Sun Poisoned (The Sunshine Series) (29 page)

He's picked at a scab that wasn’t healed enough, and now I'm bleeding all over the place.

Will it always be like this? The wound heals, only to be reopened?

I get so caught up in the question that I don’t realize Evan coming even closer. I don't care when his face is right near my head, studying me in a way I've never been looked at before. Like I’m cracking and he can see that the pieces are held together with t
he thinnest of threads and he’s waiting for them to fray.

I don't want to cry in front of him. Dear God, please.

For a moment, I think he's going to touch me, try to gesture in some way to make me feel better and keep the tears from seeping through my eyelids every time I blink.

So it comes as more than just a shock when he finally says,
“I can help you.”

I swallow, my mouth and throat dry. But I slowly turn my head toward him, moving away again so we're not as close.

“What do you mean?” I whisper.

Evan leans back, maybe sensing my unease at the proximity between the two of us.

“I know what you are feeling,” he says. “I can sense the hurt and loss coming off of you. I cannot imagine what is going on in your mind as well.”

I have to blink a few times.

“I'm okay,” I say, and I don't even know if I'm lying at this point, or simply oblivious to how my own body is reacting to traumatic events.

“
I'm doing better.” I shrug. That part isn't exactly a lie. At least I'm eating and talking and trying. I'm trying to keep it together so I can play tonight. I'm doing better and I can do this.

My own sobbing is pathetic, but I can't stop it when it comes. It’s a flood of salt water, washing over me and crashing through my body. I can't stop myself from being pulled with it.

Evan doesn't stir or  move an inch through it all. When it seems that the tide has gone down, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and hands me a faded yellow handkerchief. My shaking hand reaches forward because I don't know what else to do.

“
Thanks,” I mutter when the crying has died down to a sniffling. “Sorry,” I add on, looking at the floor.

Evan leans in again, slower this time so he doesn't startle me. When I glance at him, his eyes are searching my face. I expect him to say something like it's okay, or that everything will be fine, but he doesn't. He doesn't say anything. As more and more time begins ticking away—seconds, minutes—I suddenly realize that maybe he’s waiting for
me
to talk.

“
How?” I whisper without even thinking about the question before it leaves my mouth.

I clear my throat, sniff again, and wipe away tears with the soft fabric of the handkerchief, but I'm really just trying to avoid his unwavering gaze.

“How can you make it stop?” I finally ask when he doesn't say anything else. “Myles already tried, and I felt . . . worse.”

“
I know,” he says quietly, and I don't know how, or if Myles told him anything about it.

He's probably suffering too, watching me go through this, and he needs someone to talk to now that his girlfriend is incapacitated.

“What you are feeling,” he says, “runs too deep for that.”

I wrap my arms around myself, both fearing that I'll start breaking down again and knowing almost for sure that I wouldn't be able to if I tried. My eyes are so dry and my throat is so sore that I doubt another fit of sadness would be possible, but that’s the thing about grief, I guess. It doesn’t listen
when you say stop.

“
What. . .” I say it too quietly. “What can you do that Myles can't?”

“
He has the ability,” Evan says, correcting me. “He just does not want to put you through anything more.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but he leans in even closer. I don’t feel uneasy this time. The more Evan looks at me and tells me that he has something that will make it all stop so I can be a normal, functioning human being, the calmer I become.

“Myles fears that he will only make things worse,” Evan says.

“
How do you know you won't?” leaves my mouth before it's fully processed by my brain.

His mouth presses into a line, and I'm momentarily worried that he may be ang
ry, but his words reassure me.

“
I am not . . . connected to you as Myles is,” he speaks slowly so I can understand him. “Sometimes, distance helps with these things.”

I nod like he's making all the sense in the world, but I'm not sure if anything makes sense anymore.

“Would you like to try?” Evan asks. For some reason, when his voice is quiet like that, his accent is more pronounced.

“
I. . .”

“
You have the power to stop me at any time,” he adds on quickly.

Evan isn’t making me uncomfortable. He's being really
nice and trying to help me out. He isn't forcing me to do anything I don’t want to do.

Then why do I feel so wrong about all of this?

Still, I ask, “What do you mean, it runs too deep?” I begin to fold the handkerchief between my hands. “What you're going to do. . .” I stop myself. “What you
want
to do. . .” sounds better. “How is it any different than what Myles did?”

“
It is completely different,” he says, almost looking puzzled. “What Myles tried was only scratching the surface of your sorrow, your loss.” The leather doesn’t even make a sound when he shifts in his chair. “It runs through every thought and moment,” he says, “Your bones,” he pauses. “Your blood.”

With that one word I know what he means to do.

I should be scared and uneasy, or at the very least, trying to leave.

But then again, this is a way out. This is a way to feel better.

I'm terrified of what I don't feel. I'm even more horrified that I'm willing to do this, here, with this person—vampire.

I swallow, turning different combinations of mostly the same words over and over in my skull until they sound right. When that doesn't happen, I settle for the one that sounds the most coherent.
“Myles told me that . . . blood is personal.”

Something crosses over Evan's pale face. I'm not sure where it
starts. Maybe it’s his jaw setting, his lips twitching, his eyes shifting, but it's like a shadow passing over him. It's quick, and as soon as I'm sure that I've seen it, it’s gone.

Maybe I wasn’t supposed to know that.

Evan moves an inch closer now, and instead of having a wave of nausea, my body sinks further into the chair. His hand hovers over me for a second, then finally lands gently, only the fingertips grazing the mark that is no longer a mark on my collar bone.

