Toxic Part One (Celestra Series Book 7) (44 page)

He reminds me a lot of Tucker. I slept with Tucker—twice. The thought rolls through my mind rancid, like remembering a nightmare. Tucker was a bad replacement for Wes. Wes was a god. How I ever thought I could love somebody else demonstrates how delusional I was after his death. Falling into Flynn for all the wrong reasons would be a repeat performance of what landed me through a windshield to begin with.

“Nice to meet you,
Ephemeral
Flynn.” I tilt my head, insinuating I know just as much about him.

“Hey!” A girl pops up by his side. “Carter.” She pushes her hand in my direction with an unstoppable enthusiasm. Her heart-shaped face is decorated with infectious dimples and tawny curls spring just above her shoulders. I can already tell she’s miles nicer than Casper and the silicon welcoming committee.

“Laken,” I say, giving her fingers a quick squeeze.

“You ever get sick of Casper the unfriendly ghost, come to my room—three doors down to the left.” She alternates holding up her left and right hand as if she’s not sure.

“I’ll find you.” Like she found me—by design. According to Casper’s theory anyway. It’s probably all bullshit like her reasoning for not being seen with me in public. Personally, I’m shocked she walked right into the room linked by my side. I bet the bitch brigade docked her social standing for that, downgrading her a couple rungs on the popularity ladder. Girls like that have always had the power to make me feel like I’m drifting through life with a severe case of social herpes—that I might unwittingly inflict my disease on them.

“So what do you think?” Carter shouts up over the pumping bass. “Are we lame compared to the insanity that abounds at Rycroft?” She drips the last part out with sarcasm.

“Oh, there’s plenty of insanity here,” I assure. No shortage, in fact. Speaking of which, I need to borrow a cell and phone home. I’m sure my mother will find my tale of hijinks and hilarity mildly amusing before quickly comparing it to the acid-dropping haze in her life also known as the seventies.

Carter pulls at one of her soft, round curls the exact color of honey. “Ephemeral’s sort of wild, too.” It comes out like a necrotic promise before she reaches over and takes a swig of Flynn’s drink without asking.

“Welcome to the land of pretentious names and assholes.” Flynn’s questionable douchebag status seems to solidify each time he opens his mouth. “You’re either one or the other.”

I’m feeling pretty secure in the fact most everyone here is a safe combination of both.

Carter laughs, exposing a row of perfectly filed-down teeth, far too straight to be natural. They adorn her mouth like miniature rows of sugar cubes.

I pan the room. The girls all sport long, glossy manes, bare faces that look as though they have never heard of makeup, let alone applied it, and yet they look immaculately beautiful, fresh from the runway with their long slender legs and arms like pulled taffy. Back home the girls hold more curves, wear false lashes that spring from their faces like wings and frost on makeup like spackle. They wear trendy clothes in bright colors picked out of used clothing bins without reservation. Here the clothes hold the strong the scent of a department store as if to testify to their newness, in an entire rainbow of khaki, bland as oatmeal. Every single person looks as though they belong in a Ralph Lauren ad, polished and buffed with brand new bills. This is wealth beyond recognition of anything my old world could comprehend, where I bought my makeup and shoes at the grocery store.

“Oh, look, it’s Fletch!” Carter waves across the room.

I follow her gaze past a tangle of limbs and bobbing heads—guys with backs the size of buildings. A familiar flame of light brown hair catches my eye.

“Holy crap,” I whisper as the room, the music, slows to a crawl. I catch a breath and forget to let go. “It really is Fletch,” I say, disbelieving. He’s wearing a dark blue flannel with one hand stuffed in his pocket, nursing a drink with the other. Grayson slouches next to him giggling in his ear. Her silicone spheres jet out like the Goodyear Blimp between them.

I take a step forward—then the world, the universe—everything freezes.

“Oh my God.” I breathe the words out like a dream.

