True Intentions (13 page)

"We need to talk," he requests with his voice firm. I'm reminded of how he treated me the day
I
demanded answers.

This conversation was inevitable.

I feel the knot forming in my stomach again.

He shakes his head in frustration.

"I don't know how to begin or how to talk to you about this," he admits.

I appreciate his honesty. I just wish being around him wouldn't make me so nervous.

"Just be honest," I suggest.

"Be honest?" he echoes, laughing softly at my suggestion.

I don't quite understand what's so funny. His voice is tense, it makes me uncomfortable. I want him to tell me what's going on. Maybe he doesn't want to let me into his world. Yet I can't suppress my curiosity. I know with complete certainly, no matter what he says, I want inside his world
more
than I can fully control.

What's be hiding? I don't care if he's a bad boy.

"Okay, I'll do my best," he says in a sarcastic voice.

His deep breathing is the only sound I hear over my own rapid, pounding heartbeat.

"Ava, I'm not who you think I am . . . or maybe I should say I'm not
what
you think I am," he starts to explain. His hesitation concerns me. The words flow roughly out of his mouth as if he is in pain.

My eyes squint in confusion.

What does he mean by what?

"I'm not like you," he continues as if he read my mind. He pauses. "Well . . . not like you anymore."

What the hell is he talking about?

He isn't making sense.

He's incoherent . . . .

He adjusts his position, turning so he is completely facing me. He gently reaches for my hands and puts them on his chest. His body feels hard to my touch, yet warm and inviting at the same time.

He doesn't speak a word.

I don't understand his gesture. My mind can't focus on anything except the fact I'm actually touching Samuel Perry's body!

OMG!

After a few moments it finally hits me— I can't feel his heart beating! I move my right hand off his chest and place it on his wrist, knowing I should feel it there.

Nothing!

My hands drop down.

That's impossible.

I look over at him, my eyes glaring in amazement and disbelief.

"I don't understand. Where is your pulse?"

I lean forward, putting my ear to his chest. Even while we both remain motionless, I hear nothing.

"I don't
have
one," he says, in a whisper. Shame is evident in his voice.

"Everyone has a pulse," I insist. "Maybe it is just weak."

"Oh, it's weak alright," he grunts. He rolls his eyes in frustration.

I don't understand.

"I'm not like you, Ava. I'm not
alive
anymore. Not in the same way you are," he adds.

"Anymore?" I repeat. My mind is trying to keep up. I hear what he's saying. And I don't need to come from a medical family to understand a person must have a beating heart to be alive. But I'm still skeptical as though my eyes are playing tricks on me.

Maybe he's some sort of mind-freak like a Chris Angel wannabe?

"Yes,
anymore,"
he nods his head. "I haven't been alive since 1798."

1798?

"That's impossible."

He smiles at my comment. "Oh, Ava. There is a lot in the world that you don't know about. I'm just one small piece."

I give him an evil glare. Is he actually trying to lecture me?

Not paying much attention to my annoyed expression, he stands up, looking around for something.

"Wait, I'll be right back."

He's already returned back to the couch before I've blinked. He's carrying a small, kitchen knife. He seems satisfied with himself—so much so a wicked smile takes over his adorable face.

"Watch," he says. Then, without warning, he puts the knife's sharp blade on the skin of his arm and makes a large slit on his wrist.

I gasp in horror, "No!" I yell, jumping to my feet in desperation.

Is he going to kill himself?

What kind of mental issues does this guy have?

There is no wound, no blood, and no injury what-so-ever.

I blink several times to make sure my eyes aren't pulling tricks on me.

Soon, cameras should be coming out of closets, and I'll know this is all a joke.

My skin loses its rosy appearance within seconds. I feel faint and terrified at the same time. I move back to the couch and sit down. The room feels like it's moving. I'm trying desperately to make sense of it all; nothing seems real right now.

I recap what I know thus far.

No heartbeat.

No injury.

If Sam isn't human, what is he?