“
It is,” he says. “That is why he cannot know about what we are about to do.”

Immediately the nagging feeling that this is wrong intensifies.

“That sounds. . .” But I don't have a word for what this scenario sounds like. There aren’t any that I could string together in order to convey what is going on inside of me.

“
I am aware of how it must sound,” Evan's voice is too quiet to be an actual cut off, but I wait for him to finish because I have nothing. “Myles is suffering,” he says. “I can feel what he is enduring more than you can imagine. I want to help him.”

So this isn't about me at all. This is about Myles and his vampire, Evan.

“If he knew,” Evan continues, “he would be upset at first, yes.” He takes a pause like he's running through the different ways that Myles would react.

“
But trust me, Sophie.” His hand finally leaves my chest and I wasn’t even thinking about how it was there before now. “If you are alright, even just slightly better than you are now, Myles will suffer less. He will have hope that you will be better. It will help all three of us.”

I find it hard to blink, breathe evenly, or swallow the lump forming in my throat.
“I don't know,” I choke out.

“
Are you scared?” he asks. His voice sounds practically surprised.

I nod once.

Suddenly, Evan stands. He holds his hand out in front of me, and when I glance up at his face he is patiently waiting for me to take it.

He says nothing. His face gives away nothing. He blinks once, twice, three times.

Then my hand is in his, and he's gently tugging on my arm so I'll stand up too.

Slowly, I will my knees to lock, my muscles to work with me. My feet are planted on the carpet. My body is no longer supported by the leather armchair. My arms almost immediately start shaking as he leads me to the brown leather, therapist office-looking sofa.

I expect my legs to stop moving, my brain to be screaming for me to stop, but none of those things happen.

What happens is this: I let Evan lead me to the couch. I let him help me sit down. When he suggests that I should lie down, I lie down. When he says that it might be easier if I close my eyes, I close them.

I hear him wheel is desk chair next to me. I hear the fabric of his shirt as he sits to my left. I'm shaking, but if I wrap my arms around my stomach I can settle the tremors that run through me.

“
I'm going to place a hand on your head,” Evan says quietly. “Would that be alright, Sophie?”

I have to take a breath before I answer, but the words get caught somewhere at the back of my throat. I nod once because that is all my body will allow.

At first, I feel nothing. Then I feel gentle fingertips, the palm of his cool hand at the crown of my skull.

A chill runs through me, and I'm not sure if it's from being cold or afraid.

I want to feel better. I want to help Myles. And myself. But I don't know if I want this.

“
Do not think,” Evan instructs.

I swallow so hard that I can hear it. How is even possible to not think at a time like this? About how selfish I am, about how this feels wrong, about Jade, and Myles, the show that’s no less than an hour away, and whatever else I’ve had thrown into my life in the past few days.

“I will help you,” Evan answers my unspoken question.

With that, the familiar tingly, warm feeling that I've experienced with Myles comes forward. It starts out as just a hint of fuzziness, but it grows stronger, more intense. Until my brain begins humming and my head starts swimming.

I crack my eyes open, and all I see are my arms crossed in front of me. I try to move but find it impossible. Momentarily, my heart begins pounding in my ears and my breath quickens in a sort of panic.

“
Shhh,” comes from above me. “Close your eyes,” he instructs quietly. “You have fought enough these past few days.”

More tears spring up at the thought then recede. I shut my eyes. I breathe. My heart quiets down. I let
the swimming numbness overwhelm me. I don't care. I don't care about what we're about to do or the consequences of either Myles finding out or not finding out. I don't care about death, the funeral, Jade, the band, the show, holding myself together, or if I ever leave this room.

What I care about is chasing this feeling, following it to wherever it leads me because I know that at the end I will be somehow better. Despite what may come because of this decision, I'll be okay at least for a few minutes. A few long minutes where I will not feel like a hole has been punched through my core and I can just breathe.

My eyes open again when I hear Evan move, but this time I'm at ease. I feel like I'm floating or drugged.

He glances at me for a brief moment, making sure this is still what I want, maybe. I blink. I nod.
Evan takes my stiff arms carefully in his hands and gently places them at my sides. Then slowly, cautiously, he begins to roll up my shirt.

Of course I get uncomfortable at this. This is normal for me. But somehow, being like this for this purpose, the fear and anxiety move from the focus of all of my thoughts to the back of my mind where I can barely feel them.

Evan moves from the chair and kneels on the carpet near me. His one hand stays on my head, but the other is laid gently on my waist, just next to the pink vertical scar. Evan glances at me once more as the tingling and heat center where his hand is.

“
No more fighting?” he asks to make sure, one last time before it happens, that I'm not backing out.

I may regret it. I may feel bad later. But I don't stop him. I don't want to.

I shake my head. I close my eyes.

And Myles' vampire sinks his fangs into my stomach.

It doesn't hurt, but I wasn't really expecting it to. However, it’s not the same as when Myles had done it either. Instead of feeling connected, pulled under, lost, I feel utterly aware of everything. I can hear Evan breathing through his nose against my skin, a slight wet sound of my blood against his mouth. I can feel the weight of his torso against my legs when I hadn't even noticed that he moved from his spot on the floor.

This is wrong.

Just when I'm about to ask, maybe even beg him to stop, the pressure against my ribs lets up, and his arms release themselves from around my legs. His fangs are pulled out of the wound he's made, which stings a little but isn't unbearable. Not the way this guilt feels.