He was still simmering, but the pressure against my hand was easing. He was coming around. He looked down at the hand I was pressing against his chest and I knew he could feel me shaking through the connection when he squinted one eye at me.

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” I assured him, shaking my head like a bobble head doll. “I’m fine, really. Thank you for your help, but everything’s under control.”

He gave me another once over, shrugged, threw one last glare over my shoulder to my assailant and turned around to resume his place in line. Relieved, I took a deep breath. One down, one to go. I heard someone clear their throat behind me, and steeled myself for the next round as I turned to find Denzel staring holes through me.

“Care to explain what just happened here?” he growled out angrily. “You and I both know I didn’t throw that coffee at you.”
 

I hadn’t imagined it. Somehow he knew I’d done it, and now he was waiting for an explanation I didn’t have. Even if I did, I certainly wasn’t going to give it to him. There was something about him that had my danger signals firing on all points. All I knew for sure was that I wanted to get away from him as fast as possible. I racked my brain for any semi plausible excuse to throw at him, but nothing was coming to me. He took a step toward me, so I did the only thing I could think of and went on the offensive.

“Just what right have you got to be angry? I’m the one soaked with coffee!” I said, jabbing my finger at my stained clothes for emphasis.
 

I thought I came off sounding quite offended and insulted. The fact that my finger was jumping up and down from nerves was an added bonus to my damsel in angry distress bit, which is why I was somewhat surprised to see his brows lower and his eyes narrow down to little pinpoints. He wasn’t going for it.

“I’m the one who got hit, if you’ll remember!” He was practically stepping on my toes now and I looked up at him, uncomfortable with him invading my space.

“You’re right,” I said apologetically, deciding to change tactics. “I got soaked and you got hit.” As I was looking pointblank at his jaw line, I got a close up view of the results of the hit he took. The blood had almost quit seeping from the cut on his lip, but I thought it a safe bet that he’d have some pretty spectacular bruising tomorrow. I expected to feel worse about it, but this guy was creeping me out. I needed to get out of there. Fast. “I say we call it even and leave it at that.”

He wasn’t about to leave at that and was about to say so, when the manager stepped in with some towels effectively ending the conversation. Perfect timing. I grabbed up his offering and mopped off my face. Looking down I could see my shirt and coat were candidates for the cleaners, if not the garbage. The manager had started talking to Denzel, asking questions about what had happened and I took the momentary diversion as a sign to make my exit. I quickly slipped out the door and all but ran across the parking lot to my car.
 

Relief swamped me as soon as the door shut, giving me a false sense of security. I hurriedly locked it and slumped over onto the wheel. Oh my gosh, what was going on? I felt myself cringe, convinced that I had somehow been responsible for the whole debacle. I had no idea how, but whatever was happening, it couldn’t be good. My mind immediately started hurling down some really scary paths, which wasn’t helping the situation at all. There was still way too much adrenaline in my system, and I was afraid the doubt and the questions coursing through my head could easily turn into confusion and panic without too much prodding. This was not the time to try and figure it out. I needed to stop and get a grip. I needed to concentrate on the here and now. I
needed
to get out of here.

Trying to shake off the fear, I managed to locate my keys and get the car started. I glanced into the rear view mirror as I pulled out of the lot, and caught sight of Denzel. He had come out of the coffee shop and was watching me. I couldn’t help but shiver as I pushed my foot to the floor and fled the scene.

I made the
drive home in record time, constantly checking behind me in case Denzel had decided to get in his car and come after me. I was pretty good at picking up a tail, but still, my morning hadn’t gone so well. My confidence had definitely fallen a peg or two, and I was worried I might be missing something. I pulled into my underground parking space, gave it a once over to make sure no one was lurking in the shadows, and somehow managed to retain enough control not to run madly to the elevator. It was a small victory, but considering my state of mind, I’d take it.
 

Minutes later, I was safe behind a very solid, very locked door. Leaning against it in relief, the absurdity of the situation hit me and I suddenly felt like a fool. I’m a trained professional. I had no doubt I could have handled Denzel without a problem, even if he had come after me, but I’d freaked out and let panic run amok. I shook my head, disgusted with myself. Whatever was going on, losing my head, if I hadn’t already actually done that, wasn’t going to help. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew I could figure it out. When I did, I’d find a way to deal with it. I ran a still shaking hand through my hair and feeling the stiff bits of dried whipped cream decided a shower was the next course of action. Then I’d work on the problem at hand. Feeling a little better now that I had a plan, simple as it was, I headed off to the bathroom and a long hot shower.
 

