Blue Horizons (A Horizons Novel Book 1) (26 page)

“Ash . . .” His voice trails off as we watch the girls. “This entire night is definitely going down in the books.”

I can’t take my eyes off her.

“That Place in Time” is off of the first Blue Horizons album. It’s over ten years old and is one of the first songs we ever sang as one of our own. She’ll never know what this moment means to me. Not to be too full of myself, but surely she knows of the singer Will Ashton—it feels like everyone does—but very few remember Blue Horizons. We were just a local mountain band that was discovered and reinvented. She has to have put two and two together . . . right?

My eyes prick with unshed tears as her voice and the melody bounce off of the concert hall walls and land straight in my very essence. I’m speechless. All I can do is stare. This amazing girl is on stage right now singing a song to me that I wrote, and in her own creative way. The combination of the piano, the strings, and her beautiful voice causes me to tremble. I am so moved. Never has anyone ever done something so personal and thoughtful to me, for me, or about me. The ache in my chest is so strong, all I can do is reach up and rub directly over my heart.

Watching her on stage, I don’t really know how to describe it, but she’s got that
thing
. That thing that’s so unique and so rare that I can’t put my finger on it, let alone describe it. It’s in the way she moves, walks, talks, sings, and presents herself. It’s that thing that is so special, I’m not even sure if I’ve ever really even seen it before. Passion is pouring out of her hands and through her words, and it’s contagious. Watching her eyes light up doing something she loves causes that fire to light inside of me. I was already well on my way back to that place I once used to be, that place where the music just means more, but this reignites the desire and ambition I had lost.

She finishes the song and stands up to face the audience. The room erupts in applause and cheers, and I find myself clapping along with them. She is the complete package with qualities that make her so much more beautiful than I ever thought. Emma and Cora both go and stand on either side of her. All three of them are beaming and laughing. They hug each other, wave goodbye to the room full of people, and turn to leave the stage.

As if it were my show, post-performance adrenaline races through me, and suddenly my excitement turns to nervousness. My hands begin to sweat, and my heart begins to pound.

Is she going to want to see me, or will she walk right by?

THE CROWD IS cheering and applauding, and I honestly feel better than I have in a long time. Half way through the performance, my wrist began to ache, but there was no way I was stopping. I just told myself, “One more hour and I’ll wrap it up tighter.”

Emma and Cora come over and engulf me in a huge hug. Both knew I had been nervous about tonight—between my personal feelings about the event and the cause and how my arm would hold up—and I’m so glad everything went as smoothly as we had hoped.

Walking toward the edge for one final wave, I look up and see Ash and Clay standing by the wall near the stairs that lead up to the stage from the dance floor. Ash’s hand is over his heart on his chest, and his eyes look glassy. His lips are pressed together and there’s just the faintest hint of a smile. He looks proud of me and that makes my heart swell. I had been worried about his reaction to my career, but maybe it turns out I don’t need to be. After all, if there’s anyone out there who understands the pressures of being high-profile, it’s him.

I don’t see the girl anywhere, and feel nothing but relief. I don’t know who she is, but he can tell me later. The anger and hurt I first felt at seeing him with her has pretty much dissipated, and the more I think back over the last month, there is no way he could’ve been with her because he was with me, wasn’t he? Too many texts, too many kind words, and so much time he’s given me throughout each day. The minute Mr. Lang said his name, I instantly knew who he was, and vice versa. I feel kind of stupid for not recognizing him sooner, but sometimes when a person is removed from their setting, it’s hard to place how you know them. Although I feel a little lied to, reality is, I lied to him too. But did I? I am who I am, and that’s a girl who likes to be with her friends, feel carefree, bake cupcakes, vacation in the mountains, listen to and write great music, and sing. Most of these things he already knows. A name is just a name—it shouldn’t define me, and so shouldn’t it be the same for him?

A crowd begins to gather at the bottom of the stairs and anxiety ripples through me. We are supposed to walk down to a roped off area in front of the stage and for fifteen minutes stand and pose for pictures. Some of the guests this evening paid—or contributed to the organization—to have a photo with us. This isn’t anything out of the ordinary. I usually just stand between the girls and they keep people away. It’s understood through the industry that I have a “germ phobia,” so no touching or hugging. I lock eyes with Ash. His brows furrow as he sees something in my expression. He moves away from the wall and begins to walk toward me. Emma is in front of me, Cora behind, and Mona and Mr. Lang are at the bottom of the stairs . . . and so are all the people.

My chest tightens and I start counting. One, two, three, four, five . . . I know by the time I get to fifty I will be behind the ropes and away from all of these people. I can feel my fingers as they tap out onto my hip, and I focus on the feeling. Playing my part, I just smile. People are talking to me, but the noise in my ears is a buzz and it’s getting louder and louder.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen . . . I’m so thankful Ash is so tall. Emma gently grabs my hand and keeps me steadily walking toward him—she must have seen them too—and I keep my eyes locked on his. There’s a carpet at the bottom of the stairs that leads to our designated place behind the ropes. He’s positioned himself next to the carpet, and with each step, I’m getting closer to him. He smiles and the pressure on my chest begins to open. Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four . . .

