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My best friend Emma danced her way down the hall
and into the main room, hands in the air, hips swaying
with the pulse of the song. I followed her, keyed up by
the energy of the Saturday-night crowd from the
moment I saw the first cluster of bodies in motion.
We worked our way into the throng and were
swallowed by it, assimilated by the beat, the heat, and
the casual partners pulling us close. We danced
through several songs, together, alone, and in random
pairs, until I was breathing hard and damp with sweat.
I signaled Emma that I was going for a drink, and she
nodded, already moving again as I worked my way
toward the edge of the crowd.
Behind the bar, Emma’s sister Traci worked alongside
another bartender, a large, dark man in a snug black
tee, both oddly lit by a strip of blue neon overhead. I
claimed the first abandoned bar stool, and the man in
black propped both broad palms on the bar in front of
me.
“I got this one,” Traci said, one hand on his arm. He
nodded and moved on to the next customer. “What’ll it
be?” Traci smoothed back a stray strand of pale, bluetinted hair.
I grinned, leaning with both elbows on the bar. “Jack
and Coke?”
She laughed. “I’ll give you the Coke.” She shot soda
into a glass of ice and slid it toward me. I pushed a five
across the bar and swiveled on my stool to watch the
dance floor, scanning the multitude for Emma. She
was sandwiched between two guys in matching UT
Dallas fraternity tees and neon, legal-to-drink
bracelets, all three grinding in unison.
Emma drew attention like wool draws static.
Still smiling, I drained my soda and set my glass on
the bar.
“Kaylee Cavanaugh.”
I jumped at the sound of my own name and whirled
toward the stool to my left. My gaze settled on the
most hypnotic set of hazel eyes I’d ever seen, and for
several seconds I could only stare, lost in the most
amazing swirls of deep brown and vivid green, which
seemed to churn in time with my own heartbeat—
though surely they were just reflecting the lights
flashing overhead. My focus only returned when I had
to blink, and the momentary loss of contact brought
me back to myself.
That’s when I realized who I was staring at.
Nash Hudson. Holy crap. I almost looked down to see
if ice had anchored my feet to the floor, since hell had
surely frozen over. Somehow I’d stepped off the dance
floor and into some weird warp zone where irises
swam with color and Nash Hudson smiled at me, and
me alone.
I picked up my glass, hoping for one last drop to rewet
my suddenly dry throat—and wondered fleetingly if
Traci had spiked my Coke—but discovered it every bit
as empty as I’d expected.
“Need a refill?” Nash asked, and that time I made my
mouth open. After all, if I was dreaming—or in the
Twilight Zone—I had nothing to lose by speaking.
Right?
“I’m good. Thanks.” I ventured a hesitant smile, and
my heart nearly exploded when I saw my grin
reflected on his upturned, perfectly formed lips.
“How’d you get in here?” He arched one brow, more
in amusement than in real curiosity. “Crawl through
the window?”
“Back door,” I whispered, feeling my face flush. Of
course he knew I was a junior—too young even for an
eighteen-and-over club, like Taboo.
“What?” He grinned and leaned closer to hear me
above the music. His breath brushed my neck, and my
pulse pounded so hard I felt light-headed. He smelled
sooo good.
“Back door,” I repeated into his ear. “Emma’s sister
works here.”
“Emma’s here?”
I pointed her out on the dance floor—now swaying
with three guys at once—and assumed that would be
the last I saw of Nash Hudson. But to my near-fatal
shock, he dismissed Em at a glance and turned back to
me with a mischievous gleam in those amazing eyes.
“Aren’t you gonna dance?”
My hand was suddenly sweaty around my empty glass.
Did that mean he wanted to dance with me? Or that he
wanted the bar stool for his girlfriend?
No, wait. He’d dumped his latest girlfriend the week
before, and the sharks were already circling the fresh
meat. Though they’re not circling him now… I saw no
one from Nash’s usual crowd, either clustered around
him or on the dance floor.
“Yeah, I’m gonna dance,” I said, and again, his eyes
were swirling green melting into brown and back,
flashing blue occasionally in the neon glow. I could
have stared at his eyes for hours. But he probably
would have thought that was weird.
“Let’s go!” He took my hand and stood as I slid off the
bar stool, and I followed him onto the dance floor. A
fresh smile bloomed on my face, and my chest seemed
to tighten around my heart in anticipation. I’d known
him for a while—Emma had gone out with a few of
his friends—but had never been the sole object of his
attention. Had never even considered the possibility.
If Eastlake High School were the universe, I would be
one of the moons circling Planet Emma, constantly
hidden by her shadow, and glad to be there. Nash
Hudson would be one of the stars: too bright to look at,
too hot to touch, and at the center of his own solar
system.
But on the dance floor, I forgot all that. His light was
shining directly on me, and it was sooo warm.
We wound up only feet from Emma, but with Nash’s
hands on me, his body pressed into mine, I barely
noticed. That first song ended, and we were moving to
the next one before I even fully realized the beat had
changed.
