Original Sin Page 5

  He traveled in the shadows of night, the dark sky painting a perfect backdrop to the black hills and cresting knolls. Ribbons of pink stretched from the horizon as dawn approached. The farm was far behind him, a forgotten point as his animal instinct took the lead, guiding him to where he needed to go, delivering him to his mate.

  Pausing several miles out, he clung to the branches of an aged pine and tipped back his head, breathing the dewy morning air deep into his lungs. Too much distance still separated them, but he sensed himself getting closer. Soon she would be his.

  Chapter Six

  “Late, late, late,” Annalise muttered as she rushed through the parking lot at Med Tech where her car had been baking in the sun for the last seven hours. Jogging through the aisles of parked cars, she rummaged through her backpack for her keys.

  She shoved the jagged metal into the slot of her ninety-two Chevy Impala, carefully avoiding the metal door with her fingers. Hastily diving into the internal sauna, she did her best not to touch any bare flesh to the heated upholstery.

  Leaving the door open, she jammed the key in the ignition. The car gargled to life. She pressed the button to roll down the windows. The mechanism gave a half-hearted groan and the glass fell off the track after only opening halfway.

  “Crap.”

  Scanning the vacant lot, she removed her student ID and ducked behind the car door for modesty’s sake, as she swapped out her scrubs for a pair of cut offs and a Jimbo’s T-shirt.

  The car was still a million degrees, but she had to get moving. She hissed as the scorching upholstery burned her thighs.

  The Steaming Turd—named aptly for the POS car it was—hissed through the vents in a sad attempt to push out a breeze. The air conditioner had died with Prince, and now that the windows weren’t cooperating, she was essentially driving an oven.

  Ah, the real life luxuries of a late blooming college student. She relied on the Steaming Turd and, though ugly, noisy, and smelly, the old girl rarely let her down. Sure, the windows only worked when they wanted, the passenger door never unlocked, and one of the the taillights was framed in duct tape, but she loved the old girl and needed her to keep working until she finished school and got a better paying job as a medical assistant.

  Sweat beaded at her hairline as she wove through traffic. Her speakers moaned as Elton John’s muffled declarations for Norma Jean scraped from the radio. Her car wasn’t equipped for the digital age, but Annalise’s voice accommodated for what the speakers and old radio lacked.

  Her mother had believed that even the worst luck was the best possible outcome at any given moment, so Annalise took her misfortune in stride, always reminding herself these little challenges were preparing her for something great. That theory had worked for most of her life—until her mom passed away. In no universe had that been the best possible outcome.

  The Steaming Turd rattled at a traffic light as she reached into her book bag for her water bottle. It was freaking sweltering. After a long swig, she pulled the collar of her shirt away from her chest and sniffed. Still good. The light changed and her car chugged on.

  There were two weeks until graduation. She was transitioning nicely into the second year of her five-year plan. Soon she’d trade in her waitress apron at Jimbo’s for a permanent career in the medical field.

  By this time next year, once her lease ran out, she’d have enough money saved to get out of her cockroach-infested apartment and move to a nicer area. Sometime in the middle of all that, she would be replacing the Steaming Turd as well. But for now, she was right where the universe wanted her to be... Stuck behind some geriatric, in the middle of rush hour, trying to make a left turn from the right lane.

  “Move, you fucking asshat! It’s green!”

  This too shall pass. Breathe through it.

  If she kept telling herself that fortune cookie bullshit, she might eventually believe it and get over her road rage. But really, she wanted to ram her car into the one with strobing brake lights in front of her. Her stress meter had peaked around lunatic levels and she wanted to snap at every idiot that got in her way.

  Glancing at the clock radio she blew out a breath. She had time. Wait. That was the same time she saw five blocks ago.

  Digging in her bag, she pulled out her phone. “Fuck.” Add broken clock to the list. “Fucking go, you morons! I’m gonna be late!”

