Wake to Dream(45)



“No,” she breathed out, the confession a sharp razor that dragged across her tongue.

He sat back in his chair, his eyes flicking back and forth between her and the tip of the ballpoint pen that flew across his notepad. Giving her time to settle down, he jotted down his thoughts, his face twisted into an expression of grim concentration.

When her sobs had quieted down and when the tears had slowed to a trickling rhythm, he ripped a tissue from the box beside him, leaning forward again to hand it to her. Alice took it, but didn’t thank him for the small courtesy.

“One more question and then we’ll move on to the next dream.”

Through hot, swollen eyes, she glared at him.

“Is it possible that these dreams are nothing more than a metaphor, Alice? A memory seeping out from whatever secret place you’d kept it hidden?”

“No,” she shook her head and sniffled. “That’s not possible.”

“How do you know?”

She clenched her eyes shut to expel that last of the stinging tears, opening them again to look him dead in the eyes.

“Because of what happened next. Let me finish, Doc. Stop playing around with crap that has nothing to do with this and let me finish.”

He nodded. “Fine. But whatever you say needs to convince me that it’s not connected to your past. Otherwise, we’ll be having this conversation again.”





“Get dressed.”

Two clipped words spoken, one white dress tossed at her feet.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Alice had waited patiently for Max to get showered and dressed after he finally woke up. She’d locked eyes with him as soon as his eyelids fluttered open, her heart still swelling with the small happiness of having escaped the disorders that usually plagued her nights.

Not knowing what to expect when he opened his eyes to the early morning, the last thing she’d thought he’d do was grumble at the sight of her, thrash his way out from under the blankets they shared and march into the bathroom with heavy-footed steps.

He was angry, and she didn’t know why.

The small bit of pleasure she’d felt from waking up rested was lost as soon as the bathroom door slammed shut and a spray of water could be heard whispering from behind that wooden barrier.

Shivering at the memory of the events of the previous night, Alice had crept out from beneath blankets that were far too warm against the heat of anger that ran across her skin, and she’d shimmied her body down to the foot of the bed to wait.

Max emerged from the steamy bathroom with a white towel wrapped around his hips. She wondered for a brief moment if it was the same towel that he’d used to wrap her head when he’d dragged her into the shower. Remembering his need for clean and new, she brushed that thought aside as absurd.

Dropping the towel from around his hips, Max tossed it into a wicker hamper, the firm cheeks of his ass staring back at her from beneath broad shoulders, a strong back, and the indented line that ran along the length of his spine. Smooth skin barely contained the steel musculature of his body, and Alice became lost to the way his biceps flexed when he pulled clothes from his bureau.

Dark blue jeans and a simple white t-shirt. It seemed too casual for a man as complicated as him.

After getting dressed, Max disappeared into his closet, reappearing with the outfit he’d selected for her to wear.

He left the room after making his demand, his voice trailing over his shoulder with the instruction for her to meet him in the kitchen when she was finished.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” she whispered, unsure why she felt rejected by his irritable and arrogant mood.

Snatching the dress from the floor, she stood up on achy legs to stand before the full-length mirror. No underwear, no bra, just a shell of a dress with buttons up the front, a blue sash as a belt to cinch it at her waist.

Pulling the cloth over her shoulders, she fastened the buttons one by one before tying the sash and looking at her reflection in the mirror. The dress was quite beautiful, despite its simplicity, but her hair was a frightful mess of blonde limp tendrils. Reaching up, she braided the mess back to give it the illusion of being styled before huffing out a breath and making her way out of the room and down three flights of stairs.

From the kitchen came loud clanging sounds, pots and pans being pulled from cabinets, the sizzle of bacon heard seconds before the smell hit her nose like an avalanche of temptation. Her stomach rumbled as she stepped barefoot from the wood floors of the entry hall onto the cool stone tile.

“I’m here,” she stated softly, her eyes flicking between Max and the television screen positioned at the top left corner of the room. The woman, still hooded, sat still on the edge of the bed, her body covered in the same dress that Alice now wore.

Her brows furrowing with confusion, she wondered why the woman on screen was always dressed identical. Her mouth opened to ask the question, but she shook her head deciding against the risk of angering a man who was already agitated.

“Take a seat at the center island, Alice. Breakfast will be ready in a minute.”

An obedient lamb sitting down to the slaughter, not a word from her mouth in protest of the butcher. That’s how she felt every time she acquiesced to his demands, each moment she submitted to him without argument or complaint.

Plates were set down on the table before her, a different design than the ones she’d shattered the night before. Eggs and bacon, toast and juice, an ordinary meal despite the circumstances that were far too dismal to be normal.

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