Chapter One
Finn
I was dreamin’ of the ocean.
The waves lapped at my feet as I stood, facin’ out to look at the big, wide expanse of the world, listenin’ to the quiet water roll and push and pull, the moonlit night wrappin’ ’round me like a hug.
The gentle crash of the surf was warm and frothy, and it calmed me from my toes up to the top of my head. I smiled, swayin’ in the night air, drawin’ a slow breath into my lungs, the soft scents of sand and salt water and… somethin’ else relaxin’ me. Somethin’ tropical. No, somethin’ sensual—sexy—like what I imagined a woman’s skin would smell like after she’d been swimmin’ in the ocean. Salty and wet, sweet sweat and desire.
Funny, I could describe what desire looked like on the outside but not what it felt like inside my body. Not really. I couldn’t describe what it felt like to touch a woman who wanted what was on the inside of my mind instead of on the outside of my skin—a woman who wanted me for how I made her feel and think, instead of just what I looked like.
Plenty of women thought that was what they felt for me, plenty had told me they desired me, but aside from the baser need to release, I’d never met a woman I desired that way either. Not one who turned me inside out with need and love and want. And, contrary to what everyone believed about me, I’d never met a woman who desired me. I wasn’t sure anyone cared about the thoughts in my head.
But, even though I couldn’t describe what it felt like to be really wanted, somehow, in my dream, I knew the scents I could smell all around me, the taste on my tongue, and the feelin’ of silk on my skin—I knew the woman I would be with, when I finally found the one I couldn’t live without, I knew she’d smell like this. She’d taste and feel like this.
Like the sea.
Drawin’ the scent into my body one last time, I turned to walk away. It was a dream, but I still had a shit-ton of work to do in the mornin’, so I figured I could hint to my dream self that it was time for a little uninterrupted REM.
But as I turned, somethin’ grabbed and slapped at my feet. Hard. It stung my wet skin, tuggin’ me backward gently, and instinctually, I kicked at it, but it began to climb up my legs.
It felt like a wide scratchy rope, but when I looked down to see what had stung and scraped my skin, I gasped. An iridescent, incandescent ribbon of light that changed from ice blue to glowin’ pale green with little sparks of yellow wound its way up my legs, flashin’ and winkin’ in the dark.
It scratched and crawled its way up my body quickly, trappin’ my arms to my torso, and then it wrapped itself around my chest. It didn’t hurt, not really, but it was uncomfortable.
Suddenly, it stopped its trailin’ ascent, pullin’ itself into a tight circle around my throat. I worried it would try to choke me, but it didn’t. I wanted to rip it off, but the warm and irritatin’ ribbon seemed sad. Lost… Okay, yeah, this was a dream, but come on. A sad fuckin’ ribbon? What the hell was my subconscious up to?
Wrappin’ itself around my eyes, the melancholy marauder blinded me, cuttin’ off my last advantage. It pulled itself into a tight knot behind my head, tanglin’ my hair in its clutches, and fell away from every other part of my body, hangin’ loose, danglin’ and swayin’ in the ocean breeze next to me, pokin’ me here and there. It tickled my skin.
The ribbon wanted to play. Or so I thought.
But then those deceptive tendrils started hittin’ me, pummelin’ me in the face! They shoved themselves inside my mouth, chokin’ and gaggin’ me, and they dragged me back to the water, pushin’ me down into it. The salt assaulted my nose and ears and burned my skin as I was dragged under.
I tried to call out for help, but really, what had I expected? I was still in la-la land—there wasn’t anybody around to help me. And no sound came outta my mouth anyway. I couldn’t move my arms or legs, and they felt like they weighed a thousand pounds apiece.
Somehow, in all my drownin’ glory, it occurred to me that I wasn’t even tryin’ to fight. I didn’t wanna die, ’course not, but I wanted my tiny, murderous ribbon to be happy, to feel free.
I heard Homer Simpson in my head—“D’oh!”
Had I, in about two minutes inside of some imaginary dreamscape, succumbed to some kinda kinky, inanimate-object-focused Stockholm syndrome?
Fuck. My last thought was that I was about to die in two feet of water in an ocean I’d never actually seen, and I hadn’t even had a chance to perfect my mole sauce or boeuf bourguignon!
Well.
Shit.
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