Quicksilver Dreams (Dreamwalkers) (7 page)

Panic sets in. I question myself. Have I got her instructions right? She’s always telling me it’s my fault that I’m left behind so often, because I don’t listen. Didn’t my mother tell me to wait here? It seems like it’s been a long time. I’m getting cold. It’s dinnertime again, and I’m getting hungry. Where is she?

A glowing white flower winks at me, kind of like magic. It was just lying next to me on the wall, and I pick it up. It’s soft and pretty, like my mommy. I could go give it to her, and then we could go home and have some dinner. That seems like a good plan.

I go to the wine-drinking place and peek through the door, but I can’t see her, and a big man meanly tells me I can’t come in. Where is she? I look around and around and all I see are tall strangers. I move from one exhibit to another. I can’t find her. I start crying and running and the lights are getting too bright and the music from the rides is getting too loud and my shirt is suddenly snagged by a stranger’s hand that takes on the dimensions of a horrid claw, and I scream and scream.

It’s okay Taylor.
The deep, warm voice stops me.

I look up with my five-year-old eyes and see Ryder, large and protective, his intense green eyes full of concern, which is very addicting to be around. People don’t usually show concern for me. Anger? Yes. Disappointment? Yes. But not this concern that makes me feel warm inside.

No one’s going to get you here.
Look around.

And I do. The fair is bright and colorful once again. It has lost the frightening dimensions. Families with kids are walking by, talking and smiling at each other. Ryder bends down and picks me up, so I ride his hip, and he shields me from the whirlwind of bodies and motion. We walk around the different booths. He grabs a cotton candy and hands it to me.

Don’t we have to pay for that?

It’s just a dream.
Can you see that?

A
dream?
Happily, I take bites of it, not really paying attention to what he says, but he stops walking, forcing me to listen.

Does it still look scary?
His deep voice has a surprising softness and patience to it that draws me in, allows me to trust him to help. I look around and see nothing amiss. No one is out to hurt me.

No.
It’s just people.

So why are you so scared?

I
can’t find my mom.
She’s going to be mad and tell me what a bad girl I am for not listening to her and staying right there on the wall.
Then she’s going to make me live with Grandma
,
and I don’t want to live with Grandma.
She’s mean
, I confided.

In dreams
,
we can do whatever we want
,
Taylor.

We can?

Are you really five years old right now?

I think about it and suddenly remember that I’m not five. I’m nearly twenty-five.

No.
I’m not.

When I look down at myself, I’m magically standing on my own two feet with my adult body. It’s amazing. I look around, in control of my dream fear for the first time ever.

Wow.

So what really happened?

I stare at the wall, the beginning of the real-life nightmare I experienced that day, and shake my head. I’m not sure I’m ready to share yet.

It was a misunderstanding.

What happened to you?

Miscommunication
, I reply, though the truth of what really happened flashes through my brain.

Eventually, the fair closed at ten o’clock, and the security guard took me to the police, who then tried to call my mother and grandmother. My grandmother picked me up, and when my mother got home, my grandmother tore into her. Here’s the kicker: my mother told my grandmother that I ran off and that she couldn’t find me.

So this dream is about being lost and abandoned?

Yeah.
I’ll never forget that fear that I was never going to be found again.

I
found you.

Thanks Ryder.

He looks down at my hand, the one still holding the flower, with an expression of confusion.
Where did you get that?

This? I look down at the beautiful, iridescent bloom. It still has a glowing sheen to it.
It was there next to me.
Actually
,
it’s the first time I’ve seen it.
It’s never been part of the dream in the past.

Strange.
It’s almost like he says this to himself.

What is?

Nothing.
If you don’t wake up now
,
you’ll be late for work.

Chapter Four

I sat up on the sofa with a gasp, looking around my apartment with frantic head swivels. After a few moments, I came back to my senses enough to recognize that I was home, safe and sound, and I was alone.

How fucking weird was that?

I took a deep, shaky breath and fell back on the overstuffed pillow on the sofa. The dream had felt so real, just like the sexual ones. My twisted psyche had dragged Ryder into this dream and made him a savior of some kind—therapeutically, that is. At least I hadn’t woken up from this particular dream crying, as I usually did.

A glance at the clock on the wall in the kitchen had me scrambling. I’d been sleeping for hours! Shit, shit, shit. And I still hadn’t cleaned up the glass in my car!

With barely any time to lose, I dragged on the black skirt from the previous night and grabbed a cap-sleeved white button-up that looked cute and complemented my figure. I had no time to blow-dry my hair, so it did this wavy, curly thing around my face. Quick eyeliner, mascara and lip gloss did the trick before I was out the door barefoot, carrying my heels by their straps.

I also brought along a dustpan and a plastic bag, but as it turned out, I didn’t need either. The glass was already swept out and a plastic sheet had been taped over the area where the broken window had been.

Awwww.
How sweet.
The door in my heart creaked open wider.

Thanks
,
Ryder
, I thought to myself.

You’re welcome.