Suddenly, without warning, someone slams into the back of me. Heat erupts along my spine, long fingers tightly wrap around both my upper arms, and they begin to push. Fear streaks through me, everything flashes white before it blacks out. I squeeze my eyes shut; I don’t want to see.

It’s happening.

Again.

There’s no more music, just the deep rumble of thunder and the pelting of rain from the storm outside. Losing my balance, I trip over the fabric of my dress and my weight drops. The warmth that shines down from the stage lights is immediately gone and is replaced by the coldness of the wood floor as my knees hit and I’m shoved face-first down on it. There’s no more Ash, no more benefit concert, no help, only darkness.

Hands. I feel them all over me, and as tears find their escape from my eyes and roll off my face, all I can think is . . . please make it fast.

In the movies, bad scenes always happen at night and during a thunderstorm. Loud, rolling booms and flashes of lightning light up the screen to intensify the terror of the moment. Glimpses of the victim and the attacker are shown to heighten the anxiety, and as we wait for the striking moment, our knuckles strain white as we squeeze the person next to us. Only for me, this isn’t a movie—it’s my reality.

My reality, minus the flashes of light. Yes, there is rain, and yes, there is thunder, but no light other than the muted faint glow coming from the windows in the living room. The hallway is dark. I can’t see him and I have no idea what’s going to happen next as he squeezes the back of my neck in a pincer grip. There’s no one here but him.

“I’m so mad, I just might kill you.” Spit from his words lands on my face and the heat from his breath burns the side of my cheek.

Fear.

There’s a difference between simply being afraid of something, or someone, and being consumed with fear. Fear has roots. Roots that rapidly stretch, wind, and grow, choking out everything in their path. They embed themselves into the smallest of places and anchor into the largest. They wrap around all that is good and crush the life right out of it, leaving strength and courage in crumbles.

Fear is paralyzing.

It’s in this moment, I truly fear for my life. I never thought Chris would hurt me, yet here we are, and now I’m faced with the possibility of death.

The roots suck out the warmth, and cold barbs sweep down my body. My heart races with acute understanding. It too fears that it might soon stop.

Unwanted tears silently escape my eyes, slip across my skin, and land on the floor.

“You know that you and I are fated to be together.” He shifts his weight and an unwanted groan of pain escapes me as my raw shoulder and knees press into the floor. “Is this how you want to spend your life? Running from me, making me angry? Why? Why do you do things like this?” he yells.

Grabbing me by the hair, he yanks backward and a blood curdling scream ricochets off the hallway walls. Slamming my head back to the floor, a crack from my face resonates through my ears. Blinding pain and tiny fuzzy flashes dance behind my closed eyes. I try to blink them away as my stomach rolls from dizziness.

The familiar, tangy, metallic taste of blood pools at the side of my mouth. My heavy tongue runs across my lips and teeth trying to find its exit point.

“Do. Not. Move. Do. Not. Make. One. Sound,” each word staccato and snarled. His fingers reclamp onto the back of my neck, the tips of his fingers mashing my windpipe.

Closing my mouth, I grit my teeth and suck in air through my nose. Bubbles of snot catch in my throat and I cough, desperate for another breath. Doesn’t he realize he’s choking me?

Roughly, while still pushing my head down on the floor with one hand, his fingers from the other grab the zipper to my dress, and yank on it to pull it down. The fabric on the front side of me doesn’t give and cuts into my skin.

Feeling the cold air hit my skin, more tears leak from my eyes. I know what his intentions are, and if I could just relax and allow him to get this over with, things will be so much easier. But I just can’t. How do I willingly accept this? How do I get out of this? What can I do?

Pain in my shoulder pulls me back to the moment—he’s bitten me, hard.

“Chris,” I cry out. “Please stop.” Sobs break free; I can’t stop them even if I try. What did I ever do to deserve this?

He grunts at my request and bites me again. “I always did love the way you taste.”

In an instant, I’m flipped over, and he pins both of my arms over my head with one hand.

Opening my eyes, I stare at the blackened image of Chris above me. My ears start to ring, replacing all the sounds around me, and things begin to move in slow motion as my mental awareness shuts off the ripping of my clothes and the bite of the cold air on my skin. I know he’s moving and doing things, but I don’t know what. What I see is his hair as it falls over his forehead and sways as he moves. I see the outline of his shoulders, shoulders that I’ve hung onto countless times while dancing, riding on his back, playing chicken in the pool, and even while he kisses me. Random memories flash, and I focus of those in hopes of not making new ones. In many ways, I’m having an out of body experience as he forcefully shatters my soul and devastates me in every way.