"Oh my God . . . . Are you an alien or something?"

He exhales deeply, rolling his eyes as though he is insulted by my theory. He throws himself back on the couch and continues his explanation.

"Think of me more as . . . sort of an . . . angel."

I challenge his story. "So, what are you telling me, you're like my guardian angel?"

"I wish!" he says, his face relaxing more as it forms into a gentle smile. His words flow swiftly.

"I would say that I work for the
other side
—for argument sake. I gave up my soul many years ago when I was human. It's a long story. But ever since 1798, I have been like this." He confesses, pulling on his skin of his wrist—the area he cut seconds ago.

My mind is running wild, thinking of tons of questions I want to ask. But I need to clarify first, just to make sure my strangulation incident earlier didn't cause brain damage and make me lose my mind.

Can I be imaging all this?

Maybe this is a dream.

I grasp for something that makes sense within this bizarre conversation.

"Okay, let me get this straight. You've been alive
in your current state,
since 1798.

That means if you're seventeen, you were born in 1781. Is that correct?"

Sam nods slowly without saying a single word.

I pause briefly, taking it all in, and then proceed with my first line of questioning.

"If your
human
body died in 1798, what is happening with your current body? I mean, I know you don't have a heartbeat, but I did kiss you once and you seemed pretty darn human."

He starts to smirk then laughs at my statement. He seems relieved I'm starting to understand this "non-human" thing. Although I still feel faint, I'm not the least bit terrified any more.

"Like, how does your body work? Is it actually yours from 1798 or did you steal someone else's?"

He interrupts my questions, still laughing. "Hold on. Let me answer one at a time."

"Why are my questions so funny?" I ask, becoming somewhat irritated; I assume he's thinks I'm dumb.

"I'm interested in how your mind is processing all this. You have to remember, I've never told
anyone
this secret before. Your thoughts intrigue me," he says, defending his laughter.

I raise the corners of my lips to form a fake smile.

Sam reaches out and touches my hand. He moves his hand along my skin, stroking me with his fingers from my knuckles up to my wrist.

"I knew I might end up having to tell you the truth about me someday. I wasn't prepared to feel such liberation. Ava, please realize, I never wanted to keep secrets from you. But, this is
not
something meant for you to know. Listening to you ask all these questions makes me comfortable. I expected you'd be running out my front door by now." His smile melts my heart. It is flirtatious and alluring. He's way too perfect to be human.

I should have figured out his secret earlier. Maybe I would have if I'd believed in immortality before now.

"Oh, I thought you were making fun of my questions," I admit, embarrassed I had been frustrated. My cheeks begin to burn as they flush into a rosy pink.

Sam continues to explain, either not noticing or deciding not to bring additional attention to my embarrassment.

"Now, I'll try to answer your questions, one by one. Okay?"

I nod.

"This
is
my body. The same body I was born with in 1781. But it's a little different. When I died, my heart stopped. That is why I don't have a heartbeat. But, my physical body remained preserved in this
current state
. I appear human, because I have a human body. It's just different from yours in many ways."

His answers spark my curiosity. I want to interrogate him even more.

"What kind of ways?" I ask. I pull back my hand and lean forward, interested in his other, unobvious differences.

"Well, I have different abilities. Let's see . . . . I'm a lot stronger now than when I was alive. Humans don't have this type of strength. My strength is pretty much without effort; if anything, I have to hold back so I appear normal. I mean . . . human. Otherwise people would catch on that I'm different. What else? Oh . . . I move faster than when I was human. That is how I found you in the woods. I followed the RV tracks."

"How fast?" I challenge, my face forming a mischievous smirk.

"Let's just say I can win the Olympics."

"Wow," I whisper, my eyes opening widely.

The ashamed expression has slowly faded from his beautiful face.

"I guess you can say I also have a special type of sixth sensing when it comes to people. I can tell if they are mostly good or evil, things like that. I see it in their eyes."