  For a Thursday night, Jimbo’s was hopping. The corner bar was a well-known fixture on Street Road that somehow managed to stay afloat during Bensalem’s redevelopment stage. The same regulars occupied the same torn vinyl stools since the debut of the iPod—which they still had no interest in owning. Darts, Bud, and denim—that was Jimbo’s.

  The pay was dependable, and the job was simple. Evenings consisted of flirting with men twice her age, emptying ashtrays, refilling drinks that were never fancier than draft beer, and delivering plates of greasy food.

  She stashed her bag under the counter and searched for an apron. During her downtime she could study at the bar. Everyone at Jimbo’s treated her like family—a big, grizzly, flannel covered family of foul-mouthed men.

  She scanned the tables, doing a quick head count and check of whose beer looked empty. Her regulars appreciated her ability to anticipate a refill before they requested one.

  “Hiya, Anna,” Tim greeted, eyes glued to the game and nose plunged into his pint glass.

  “Hey, Tim. Your team winning?” She had no idea who was playing.

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s early still.” She looked for Kyle as she tied on an apron.

  “Annalise, can I get a refill?” one of the regulars asked as she cinched the ties at her back.

  “Sure thing, Gus.” She uncapped a bottle of Bud and slid it in front of him, grabbing her tray to go collect the empties at the pool tables.

  Kyle appeared from the basement steps carrying a case of light beer. “Hey.”

  “Hey. I’m gonna make a quick round, and then I gotta get something in my stomach. You cool for a few minutes?”

  She’d been ravenous today. No matter how much she ate she still felt hungry. And nothing seemed to quench her thirst. This heat was dehydrating her.

  “Yeah. Whatever you need.”

  The kitchen was bustling with deep-fried dinner orders by the time she navigated her way through her tables. ZZ Top’s La Grange blasted from the jukebox over the roar of chatter, energizing her steps as she worked her way through the bar.

  A victorious shout belted from the back where the men played darts and pool. No matter how tired she was from school, it only took a few minutes around the men of Jimbo’s to get infected by their easygoing joviality.

  When their favorite team scored on the television the entire bar erupted. Annalise slipped into the back and picked at the olives they never used for martinis. Jimbo only bought them because she had some sort of olive addiction.

  As the night progressed the crowd thinned and the vibe shifted from boisterous to mellow. Then the last few men resigned themselves to returning home to the wives they referred to as old ladies.

  “Night, Gus.”

  “Night, darlin’. Don’t work too hard, you hear?”

  Songs like The Weight from The Band, played from the jukebox as she wiped down tables and refilled napkin holders. The only patrons still idling would avoid heading home until the very last call.

  She dropped her dinner into the fry basket around one in the morning. Waiting by the opening to the kitchen, she smiled as Kyle’s gaze caught hers.

  He wiped his hands on a damp rag and approached the kitchen entrance, pausing only a few inches away. Three men still sat at the bar and a few lingered in the back.

  “They’re thirsty tonight.”

  Holding her stare, he tipped her cup and stole a sip from her soda. “Yeah. Buck’s crew finished up a roofing job today.”

  “Roofing in this heat? Yuck.”

  “Tips should be good.”

  She could hope, but her expe
ctations weren’t high.

  He caught her hand and chuckled, dragging his thumb over the pen scribbled on the back of her hand, reminding her which chapters to study tonight. “Did you run out of paper?”

  “It’s so I don’t forget.” And it wasn’t the first time she left herself a note on her skin. Or the first time he used it as an excuse to touch her.

  His arm lowered, holding onto her fingers. “How was school?”

  “Good. Two weeks left!”

  “Do you think—” The deep fryer buzzed interrupting his question.

  Annalise hitched a thumb over her shoulder, breaking contact. “That’s my chicken tenders. I’m starving.”

  He nodded and returned to the bar. She carefully fished her dinner out of the fry basket and dropped it onto a paper plate to cool. She usually used this time to cram, but tonight she wasn’t feeling it, so she ate quickly.