A tall, handsome boy stands next to Fletch. His beautiful face and broad shoulders are familiar in every single way.

There he is—alive.

Wes.

He does a double take before abruptly halting his conversation. I hardly notice Kresley dutifully cemented by his side, her hand slithering up his back.

His eyes lock onto mine, his cheek slides up before he blooms into a knowing grin.

That dark hair, those green eyes the color of a maple leaf with the sun filtering through—I’ve memorized him. I’ve dreamed a thousand dreams about Wes, both in and out of my sleep.

The room warps and twists. It bends its entire existence in honor of our love. Death couldn’t hold us apart any longer. It had to rewrite the rules, resurrect us in tandem just to bring us to this moment, this perfect juncture in time.

I make my way over slow and lethargic, every muscle aches to be near his person. The voices around me grind down to demonic whispers.

The entire world was out of sync, and now we’re together again—Wes and I.

My heart bounces wild as I pick up pace.

I take a running leap and land on his waist, crash my lips over his—indulging in a searing kiss that says so much more than I’ve missed you. It transports us back to the heated plains, to the silence of a summer’s moon, and the scent of jasmine ripe in the air. Wes pushes deeper into me as a new reality swallows us whole.

Life brims around us.

We’re alive.

Wes and I.

4

A Kiss in Time

Of course there’s the off chance I really am dead, or perhaps this is one long disjointed nightmare, but far more important than the parameters of my being is the fact I have free roam of Wesley Parker’s mouth, something I thought was permanently out of the realm of possibility.

This insanity, this lust-filled exchange, charges me. It builds to an unstoppable force as waves of inexpressible bliss radiate from my being.

Wes thrusts his tongue over mine, dives in deeper and inhales into me as if he were parched and I was the water he so desperately needed to survive. He pulls back, suppressing a tiny laugh. I dip into the base of his neck, run my fingers through his thick hair. His cheeks look higher set, far more chiseled than I remember. Wes has an inherent nobility about him, true royalty among men. He commands a respect that calls for all of nature to bow to his beauty.

“Hello to you, too.” He lands me soft on the ground as two perfect dimples elongate on either side of his face.

“This is impossible,” I whisper.

“Nothing’s impossible, Laken.” He locks onto me with those emerald orbs and holds me by the waist. His hands ride up inside my sweater, warm my back with their wandering love, and I melt from the touch.

The room sways like a dream. The residue of that kiss leaves me dizzy with relief that somehow, some way, Wes is here again.

Kresley clears her throat, offers a look that suggests she might slit mine. Her long hair shields part of her face, her eyebrow winnows up like a hook before a genuine rage ignites in her.

“You are going to die,” she says it calm, slashing me to ribbons with her wicked glare. “Step the hell away from my boyfriend.” Her eyes hold the promise of a viral assault. “
Now
.”

This is Wesley? The Wesley she declared was going to do something asinine like propose to her by midnight?

“Relax.” Wes steps between the two of us like he were about to break up a fight. “Laken’s just toasted.” He presses his hand in the small of my back, and I relax into him as if we were the only two people in the room. I never thought I’d touch Wes again. Not in the flesh and for sure not on this unreasonable day. “She probably thought I was someone else.”

“I’m not toasted.” I look from him to the pissed off bikini model who has attached herself to his side. She traces his arm around my waist with a look of indignation. A smile tugs at my lips, but I ignore the desire to gloat. “Trust me,” I say to Wes. “I know exactly who you are and who I am.” I step into Kresley with her goddess-like features, perfect almond eyes, her in-your-face cleavage and jab a finger into the uni-bubble blossoming from her sweater. “Might I suggest
you
step the hell away? Because this just so happens to be
my
boyfriend.” If I’m going down in this dream, it’s going to be fighting for Wes.

She swallows a laugh and smolders. You can see the evil radiating from her like heat off a summer sidewalk.

“I don’t take too lightly to people trying to steal what’s mine,” she seethes.