IT’S A WONDERFUL feeling to be clean after being so utterly filthy. I guess it’s a lot like not being able to appreciate the mountaintop unless you’ve been in the valley. Whatever the case, it was wonderful to be rid of the coffee and whipped cream, although I did have to wash my hair three times to get it clean. I wrapped my hair in a towel, slipped on a robe and headed to the kitchen for that cup of morning coffee I had yet to enjoy. I had some serious thinking to do and coffee is essential for serious thinking. Or thinking at all, in my case. I measured out the beans, ground them up and started the machine.
 

Leaning back against the counter, I took several deep breaths, letting the aroma of brewing coffee flow through me. Okay, let’s think about this. Maybe it’s not so bad. Things happen all time. Things you can’t really explain. I’m sure they’ve happened to pretty much everyone at one time or another. That one peculiar time when coincidence just seems too convenient an explanation. When you just KNOW something else is going on. I’d always had pretty severe bouts of déjà vu. Who hasn’t? Then there’re the dreams. The ones where you wake up and actually remember what happened and you just know it isn’t a dream, but some sort of warning? So you don’t drive down that particular street on the way to work that day, or you make sure to remember to lock the doors that night. Weird, yes, but common. Everyone does it, so it doesn’t make you different when it happens to you. Right? But then there’s this. This thing of wanting someone’s coffee one instant, only to find it flying toward you the next. That was just too weird for words.

Sighing, I opened the cabinet for my favorite cup, poured in the coffee, added extra cream, and took a long slow sip, savoring the richness and warmth. It didn’t taste like my white chocolate mocha, but it was satisfying and regaining something of my morning ritual did make me feel better. The time had come to face the music. Braced with my coffee, my fluffy robe and my somewhat shaky resolve, I decided to finally drag that nagging voice that was whispering inside my head out into the open.

There were only three explanations I could think of for what had happened. One – the guy threw the coffee at me for some unknown reason. As I’d pretty much already come to the conclusion that he hadn’t done that, I had to consider the second possibility. I could move objects with my mind. There. I said it. Silently, in my head, where no one could laugh. Except me. How could I even think such a thing? I didn’t know of anyone who could do that. There was that picture of the kid bending the spoon in Tibet or something, but how real was that? And that was nothing like this. I was pretty certain I was out there on my own. Not a place I enjoy being mentally or physically.

What if it were true, though? What if I had become some sort of mental giant and could do all these fantastic things? On one hand, it might be kind of cool. The episode with the keys worked out quite well. The peanut butter and the coffee incidents, not so much.

Maybe it was time to move on to door number three, which I didn’t even want to think about but it couldn’t really be ignored.
What if I was imaging all this? What if I really had lost it?
My mind was starting to run away with itself and the myriad of possibilities. I could feel my heart rate start to race and noticed my hand was back to shaking as I raised my mug for a another long sip. So much for a calm and collected approach.
 

Okay. I needed to get control of myself. I didn’t even know if mind moving or whatever is was called, was really something someone could do, much less if I could really do it or not, but I was pretty sure I preferred that to checking myself into our local mental institution. I needed to find out if it was real or if I was just imagining it. I needed a test. Try to move something. But what? Looking down at the cup in my hand I decided that anything full of liquid was definitely out. Been there, done that. I took one last sip and poured what was left in the cup down the drain. Then I poured out the pot too, just to be on the safe side.
 

I grabbed a fork from the dishwasher and then replaced it immediately with a spoon. Recalling the coffee flying at me, the idea of accidentally stabbing myself with a fork was way too vivid. A spoon just seemed safer, although on reflection, there’s that pointy thing called a handle on the other end that could easily put an eye out. I hesitated for a second, but then I remembered the kid bending that spoon and the decision was made.

So the experiment began. The first spoon hadn’t moved at all. I have to confess, it was a half hearted attempt at best. Part of me wanted the power, so as not to be crazy and the other part wanted to be crazy with the provision that a little pill would take care of it. Both parts of me were more scared than I like to admit, but either way, I needed to know for sure. So, determining to really do my utmost, the tests began in earnest. One spoon quickly became five, then ten, as I took my frustrations out on each victim, convinced the failure lay in the spoon itself and not me. I was certain that if I just found the right spoon, it would work. I’d made my way through every spoon in house until I was down to this one final spoon.
 

Now, it was decision time. Keep trying or give up. I looked over at the spoons laying silently on the floor and realized that, deep down, I was unprepared to admit to mental instability, so one of these spoons had to move, and move on its own. The alternative was simply unacceptable. Reaching out, I gently lifted the spoon from its nesting place and softly sat it on the table in front of me. Maybe this time it would work.
 

I braced my hands on each side of the spoon, lowered my head down until my chin was nearly on the tabletop and focused every ounce of my being on the silver gleaming only inches before me.