I was getting in the car when I heard that, or thought I heard that, and stopped midmotion. Standing back up, I took a look around, frowning as I tried to imagine if I’d actually heard something or if my brain was acting up again. Because really, if I’d actually heard something when someone wasn’t even there, that would mean I was hearing voices, right? Not good. Or that would imply that someone had access to my mind somehow, which is totally sci-fi and impossible, right? Probably, I was just imagining things, wanting Ryder to be there because he was a gorgeous, rugged mountain of tall, muscular and handsome, and I really liked kissing him. A lot.

Geesh. Imagine if he actually had access to my mind, with all the squirrelly stuff I had going on in there. I could barely stand to be in my own head without going tear-your-hair-out bonkers myself. Silently amused with the idea, I slid back into my car and motivated.

I got to work on time, thanks to Ryder saving me a step with my car. I was going to have to thank him for that. And it probably wouldn’t hurt to actually find out what his last name was, since he was living in the neighborhood, so to speak, and we’d already locked lips.
Awkward.
Hate that feeling! Experienced it in spades with my last, and only real, serious boyfriend back during my freshman year of college. I never got to have an orgasm with him the few times we tried, which just made it uncomfortable on so many levels. Only after we broke up did I do some physical self-exploration and realize that I could have an orgasm on my own.

The ride to the club was uneventful, and as I was about to exit my car I remembered something that had me diving into the ashtray by the radio. That special little piece of liquid metal clay stuff! The one I’d accidentally taken from Reggie’s house. I hoped it was still there, and that someone hadn’t taken it during the initial break-in. Upon first glance, I couldn’t see it, and I was heartbroken, thinking I would have to explain to Reggie that not only did I freak out his lover, but I stole something from his house that in turn was stolen from me! Upon closer inspection, however, I could see that it was simply camouflaged against the metal of the ashtray. It had conformed to the bottom, looking like it was part of the car.

Again, I was struck with how amazing a thing it was. It was like metal clay, changing shape, stretching out, contorting to whatever form I gave it, and when I laid it out on my palm, it began to simply puddle. I felt like there was a buzzing kind of energy that surrounded the metal, the way two magnets with the same poles will interact with a particular force. You can’t see it, but when you try to put them together, you feel the resistance. It was like magic, except not, because there’s an actual scientific explanation for the reaction of the magnets. There was no scientific explanation that I could think of to explain this liquid metal stuff, which didn’t mean there wasn’t one. I was not a science major in college. Could it be dangerous?

My brain immediately nixed the thought. There was no way Reggie would have any hazardous materials lying around in his kitchen.

But I knew I needed to get inside so I wouldn’t have Johnny hollering at me about values and responsibility and how the only way to succeed in life is to work hard and be on time.

“Where do I put this?” I asked myself, not wanting to risk leaving it in an unsecured car any longer. My brain had been so freaked about the break-in that I’d completely forgotten about it. I supposed I could stick my finger through it and make it a ring. But my hands were usually busy as a bartender, and I wouldn’t want it slipping off, maybe going down the drain. Toe ring?

With that thought in mind, I pushed the liquidy metal bit over my third toe and it conformed perfectly, creating a center hole and hugging my digit like it was a second skin. It actually looked sexy. I stuck my strappy heels on, which held the ring more securely in place, the energy of it humming against my skin, almost tickling me. Then I made my way into the club.

Johnny’s Spot was even busier on Saturday nights. Young singles in their twenties had had time to rest, get all hoochie-mamaed out and meet up with all their friends who were looking for an equally good time. I was up to my neck mixing drinks, grabbing beers, cleaning up bar spills and trying to maintain clever repartee with customers who were getting progressively more plastered. I knew that if I could get them to laugh, though, the tip jar would fill faster, which is good for all of us.

For the first part of the night, I developed a headache that I tried to ignore and just push through. It started out strongly enough, but I noticed that over the course of three hours, it dwindled. Eventually, it was gone, though a feeling of lightheadedness presented itself. But that was okay because it was a kind-of-cool feeling and didn’t hurt. I also thought I caught glimpses of Ryder in the crowd, which kept my heart jumping, but I could never get a clear view because of the constant movement of bodies. Disappointing. I also figured I could be imagining things, because wouldn’t he come up to me if he was there? We had shared some very intimate moments.

God
,
I
want to grab your tits.

I heard the statement and looked around sharply to see which of the guys around me had said it. There were three guys looking up at the TV screen located behind the bar, watching a soccer game; there were two women flirting with Barry, waiting for him to finish pouring them drinks at his end of the bar; there was a lone woman who looked like she was waiting for someone; and there was a couple not too far diagonally from me. The guy was looking at the woman as though mesmerized by whatever she was saying. I thought the statement came from him.

And she didn’t belt him for saying that to her?

But no. She was smiling, gesticulating with her hands, and with every move, her overly endowed, surgically enhanced breasts jiggled in her low-cut blouse. Had she not heard him say it? She had to have heard it. I heard it, and I wasn’t nearly as close to him as she was. Whatever. Why should I judge, right? It took all kinds.

“Can you bring that tray for me?” Brenda was looking stressed trying to get drinks and food out to some of her tables quickly.