  When the last customer left she locked the door and unplugged the neon sign in the window. She carried a tray of saltshakers to a booth to refill. The lights flickered, brightening, and Kyle went to the jukebox.

  “If I hear one more CCR song I’m going to jam an ice pick into my ear.”

  She didn’t mind the classic rock. There really wasn’t any form of music she disliked. Kyle preferred pop, but he wouldn’t find anything that modern in Jimbo’s jukebox, which was old enough to still operate from records rather than digital files.

  The first familiar chords of The Crystals’s Then He Kissed Me brought a smile to her face as she refilled the salt shakers. Kyle sauntered toward her booth, his shoulders swaying to the tune and his mouth curved in a boyish grin, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she saw him from the corner of her eye.

  A bar rag landed on the table with a splat and she chuckled. He flirted like a teenager, but she liked it.

  “You dropped something.”

  They followed the same routine every night. While she tried to wrap up as quickly as possible so she could get at least six hours sleep, Kyle did his best to get her to sleep with him.

  He was slowly winning her over.

  Checking her reflection in the security mirror hung in the corner of the dining room, she quickly adjusted her T-shirt and tightened her ponytail. Her busy schedule kept her on her feet and her waist seemed to reap those benefits, even if her legs killed her by the end of every shift. She tucked a loose amber strand behind her ear and smiled.

  Dancing toward the table, he did some fancy footwork reminiscent of Johnny Castle a la Dirty Dancing. He would have made a perfect cast member at Kellerman’s with such irresistible moves.

  He slid the tray of saltshakers away and reached for her hand. A warm blush teased her cheeks as she let him pull her from the booth.

  They fell into a sloppy cha-cha. As he spun her, she laughed and whirled into his arms, closer than expected and her feet lost their rhythm. Arching back, she gazed into his eyes, held frozen by the silent promise of a kiss she knew she only had a mere second to avoid. But her body seemed paralyzed, unsure if this was right or wrong, she couldn’t find the will to object.

  “You always smell so good, like summer when I was a kid.”

  “It’s my honeysuckle body wash. I get it from the bath and body place in the mall.”

  “I like it. Did you know there are one hundred and eighty different types of honeysuckle in the world? They’re grown to attract other species like hummingbirds and butterflies—and co-workers,” he teased.

  Her breath hitched as Kyle’s head lowered, his lips nearing her pulse and pressing softly to her neck as the final repetition of the lyric “and then he kissed me” echoed through the empty bar.

  It was ... magic—or so it should have been. This, more than her presence of willpower, seemed the main reason why they hadn’t slept together yet. No matter how much she liked flirting with Kyle, his kisses always left her cold. She shouldered him away, trying to appear more playful than rude.

  Her lashes lifted as awkwardness awakened inside of her. He had to feel the lack of chemestry too. Right? Or were men so different that any warm body would do?

  The underwhelming reality had her fidgeting uncomfortably. “I’ve gotta finish the tables.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  Maybe she’d watched too many chick flicks and her expectations had reached unrealistic, Hollywood heights. She should try to keep an open mind. “No rush.”

  “Do you want to hang out after we lock up?”

  It would be close to three in the morning by the time they finished cleaning up. “I have a big test this week.”

  “Oh, I forgot. Finals are coming up.”

  Yes, and she couldn’t afford to screw up this close to the finish line. “Yeah.” But at least he remembered. once she reminded him. The quiet made her antsy. “Play another song.”

  “I’m out of quarters.”

  It was amazing that anyone still used quarters in this day and age. She checked her apron. “Next one’s on me.”

  She crossed the empty floor and flipped through the selection, her perusal stopping at the Red Album. Her quarter dropped through the slot and she punched in the numbers for Eleanor Rigby, wondering if the Beatles ever figured out the fate of all the lonely people after all.

  It probably wasn’t the best choice, because by the time she restocked the salt she was surely convinced she’d been sentenced to a life of loneliness.

