Dare Me(2)

Murphy lunges to his feet and begins to bark in the direction of the barn.

“Saige, stay here,” Brent says as he takes off running toward the barn.

I’ve always been terrible at following directions, and I take off in a full sprint after Brent. My lungs burn as I gasp for breath while my feet try to keep up with him. He’s taller and faster than me, and I finally catch up as he’s throwing the barn door open. As I push past him, I’m the first to see.

The gun, the blood, my father with half of his head missing.

My stomach drops and I can feel the bile twist in my stomach. “Dad. Dad,” I try to scream at him, but I’m barely able to breathe.

His limp body is lying in a pool of blood on the old wood floor next to a rifle. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

“Nooooo,” I finally cry out. Vomit rises from my stomach as my legs go weak, and I fall to my knees.

The blood in my ears pounds so loudly, I can barely hear Brent screaming for help. Then I feel him pulling on my arms as my knees scrape against the wood floor. He’s dragging my limp body out of the barn, and I watch a stream of blood roll under a hay bale and inside one of the horse stalls before I finally close my eyes and give in.





Saige

“Saige!” Evelyn, my roommate, yells at me as I gasp for air. “Breathe. Just breathe,” she says, stumbling into my dark room. My lamp on the bedside table flicks on just as she sinks down next to me on my bed. She reaches for me and begins rubbing my arm. “That’s two nights in a row,” she whispers and frowns. I drop my head back against my headboard and try to get my breathing under control. “You need to talk to someone, Saige. You can’t keep having these nightmares. You need to sleep.”

I nod my head and stare at the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” I muster between breaths. Breathe. Breathe, I tell myself as my pulse begins to slow down. I moved to Chicago and in with Evelyn a month ago. The nightmares started back up about that time. As I began to live my dream—his dream—the past came crashing back into my life like a freight train with no brakes.

Every street here in Chicago, every chilly evening, and every sunny morning overlooking Lake Michigan reminds me of my father and the life we used to have here.

“Same nightmare?” Evelyn asks, her blue eyes wide with concern.

“Same one.”

She stands up to leave now that I’ve begun to settle down but pauses.

“Saige—”

“I know,” I groan. “I promise I will. There’s just been a lot of change lately. I need a little more time to settle into a routine. They always get worse this time of year.”

She knowingly nods. Every year, in the weeks leading up to my birthday, I tend to regress with my nightmares. She sighs and backs up toward the door. “Two more weeks, and if this doesn’t get better, I’m making the appointment for you.”

“Deal.”

She flips her long jet-black hair over her shoulder as she turns on her heel. “Dream of that sexy boss you told me about. What’s his name . . . Holt?” She winks at me. “Think about happy things, Saige. Hot men, rainbows, or f*cking unicorns,” she quips.

I exhale loudly and narrow my eyes at her, then shoo her out of the room. Tugging the sheet up over my legs, I lean back against the headboard and rub my temples. “Holt,” I mumble and smirk. “Think of Holt.”



I stand at the small sink in the attached bathroom, dabbing concealer on the dark circles beneath my eyes and brush red lipstick across my lips, smacking them twice to distribute it evenly. This is as good as it’s going to get today. I take a sip of coffee from the mug Evelyn shoved into my hand as I was getting out of the shower this morning and groan at how good it tastes sliding down my throat and settling into my belly. Over the giant mug, I notice in the mirror how my green eyes pop against my fair complexion. I tuck my nearly black hair behind one of my ears and like the way it falls in long loose waves down my back. One positive for today—a good hair day.

Shimmying into a tight black pencil skirt and an olive green silk sleeveless blouse, I take one last look in the full-length mirror. I finish off my outfit with a pair of nude heels and grab my purse off the counter, shoving my cell phone into it.

“I’m outta here, Ev! Don’t wait up for me,” I shout as I shuffle out the apartment door and down the hallway of our old brick apartment building. A quick train ride later and I’m pushing through the revolving doors to Jackson-Hamilton Aviation.

“Morning, Larry!” I wave and hustle past the security desk where Larry sits.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he yells back, never once taking his eyes off the newspaper he’s reading.

My heels click loudly on the granite floor of the open-air atrium as I hustle over to the elevator bank. I frantically press the call button for the elevator and glance at my watch. I’m already five minutes late. I hate being late. Punctual is my middle name. If I’m not five minutes early, I’m late. That’s how I roll.

Groaning, I tap the toe of my shoe impatiently. When an elevator finally arrives, I scurry in just as a voice from behind me hollers out, “Hold that elevator, please.” I grumble but hold the doors as Holt Hamilton glides in, a cell phone pressed to his ear. With a curt nod, he steps aside and the elevator doors close while my heart pounds wildly in my chest.