“What’s
mine
?” I hold back a laugh.

Kresley is quickly becoming the cruel joke within this nightmare.

She leans in and whispers directly into my ear. “When I’m through, you’ll wish you never knew him. You’d better watch your back, bitch.”

I step away and inspect her. Her harsh glare, her wild temperament, Wesley could never love her, and if he does, clearly he’s insane.

“I can wield a pitchfork like a ninja.” I say it slow like singing a lullaby. “I could leave you bleeding for hours without hitting a single major artery. If you know what’s good, it’s you who’s going to back the hell off—
bitch
.” I emphasize the expletive for her benefit.

“Laken.” Wes steps in. His face lights up disbelieving, but there’s a smile playing on his lips. It wants to take over, but he holds it like a secret.

“Can we go outside?” I lean into him. “I think we need to talk.” Among other things I plan on doing with him to ensure I enjoy the rest of my psychotic stay.

“No,” she hisses, appalled at my audacity. “You cannot go outside or inside or to another damn planet with him.”

Funny, because it feels like I’ve just been transported to one.

She slings an arm around his waist, and for the first time the picture emerges that Wes and the she-monster might actually be a couple.

“Wesley Paxton is taken.” She laughs into me as if I were a joke—as if this were the stake she had prepared to thrust in my heart all along.

Wesley
Paxton
?

“Making friends?” Fletcher slaps me on the shoulder as if this were par for the course, as if I hadn’t cried a solid year for him and Wes. Fletch has the same caramel hair as me, same denim eyes and he doesn’t look a day over dead.

I latch on and hug him so tight I think I might actually kill him with the effort.

“Fletch, it’s really you.” Tears spring up unexpected and before I can get a grip I’m weeping over my not-so-dead brother’s shoulder. In all honesty we were never that close, but death has a strange way of making you like people just a little bit more.

“Shit,” he hisses, full with disappointment. “You’re tanked.”

“I’m not tanked.” I gape at my brother in awe. It’s him, not some replica, or close second. I’m actually standing in the same room with Fletch and Wes, and neither of them seems too overly concerned about that whole drowning in the lake thing. In fact, the last time we were in the same room together, they were getting tucked into their caskets for their eternal naps.

“All right.” Fletch yanks me back by the shirt. “You made your point. You’re the new girl—Rycroft rules, Ephemeral sucks. We get it. I’m taking you back to your room.”

“There’s no way I’m leaving without Wes.” A loose smile plays on my lips just this side of elation. It takes all of my self-control to stop from running my fingers over his face like a blind man, memorizing the landscape of his features by way of my lips.

You would think I declared war—pulled the pin on the grenade I’ve been lording over Kresley for years, the way the room dulls down to a whisper and all neighboring eyes narrow in on yours truly.

Kresley steps in. “You know what they say is a girl’s favorite subject at Rycroft?” She rolls her head, playing to the entire room. “
Hoe
and tell.”

An explosion of laughter erupts.

“Takes one to know one,” I fire back.

Her hand flies up unexpected. Kresley’s fingernails spike across my face at such an accelerated rate, it takes a few good seconds for the pain to register. Without warning, I land hard on my back with Kresley on top as she entombs me with her snake-like tresses. She kicks and growls, wraps my hair around her wrist like a rope and gives a series of wild tugs that hold the promise of bald patches by morning.

Wes plucks the screaming menace off my person as my head explodes in a ball of hot spasms. Fletch shouts something, but I’m in too much blinding pain to piece the words together. To say she launched the headache that had the power to kill all nine of my unassuming lives would be the understatement of the millennium.

“Let’s go,” Fletch barks, helping me to my feet. “We’re out of here.”

“I’m okay.” I dust off my thighs and right myself by holding onto his shoulder. If Wes isn’t going, neither am I. Although, I don’t dare verbalize that fact should Kresley’s unbridled passion to scalp me return with vigor.