I take my time in the shower washing off the heavy makeup and hairspray I was doused in for Ellie and Doug’s wedding. I try to let the shower relax my tensed muscles but no amount of scalding water could wash away the distress Sylas always seems to heap onto me. For over a decade he has haunted me and he hasn’t even had to invest any effort. So now? When he’s in my face and in my nose and ears and eyes with all his grown man allure, I’m not just haunted I’m possessed.
Thinking back to when he was hurt and transported to Walter Reed to recover is an unsettling series of memories to visit. They drain me and as a rule I try to forget all about the time I saw Sylas close to death’s door in a hospital room over three years ago. I force myself out of the shower once the water begins to chill. I tie my robe around my body and go back to my old bedroom. I flip open my laptop and select my favorite playlist to relax to. I go about my nightly routine brushing my hair and checking emails, reviewing the calendar and scheduled events. I busy my mind reading campaign relevant news articles and making notes regarding each one. My phone buzzes on the nightstand and I lift it up to see a text from a number I don’t recognize.
What’re you listenin’ to, Rae?
My gut flips and my heart speeds just reading those five simple words. Only one person on the planet has ever made it a point to ask me what I’m listening to, especially before bed every night. “Dammit, Momma,” I curse, knowing Chick wasn’t exaggerating when he’d said she gives my information out to anyone from around here that asks for it.
Back then the music I listened to was on the stupid iPod Classic I was forced into shared ownership of. Now the music is on my cellphone or laptop. The device has changed but much of the music is the same. I’ll never tell anyone that though.
Me: Who is this?
You know who it is and before you ask how I got your number, your momma gave it to me.
“But of course she did,” I mutter to myself. I take the time to pause there and save his phone number to my contacts. I tell myself that I am saving it so I can see whom to ignore when he calls or texts again. Right?
Me: I see.
Sylas: So what are you listening to?
“Ugh!” I huff. Nope. Not playing his games. He doesn’t play fair. Never has. I press the button on my phone making the screen turn black and get back to my reading and composing two emails—one to Bethany and one to Dominic, my deputy campaign manager. Ten minutes later, my phone rings and being in a work related headspace I think little at all about answering it. I grab and answer in my typical business tone.
“This is Raegan Potter,” I say without a trace of Louisiana in my voice.
“You got good at hiding your roots didn’t you? Are you that embarrassed by them, Snow?” he says indifferently.
“Sylas,” I say then inhale deeply, hating how the low tenor of his voice makes me feel warm and tingly all over.
“So?”
“So what?” I say short on patience with him but also secretly loving the sound of his voice in my ear.
“What’re you listening to?”
“How do you know I’m listening to anything at all, Sylas?”
“Because old habits die hard, Rae,” he breathes, the low pitch of his voice making warmth unfurl deep in my stomach. “You always listened to music before bed. I’m betting you still do.”
“‘Harvest Moon’ by Neil Young,” I begrudgingly admit.
“Interesting. I’m listening to ‘I Lost A Friend’ by Finneas. Heard it?”
“No. Anything else?”
“Do you feel it?”
“What?”
“Us. I can still feel it.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
“Oh, yeah you do.”
“Sylas, I can’t play these games with you. We aren’t kids anymore.” I rub the bridge of my nose feeling drained and emotionally ragged.
“Raegan, trust me when I say games are the very last thing on my mind where you’re concerned. Goodnight,” he says in a way that makes my skin prickle then the line goes quiet. A minute later another text arrives.
Sylas: Be ready at 6:30 in the morning. I’ll pick you up.
Me: No.
He doesn’t respond but I know it’s because he doesn’t accept or acknowledge me when I decline him. He never has and I fully expect him to drag me out of my bed in the morning if I am not waiting for him, ready to go. I toss my phone aside and do everything I can to focus my attention on work but it’s no use. Sylas Broussard has burrowed his way beneath my skin and I know exactly how that plays out.
Chapter 11
Raegan
The plank I’m straddling stretches from one side of the narrow bayou to the other. It’s wobbly under my weight and dried from too much time in the elements. My heart is pounding out of control. Sweat trickles down my brow and stings as it rolls into my eyes. I’m being chased. I look down to the brackish water in the bayou and see the gators lazily circling beneath my feet. My eyes feel too large in my head as I open them wider with terror. My hands quiver. My throat is dry. A gator leaps from the water and snaps at my dangling feet, the sharp clap of his teeth meeting sends a shot of adrenaline through my veins. I let out a high-pitched yelp and draw my legs up then glance behind me at the other side of the bayou feeling someone coming for me. Why am I being chased?
“Rae!” Sylas bellows at me. I snap my attention to him standing at the edge of the water in front of me. “You gotta come to me, baby!” Sylas is wearing his Marine Corps uniform and I scrunch my brows. Why is Sylas standing there like that? I look down at myself and realize I’m wearing my old cashier uniform from the grocery store I worked at in high school.
“Come get me! Sylas, I’m scared,” I plead feeling very confused by all of this.
“Nothin’ to be scared of, Rae. Now get off that rickety thing,” he demands motioning to the board I’m sitting on.
“He’s gonna get me!” I whine not even sure who the hell I’m talking about but sure that someone is coming. I feel the creeping sensation of a predator hot on my heels.
“No one’s gonna get you baby. I’m right here,” he insists with his hand outstretched, his jaw set with determination and his eyes pleading. My muscles tremble, feeling weaker and weaker the longer I cling to my unsteady little perch. Tears streak hot, wet tracks down my face.
“He’s going to get me. He’s coming,” I sob.
“I’m already here,” I hear from behind me and whip around just as Sylas—a seventeen-year-old Sylas in his old baseball uniform—steps onto my plank with a smirk.
“No, no, no!” I shake my head and scramble toward the other Sylas but it’s too late. The rotted board beneath me cracks and gives under the weight of us and we both tumble into the gator infested waters.
“No!” I scream.
“Hey. Hey. Rae!” The sound of Sylas’ voice in my bedroom jars me from the freaky nightmare I was having. I gasp for air and clutch one hand to my chest and instinctively reach for Sylas with the other. Sylas is sitting down on the edge of my bed and flips the bedside lamp on. He scoops me up and pulls me close like I’m a small child.