I listen attentively; images of him running at top speed and throwing cars like Superman flash before my mind. He pauses to watch my reaction and then continues to enlighten me.

"My personal favorite is I don't age nor can I get hurt—by a human or self-inflict—"

"So, you can't die?" I interrupt him. I am becoming more intrigued by each moment.

"Well . . . not exactly. Another one of
my
kind can kill me, but not a human. It's complicated."

"So, there's more of your kind?" I ask. My questions are direct as if he is on a witness stand in a courthouse—Judge Judy?

"Yes."

"Are your family members the same as you?"

"Yes. We all owe our souls to Satan," his voice is guarded as he says those words.

"Why are there so many of you, I mean . . . what do you do? What is your purpose? Why does Satan need you?" I instinctively stop at that question when I read his facial expression. He looks sad.

"Ava," he begins in a serious tone. "You could say that this is my own personal hell. My
purpose
—as you call it—is tempting people."

"Tempting? I don't understand." I respond in a voice low enough to be considered a whisper.

"My role here on earth is to influence and tempt mankind to sin. That's the easiest part. The hardest part is the fact I must do this
invisibly
. You can't know that I'm the one giving you the temptations from Satan. My identity must remain a secret. You must only know that the temptations exist, and you personally have to make the decision between what you believe is right or wrong."

He scoots his body closer to me, reaching for my hand once again. This time when he touches me, chills go down my spine. Goose bumps erupt all over my skin. I think back to how I felt kissing him in the teachers' outdoor lounge area. Everything is starting to finally make sense. No wonder he's so perfect, he has to be.

Has he been influencing me then?

He certainly has caused temptation.

Definitely . . . .

"So, you're implying when I kissed you, it was because you were influencing me to kiss you? Threw out that
temptation,
did you?"

A wicked smile sweeps across his innocent face.

"Actually, I'm not sure if you will believe this, but I didn't. I had been trying
not
to influence you, but I'll admit, I did wonder how you'd taste. Like what your lips would feel like, only moments before you kissed me. So, maybe I did influence you,
unconsciously
, of course," he teases.

That inspires another concern.

"So, then why
didn't
you try to influence me? Do you not look at me in
that
kinda way?" I ask, not attempting to hide the sadness in my voice.

He starts to laugh again. This isn't the reaction I was craving.

"Have I ever told you that you are the most utterly absurd girl I've ever met?" he asks, leaning toward me. Before I have a chance to think of a quick comeback, he gently brings his soft lips to meet mine.

A much better reaction.

I can smell the sweetness of his breathe as my lips part. I take a deep breath, savoring this moment. He runs his index and middle fingers through my wet hair, right above my ear.

I try to remember to breathe.

I feel my heart speed up as I come to the actualization of kissing Sam Perry.

Is this really happening?

I wish I could call Mallory or Sara with this news.

He pulls back slowly and stares into my eyes as if he wants to say something else.

"What?" I ask.

He shrugs.

"Please tell me what you're thinking," I plead, reaching for his hand.

"What I'm thinking? That's easy," he says pulling his hand back and away from my grasp. "Why are you not scared of me now that you know what I am?"

I stare at him in awe for a moment, and then answer as honestly as possible.

"I don't think you're
that
scary. You're—"

"Ava, you worry me. I'm very scary. I'm a monster, an atrocious demon. I could damn you to hell. That's what I do. Damn mankind and create monsters."

He pauses, grunting out loud. In a bleak, hesitant tone he continues, "
I . . .

created Walter." He looks away from me, his jaw tense.

"Huh? How did you create Walter?" My thoughts are all over the place, confused on the faint line between "reality" and an "imaginary world" with angels and demons.

So much for reality.

Sam stands up and walks away from the couch, running his hands through his wet hair as if he wants to pull some out.

"You don't get it, Ava. I created him. I saw the potential—
his evil potential
—and I encouraged it. I affected him in his sleep, tempting him so his desires could be his reality. That's why he raped Jessica and
almost
you—twice—because of me."