Several minutes later, I glimpsed Emma over Nash’s
shoulder. She stood at the bar with one of the guys
she’d been grinding with, and as I watched, Traci set a
drink in front of each of them. When her sister turned
around, Emma grabbed her partner’s drink—
something dark with a wedge of lime on the rim—and
drained it in three gulps. Frat boy smiled, then pulled
her back into the crowd.
I made a mental note not to let Emma drive my car—
ever—then let my eyes wander back to Nash, where
they wanted to be in the first place. But on the way,
my gaze was snagged by an unfamiliar sheet of
strawberry-blond hair, crowning the head of the only
girl in the building to rival Emma in beauty. This girl,
too, had her choice of dance partners, and though she
couldn’t have been more than eighteen, she’d
obviously had much more to drink than Emma.
But despite how pretty and obviously charismatic she
was, watching her dance twisted something deep
inside my gut and made my chest tighten, as if I
couldn’t quite get enough air. Something was wrong
with her. I wasn’t sure how I knew, but I was
absolutely certain that something was not right with
that girl.
“You okay?” Nash shouted, laying one hand on my
shoulder, and suddenly I realized I’d gone still, while
everyone around me was still writhing to the beat.
“Yeah!” I shook off my discomfort and was relieved to
find that looking into Nash’s eyes chased away that
feeling of wrongness, leaving in its place a new calm,
eerie in its depth and reach. We danced for several
more songs, growing more comfortable with each
other with every moment that passed. By the time we
stopped for a drink, sweat was gathering on the back
of my neck and my arms were damp.
I lifted the bulk of my hair to cool myself and waved
to Emma with my free hand as I turned to follow Nash
off the dance floor—and nearly collided with that
same strawberry blonde. Not that she noticed. But the
minute my eyes found her, that feeling was back in
spades—that strong discomfort, like a bad taste in my
mouth, only all over my body. And this time it was
accompanied by an odd sadness. A general melancholy
that felt specifically connected to this one person.
Whom I’d never met.
“Kaylee?” Nash yelled over the music. He stood at the
bar, holding two tall glasses of soda, slick with
condensation. I closed the space between us and took
the glass he offered, a little frightened to notice that
this time, even staring straight into his eyes couldn’t
completely relax me. Couldn’t quite loosen my throat,
which threatened to close against the cold drink I so
desperately craved.
“What’s wrong?” We stood inches apart, thanks to the
throng pressing ever closer to the bar, but he still had
to lean into me to be heard.
“I don’t know. Something about that girl, that redhead
over there—” I nodded toward the dancer in question
“—bothers me.” Well, crap. I hadn’t meant to admit
that. It sounded so pathetic aloud.
But Nash only glanced at the girl, then back at me.
“Seems okay to me. Assuming she has a ride home…”
“Yeah, I guess.” But then the current song ended, and
the girl stumbled—looking somehow graceful, even
when obviously intoxicated—off the dance floor and
toward the bar. Headed right for us.
My heart beat harder with every step she took. My
hand curled around my glass until my knuckles went
white. And that familiar sense of melancholy swelled
into an overwhelming feeling of grief. Of dark
foreboding.
I gasped, startled by a sudden, gruesome certainty.
Not again. Not with Nash Hudson there to watch me
completely freak out. My breakdown would be all over
the school on Monday, and I could kiss goodbye what
little social standing I’d gained.
Nash set his glass down and peered into my face.
“Kaylee? You okay?” But I could only shake my head,
incapable of answering. I was far from okay, but
couldn’t articulate the problem in any way resembling
coherence. And suddenly the potentially devastating
rumors looked like minor blips on my disaster meter
compared to the panic growing inside me.
Each breath came faster than the last, and a scream
built deep within my chest. I clamped my mouth shut
to hold it back, grinding my teeth painfully. The
strawberry blonde stepped up to the bar on my left,
and only a single stool and its occupant stood between
us. The male bartender took her order and she turned
sideways to wait for her drink. Her eyes met mine. She
smiled briefly, then stared out onto the dance floor.
Horror washed over me in a devastating wave of
intuition. My throat closed. I choked on a scream of
terror. My glass slipped from my hand and shattered
on the floor. The redheaded dancer squealed and
jumped back as ice-cold soda splattered her, me, Nash,
and the man on the stool to my left. But I barely
noticed the frigid liquid, or the people staring at me.
I saw only the girl, and the dark, translucent shadow
that had enveloped her.
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A native of the dust bowl, Rachel Vincent is the oldest
of five siblings, and arguably the most outspoken of
the bunch. She loves cats, devours chocolate and lives
on flavored coffee. Rachel’s older than she looks—
seriously—and younger than she feels, but remains
convinced that for every day she spends writing, one
more day will be added to her lifespan.
She maintains a Web site at rachelvincent.net and an
active blog at urbanfantasy.blogspot.com.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-3867-5
My Soul to Lose
Copyright © 2009 by Rachel Vincent
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