  “You know what?”

  Kyle killed the lights behind the bar and met her stare in question.

  She sucked at making the first move and wished she’d taken him up on his earlier offer. “I can’t hang out all night, but I could probably watch a movie.”

  His grin was slow but enough to calm her nerves. “Let me get my keys.”

  She untied her apron. It had been a long time since she considered dating, but now with school ending the time seemed right. Maybe this was one of those cosmic timing things to help her find her zen. She’d be the luckiest woman in the world if she believed in that hoo-hah.

  “Ready?” he asked, hoisting the last bag of trash over his shoulder to drop in the dumpster on the way out.

  “Yep. Just remember, I can’t stay all night.”

  “’Cause you gotta study. I know.”

  “Right.”

  “I promise I’ll kick you out before the closing credits.”

  She laughed. “Deal.”

  There wasn’t a flutter of butterflies or any melting sensation, but rather a sort of gratitude that she wouldn’t be going directly home to an empty apartment. She hadn’t realized how much the loneliness had been getting to her until Kyle took a bit of it away.

  Chapter Seven

  The metal grates hummed and Adam stared in amazement as a breeze of cool air blew toward his face. Fascinating. How did the mechanism work? Was ice somehow involved?

  After several days of traveling by foot and bedding down in forest caves in the densely wooded Pennsylvania mountainsides, his journey forced him into the more populated areas where he found lodging at an establishment owned by a man named Howard Johnson. After a restless night of disorienting dreams, he awoke to the fading scent of honeysuckle, so strong he could almost believe she’d actually been there.

  Removing the journal from his bag, he jotted down any details he could recall. Once again, he saw her vibrant hair, more rust than gold, more bronze than brown.

  The women of the Order wore prayer kapps, simple white bonnets. He disliked the thought of covering such beauty, but also valued that no other male would see how much radiance she hid.

  He recalled her almost childlike, voice. She sang to him, not because she had a gift, but because it brought her joy. The lyrics were not of any Christian hymns he recognized.

  “The Red Album,” he repeated, recalling the words from his dream, the air fizzing with the dulcet echo of her voice.

  He wrote down the red album, wondering what it meant and how it might help him find her. As he wrote down his memories,
more came. A road sign with a number one, blue fabric, a necklace shaped like the letter Y with a circle pendant, and salt. There had been lots of salt in his dream, falling like a waterfall through a small glass opening. But none of these details helped him find her.

  Slamming the book shut, he glared at the filtered slices of daylight cutting across the carpet. He’d slept as long as he could manage. Now he wanted to hunt, but the sun held him prisoner.

  He packed up his personal belongings and waited. Hunger gnawed at him and he needed a distraction. He picked up a device beside the phone and examined the faded buttons. No wires. He flipped open a small compartment on the flat side and discovered batteries. Replacing the cover, he cautiously pressed buttons.

  “I want you to imagine with me, if you can, that you have been stuck, trapped in a space that is so disgustingly full of junk that you can barely walk, let alone find a place to lay your head.”

  A rotund man with a mustache spoke to him from the television set. Eyes wide, Adam lowered to the foot of the bed and stared at the picture on the screen. An audience listened to the man as he preached about something called hoarding. It was a new term to Adam.

  The picture shifted to a room packed with modern amenities, items Adam had never seen before towering to the ceiling. Laundry flung on the floor and spilling out of tubs. Who needed so much?

  Such abundance could only invite trouble. Was this how the English lived?

  Piles upon piles of rubbish, food crawling with insects, boxes overflowing with gadgets, rumpled clothing, and cats. Why would anyone keep so many cats inside?

  The man with the mustache navigated the clutter, no longer in front of the mass of people, but walking with a woman through the mess. The mess was gone, and they were suddenly sitting in front of the audience. The quick switch disoriented him.

  “Stay tuned as we look into what might cause an ordinary person to turn into a pathological hoarder. And see if we have any advice that might help someone in your family.”