“Sure thing.”

I did a quick balancing job and meandered through the crowd with a load of beers and frosted mugs, following Brenda. We served the tables, and I handed her the empty tray, since she was going back to the kitchen, and headed back to my station.

Man
,
I’d like to tap that.

“Excuse me?” I frowned at the starting-a-beer-gut-backward-hat-wearing-still-living-in-the-glory-days (which had clearly been back in high school) guy I’d just passed, sure that he’d been the one to make the rude statement.

“What?” He looked defensive.

“What did you just say?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

I stared at him a moment longer, shook my head in disgust and moved on. Guys these days were real assholes. The bar was a stage, and I was the one-person Greek chorus, reporting on what I was watching, maybe even predicting things that would come as they played out before my eyes. There was just such a lack of respect toward fellow humans in general. It was no wonder we were so polarized politically, and going broke financially, as a nation.

After that guy’s comment, it was like a dam broke, and I was hearing all kinds of rude comments like I’d never heard before in my life. These comments were from men and women alike, and I was having trouble containing myself and being the professional I’m paid to be. I continued taking drink orders and washing up glasses during lulls in service, all the while wondering why the hell people were all deciding to take off the gloves at once.

I’d like to ride you
,
cowboy.

I
bet you’re wearing a thong.

Can I be your Mr.
Tonight?

He has pretty eyes.
I
like his smile.
That was a nice one.

Sweetheart
,
quit acting so desperate and keep your girls caged in a shirt that actually fits.
That raised my eyebrows, but I didn’t see anyone looking upset.

What do I need to do to fuck you tonight?

This guy reeks.
I chuckled because I knew who the stinky guy in question was. I’d caught a whiff of him myself.

You’re not that cute
,
but I’d fuck you for a ride in your car, Dr.
Tim.
Don’t be obvious or anything.

Get your fake tits away from my man
,
bitch.
I thought that one was going to cause a fight between some women, and I was already looking for Charlie and Billy to warn them, but all I saw was two women and a man, standing together and laughing over some joke, just having a nice conversation.

The random comments grew to a dull roar until I had trouble distinguishing one comment from another, yet I looked around and no one was actually saying what I was hearing.

Yeah
,
right.
Of course you’re an actress.

Gross.
He has dried spit in the corner of his mouth.

So funny.
I
wonder where he’s from.

Leave me alone!
I
don’t care about the stupid beer-coaster collection you’ve got.

Should I ask for her number?
I
think she likes me.

My blood went cold as the din of noise from the room and the din of noise in my head became overwhelming. It was so loud. I couldn’t hear any one thing anymore. I was hearing everything and unable to discriminate between sounds I wanted to pay attention to and sounds I didn’t want to hear, sounds that were actual, and sounds that were coming from...I didn’t know where.

“Jesus Christ! Are you deaf? I said I want a Guinness.”

I looked helplessly at the man at the bar facing me, wondering if he’d actually said that, and realized that his lips had moved, so he must have. I grabbed a bottle and took his money, ready to run from the room with my hands over my ears. Instead, I turned away from the customers and faced the brick wall that housed shelves of liquor behind me.

The voices wouldn’t stop, and somehow the brick wall drew my eyes. It was a comfort for some reason, maybe because it was still and cool in a noisy room. I imagined that brick wall in my mind, thick and tall, containing the wild cacophony of voices, and suddenly...the voices went silent. The only noise I was hearing was the club noise again. Music was pumping through the club’s system, and there was a general din of conversational noise with random roars of approval and anger over whatever sports game was currently playing on the screens.

With a sigh of relief, I turned back around, shaky and sweating. I didn’t know what was happening, but I was scared and still had another two hours of customers and one hour of behind-the-bar cleanup. And then what? What was wrong with me? I’d have made a joke about needing to be committed, but I was too afraid that it was true. I didn’t even know how to
explain
what was happening to me, much less whom to talk to about it. Maybe I needed to call my aunt and ask if there was any history of mental illness in the family.

“You okay?” Barry, my fellow bartender, came over to me with a look of concern. He was a guy in his forties, had kind of a Hawaiian visage with long black hair tied in a ponytail, dark, happy eyes, you know? Smile lines around his eyes and mouth. He was a guy who liked to laugh. He also liked to eat. He had a slight paunch in his midregion. “You sick or something?”

“I’m okay.” I ran a hand over my forehead. “Just a headache.”

“Need to go home? Johnny could fill in for you.”

Which was true about Johnny. He jumped in whenever one of us had a crisis. “I’ll be okay.”

“All right. Let me know if you start feeling worse. Don’t be a tough guy.”

“I promise.” Such a sweetheart of a guy.

The rest of the evening went by in a blur as I did my best to keep up with the orders coming in, though half my brain was preoccupied with trying to figure out and find an explanation for what was happening to me. By the time it was last call, Barry said he’d cover me and told me to go home and get some rest. He said he’d handle the cleanup on his own, and I wasn’t going to argue with him. I was anxious to get home and start worrying some more about what was wrong with my brain. I figured I could look up my symptoms online and see what came up. Probably schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder.