Out of Reach (29 page)

When I'm ready, or at least as ready as I'll
ever be, I drag a kitchen chair out onto the porch to wait. I know
he'll be here soon to check on me. Ben doesn't get off work until
tomorrow and I was wasted last night. Kade will come.

My wait is uncomfortable, a combination of
the stiff chair and my anxiety. I lace my fingers together after a
few minutes when my hands begin to shake. The roar of his bike's
engine breaks my reverie, the sound reaching my ears long before I
see Kade. Several times in the span of a minute I almost lose my
nerve and head back inside to pull the comforter over my head and
pretend nothing ever happened.

Once I see him, it's all over, the need to
be here in this moment, in any moment, with him is too great. I'd
sooner chop my arm off than walk away from him. Having finally
acknowledged the depth of my feelings I allow myself to appreciate
how breathtaking he is. Tall, dark, and handsome just fails to
describe the true magnificence of my Wanderer.

Parking his motorcycle he
swings a leg over the back, dismounting fluidly. My whole body
screams for him to look at me, and my breath catches in my throat
when his smoldering eyes finally meet mine. They look tired, as if
he hasn't slept at all. He approaches hesitantly, like he isn't
sure exactly how to proceed, which is absurd. Kade always knows his
course. Rising to meet him at the bottom of the stairs, I fold my
arms over my chest to keep from wringing my hands. Man, I have no
idea how to have this conversation.
I'm
being ridiculous
, I tell myself, but I
stall anyway, filling the silence with trivial
conversation.

"I ran into this weird guy in the alley last
night, he was going on about God and life and stuff, I wish I could
remember exactly what he said, it was pretty creepy." I say it in a
rush, as one long sentence, but still an involuntarily shudder runs
down my spine at the memory. A pained expression I can't quite
place flits across Kade's face but he recovers quickly.

"What the hell were you doing alone in an
alley?" he asks angrily.

Eyes flashing I stare him down. If anyone
has a right to be upset right now it’s me.

"Maybe I was having a little trouble walking
into the bar last night. You didn't exactly make it easy," I tack
on, furious at how this has all played out, desperate for a man who
should have claimed me years ago.

"What the hell is that supposed to
mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean. Why the hell
didn't you pursue me?" I ask shaking my fists, hurt.

"You think this is my fault?" he asks
flabbergasted.

"You've had years, years, Kade."

"Yeah and maybe, just maybe I wanted you to
see me for yourself." He runs a hand through his hair, visibly
distraught. The effort to control his speech is plain on his
face.

"What are you talking about? I see you."

"Damn it, woman, when you can make anyone do
or believe anything you want, it’s not the same. I wanted you to
see me, through everything else," he says voice softening. Reaching
forward he pulls my hands into his. "You of all people should have
been able to."

"No!" I shout, pushing his hands away and
turning around. His emotional sentiment and the physical contact is
too much for me. I still want to fight, to blame something,
anything. "No! You should have done something then, not this, not
now, when I can't hope to be with you."

As he closes the gap between us I feel his
breath on the back of my hair and the warmth of his body pressed
against mine.

"Gwen, don't. You belong with me."

Stepping away again I turn around to face
him. The space doesn't help, the man is like gravity invisibly
pulling me closer. "Maybe I did, or I would have, but not now, not
anymore."

"But you love me," his voice catches heavy
with emotion.

Placing my hands flat against his chest, my
shoulders slump and my head hangs. "But I've made promises to
another." It's Kade's turn to get angry.

"Ben," he says, shaking me off. The word
slips out more like an expletive, loaded with a lifetime’s worth of
jealousy. I realize suddenly I’ve only heard Kade utter Ben's name
a couple of times over the years. Now I understand why.

"You don't belong here," Kade says, casting
his arms wide to emphasize my home, my life. "After everything
that's happened, can't you see that? I need you with me. I love
you."

A bit of my temper resurfaces as I ask,
"Could you, I mean could you really love and respect someone
capable of tossing their commitments aside so easily?"

Caught by my words, he covers his mouth with
a hand and stares at the porch, thinking.

"I thought not," I whisper.

Everything from start to finish today has
come out wrong, and truth be told, so have the last ten years. I
chose Ben, and I love him, but he will never be the man standing in
front of me. And the worst part of all, knowing I love Kade,
doesn’t change a damn thing. He may be the sun around which my
world now orbits but I made my vows to Ben.

“Look at me please,” I beg him. When he
eventually lifts his head, my breath catches in my throat. His eyes
are dull, the warm honey having dried out, faded. My eyes well up
until I can't see at which point the inevitable happens and my
sorrow trickles slowly down my face. In a heartbeat he's wrapped
around me folding me against his chest.

"Don't, someone will see," I say trying to
pry away.

"No one can see us," he promises a second
before capturing my lips.

My hands wrap around his neck automatically
and I hold on, desperately fighting against the eventual
separation. A warm current like lightening races through my veins,
vanishing as our lips part. The sensation is somehow familiar but I
can’t put my finger on it.

"I'm not letting you go. I'll be back for
you, he can’t live forever," Kade breathes as he releases me and
strides away. Unable to support myself without him I drop to my
knees and watch him go. Seeing Kade ride away on his motorcycle no
longer sends me into a fit of giggles I note. He was made for the
saddle and the sands, and sadly this is the closest he’ll get in
our modern society.

Closing my eyes I imagine
the sound of thundering hooves and remember the sight of my
Wanderer racing cross the dunes.
He isn't
gone
, I console myself. I've no idea how
long I continue to sit there but my knees hurt and the sun is past
its zenith by the time I've collected myself enough to stand.
Gathering my things I again face the front door, my defining symbol
of old and new, of ignorant bliss and supernatural awareness, of
Ben and Kade. With a half smile I turn the handle and step back
inside, leaving the door open behind me.

Epilogue

Mike tosses the pager into
the trash bin on his custodial cart before proceeding into Mr.
Taylor’s office. The thing hasn’t stopped jumping since he strapped
it to his belt earlier this morning.
What
an annoying little contraption
, he thinks
to himself.

Mr. Taylor looks up when he hears the
opening of his office doors. “Where have you been exactly?”

“Taking care of things,” Mike replies
casually. Beyond exasperated, Mike’s nonchalance eats away at Mr.
Taylor who has been in a bad mood since he walked in to work this
morning. Someone had ransacked the lab of one of his brightest
research teams last week while he was out of town. As if that
wasn’t enough, he’d walked in today, his first day back, to
discover his little side project in shambles. Not only had the lab
dedicated to his newest gamble been destroyed, but his own files on
the project had been erased.

Walking over to the wall safe hidden behind
one of his favorite paintings Taylor flings open the metal door
before thrusting an accusatory finger at Mike.

“Where were you when all this—” Mr. Taylor
waves his arms around wildly “—was going on?”

Mike maintains a calm façade but on the
inside his loathing for his boss writhes like a living thing.

“There were complications,” he tells Taylor
very matter of fact. Stomping back to his desk, Taylor continues to
glower at Mike.

“Complications!” he shrieks heatedly. “I
assume they stole the project files off of my computer too, before
they erased everything. How did they know what we were doing?”

Arms outstretched he leans forward on the
desk, resting on his knuckles, a posture Mr. Taylor believes makes
him appear formidable. Holding the intimidating pose he waits
impatiently for Mike to respond.

“The Wanderer incursion was a minor
setback,” Mike admits, not fooled by Taylor’s false bravado. After
all, Mike is well acquainted with the old windbag’s parlor tricks.
Deflated but not done playing big man on campus, Taylor continues
to rant.

“You led me to believe this would work! And
it was, we were close, close to succeeding, I tell you.” Taylor
pauses a moment. “Wait, what the hell is a Wanderer?”

Grimacing Mike grips the back of the chair
in front of him. Lord he is sick of this man and his deplorable
self-interests. “Abominations.”

Clearly frustrated when Mike’s explanation
isn’t forthcoming, Mr. Taylor plunges ahead anyway, his
single-minded focus wrapped up in the scheme Mike has assured will
make him a very wealthy man. “Well, are they dangerous, to the
plan? Is there some way to ensure we succeed before they do?”

Now that’s
rich
, Mike thinks to himself, unable to
keep from laughing out loud.

“I don’t see how any of
this is funny,” Mr. Taylor chastises. “The Wanderers have no
interest in your pet project, I assure you,” Mike replies, voice
laced with contempt. “The bastards have only one purpose. They hunt
the Sylph.”
It wasn’t always
so
, Mike remembers, taking a second to
grieve for a time long since past.

“Finally! That’s the first good thing I’ve
heard all day.” Taylor beams, his only concern being that the
Wanderers pose no threat to his marketing plans. There isn’t a soul
on the planet who won’t pay an arm and a leg for the kind of power
Mr. Taylor plans on selling. Who knows, maybe he’ll even partake a
little himself, he thinks. Then he wouldn’t need Mike. Yes, that’s
exactly what he’ll do. Once the serum has taken effect, he’ll can
the bastard, bury him, ball and all, underneath the rose garden on
his estate.

“Since Asad is no longer with us, you’ll
have to begin donating to the project yourself,” Mr. Taylor
announces.

Mike’s smile takes on a sudden air of
authority instead of the meek appeasing grin of a subservient, but
Mr. Taylor fails to notice, too caught up in his own power trip.
“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“What? How dare you talk back to me! I still
own you!” Taylor threatens. Pushing back his chair, Taylor bends
down pulling back the corner of the rug under his desk. Hidden in
the wood flooring is another secret compartment which Taylor
accesses, quickly removing a perfectly round black and red
patterned sphere. “You haven’t given me my three wishes yet, and as
long as I have this, I am your master,” he boasts.

Enraged by the despicable little man before
him, Mike overturns a chair and pounces on Mr. Taylor. Squeezing
his fingers around his throat, Mike holds Mr. Taylor up off the
floor by his collar.

“I am Himyar. I have no master.” Himyar’s
eyes glow red as he prepares to put this human in his proper place.
“Funny thing about your get rich quick scheme is that it would
never have worked.” Mr. Taylor’s eyes bug out upon hearing the
news, but with Himyar’s fist clenched around his neck he is
helpless to respond. Dangling above the floor his face begins to
turn purple from lack of oxygen.

“You can’t bottle a Sylph’s power,” Mike
laughs again tauntingly. “And you certainly can’t sell it to your
friends. I had hoped if a human ingested enough of the essence, the
originating Sylph would be able to possess them and forever be free
of their insufferable sphere.”

Close to passing out Mr. Taylor hangs by his
collar, unable to do anything but listen as Himyar monologues.

“Pity. Now we’ll never know,” he says and
drops Mr. Taylor to the floor. “You’ve outlived whatever usefulness
you ever had. Your heart’s been working overtime, my friend. It
needs a break.”

Himyar begins to snap his fingers, the
rhythm keeping time with Mr. Taylor’s accelerated heart rate for a
minute. Then just as spontaneously as he started, he stops.
Taylor’s body spasms once and comes to rest at Himyar’s feet with
the mineral sphere still clutched tightly in his palm.

Bending over Mr. Taylor’s body, Himyar dabs
at the thin trickle of blood exiting Taylor’s nose with his index
finger. Rising he stares at the life sustaining crimson liquid a
moment before leaning over Taylor’s desk to leave his calling card
firmly imprinted on the ledger.

Acknowledgements

My deepest appreciation goes out to the team of
individuals who helped me put this together, who lived with my
insanity the last eight months and took my barrage of emails in
stride. Thank you to Nathalia for giving a beautiful face to my
story. Thank you to Shannon for suggesting this crazy endeavor, if
not for you there wouldn’t be voices in my head, all the time.
Thank you to Robin and Michelle for taming the unending stream of
consciousness that is my brain on paper into something people will
actually understand. And a special thanks to Josh, whom I can’t
seem to do anything without.

About the
Author

Jocelyn resides in sunny California with her
husband, who is the best thing that ever happened to her, and her
four beautiful children. When not writing she’s either reading,
running (because she’s convinced herself she loves it), or outside
soaking up the sunshine.