

Beautiful Musician

By Sheri Whitefeather

Copyright © 2013 Sheree Whitefeather

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter One

I stood outside her window in the dark, my heart filled with angst. I considered her my everything, and I was certain that I was hers. But we hadn't told each other how we felt. Neither of us knew quite how to say it. Loving each other was dangerous. Someday we would be separated, and we might never find our way back together again.

I fanned my hand against the pane of glass. Was she asleep? Was she nestled in her bed, the covers drawn tight?

Her name was Abby Winston, and she was nineteen years old. Currently, she lived in a treatment center called The Manor, and I paid secret visits to her.

They claimed that she had been schizophrenic for most of her life, and that I was one of her hallucinations. According to the rest of the world, I didn't exist. But to her, I was real. As much as I hated to admit it, I knew she was mentally ill and that I was a component of her disease. But I would never, ever tell her that. It was my job to keep her warm and safe, to let her believe in me.

She'd created me when she was a child, several years after her parents died in a devastating car crash. She imagined me, and I appeared to her. I was a kid then, too, just a few years older than she was.

These days I was a man: tall, dark, and leanly muscled. I was known as Smiling Seven. An odd name, but she'd given it to me, so I'd always treasured it just the same. Besides, mostly I was called Seven, and that suited me fine.

On this Southern California evening, I was one with the night, pressing my hand gently against her window. I liked being part of the darkness, the moon scattering its silvery beams down on me.

But I wasn't going to stand out here until morning. I longed to see her, to be near her.

My sweet Abby.

I didn't try to open the window. It wasn't necessary. I could simply pop into her room, sort of like the "Beam me up, Scotty" thing, only I wasn't from outer space.

Then again, I wasn't from this world, either. I hailed from a meta-universe called Room 105. According to Abby, everything and everyone in it had been created by people like her, who were prone to using their imaginations. It was where I lived when I wasn't with Abby.

105 was a bizarre place. To me, it was like Oz on crack or maybe the Mad Hatter ingesting molly. You never really knew what to expect. Of course, Room 105 wasn't any more real than I was, but that didn't make it any less my home.

Anxious to see Abby, I beamed into her room and stood in the golden-hued shadows. She'd left a nightlight on. She'd always been afraid of the dark. I moved closer. She was asleep, but the covers weren't tightly drawn. At some point, she'd kicked them away.

She looked like a troubled princess, locked in a twisted fairy tale. She wore her white-blonde hair short and choppy, and she was small and frail. Sometimes I had to remind her to take care of herself, to wash her pretty face, to shower, to wear clean clothes. Her crappy grooming habits were a symptom of her illness.

Sometimes I was a bit of a mess myself. My medium-length brown hair looked as if it had been styled with an eggbeater, and I always had a dusting of beard stubble on my chin. I favored black clothes, leather accessories, and rugged boots. On top of that, I had a pierced tongue, my left ear was decorated with silver studs, and both of my arms were inked with full-sleeve tattoos, the artwork a hodgepodge of random shit.

But what could I say? I was a musician, and my creation and the development of my persona was inspired by a young Nikki Sixx. He was the co-founder and bass player for Mötley Crüe. He was also a brilliant songwriter, author, photographer, and radio host. Abby had chosen him because her mom had harbored a crush on Sixx back in the day. I didn't look like him, but I had his bad-boy vibe, I supposed, with a schizophrenic dose of romantic hero tossed in.

Abby thought I was as hot as fucking sin and ridiculously handsome. She'd always had a bit of a thing for me, even when we were kids, but she'd been better able to hide it then.

I glanced down at the foot of her bed and noticed that Dingo, the dancing dog, was curled in a ball, keeping her company. He was another of her hallucinations. There were four of us altogether and she called us her "people," regardless of whether or not all of us were human.

I was friends with her other people, but sometimes they got on my nerves, especially when I wanted Abby to myself. Dingo was cool, though. He didn't talk or do anything annoying or abnormal. Abby said that he danced, but it was typical doggie stuff, jumping around in circles and whatnot.

He lifted his furry head and perked his ears at me. I put a finger to my lips, warning him to be quiet. Sometimes he could be rambunctious as hell. He was a Jack Russell terrier, and they were a feisty little breed.

The dog settled back down, and I sat in a chair in the corner and watched Abby. We'd never kissed or touched in a sexual way, but I wanted her.

Damn, I wanted her.

I'd been with lots of women in 105. I wasn't famous, not like the rocker who inspired my creation, but my career was beginning to bud, and I got my fair share of long-limbed, sultry-eyed groupies. But recently, I'd stopped partaking of their favors. I couldn't bear to fuck someone who wasn't Abby.

I didn't do drugs. I didn't see the need. I was already a weird-ass guy, invented by a beautifully strange girl. No drug could ever expand my mind the way Abby could. But don't get me wrong. I wasn't a teetotaler. On occasion, I got bleary-eyed drunk and painfully maudlin. Other times, you could catch me on the happy side of the bottle, charmingly, laughingly wasted.

Tonight I was neither. Tonight I was blindingly sober and admiring the girl I loved.
Chapter Two

I dozed off in the chair, but I kept waking up every few hours and watching Abby. She thrashed a bit in her sleep. I wanted to climb into bed and hold her, but that might cause the kind of intimacy neither of us was ready to deal with. So I stayed where I was.

In the morning, she sat up and blinked through the sunlight stealing into her room. She had the biggest, brightest blue eyes, framed with silky lashes. Her pajamas were out of sync. They had a Christmas print on them, even though it was nowhere near that time of year. But Abby didn't pay attention to that sort of stuff.

She petted Dingo, but he didn't bounce to attention. He wagged his tail and went back to sleep.

When she spotted me, she smiled. "Seven. How long have you been there?"

"All night."

I returned her smile, and she made a girlish sound, a sigh of sorts. The devil-may-care tilt of my lips was a source of fascination for her. She'd named me Smiling Seven because she said that I had a secret smile that enhanced my psychic powers.

I was considered an empath, which meant that I was able to read people's emotions, to feel what they felt. I was clairvoyant, as well, predicting events destined to happen.

Of course I didn't know everything about everyone. Mostly I felt what Abby wanted me to feel about the people associated with her, whether they were real or imagined.

In the real world, she had a matronly aunt named Carol and a twenty-year-old sister named Vanessa.

The sisters adored each other. They even looked alike, except that Vanessa took better care of herself. She wore stylish clothes, had longer hair, and wasn't mentally ill. But that didn't mean she didn't have issues. Vanessa spent most of her time worrying that she was going to develop schizophrenia and become just like Abby. There wasn't much I could do about Vanessa's fears. I already had my hands full with Abby.

"Why are you being so quiet?" she asked me.

"I was thinking."

"You're always thinking."

That was true. I was always trying to figure things out. Abby's poor little mind moved at a dizzying pace. Either that or it slugged along in states of dark-cloaked depression.

She ran a hand through her haphazardly chopped hair. She cut it that way herself. She'd been hacking away at her hair since we were kids.

I checked the clock on her nightstand. Then I said, "You need to get ready for the day. To bathe, brush your teeth, go the dining hall for breakfast, take your medicine."

"I want to stay here with you and Dingo."

"They won't let you stay in your room all day." I grinned at her. "Besides, this place is pretty swanky for a loony bin. You might as well try to enjoy it."

She laughed. She liked it when I poked fun at The Manor. But in actuality, it was a damned fine facility, a private treatment center designed to teach people how to manage their disease and then, hopefully, transition into mainstream society. Abby would probably never make it that far, but at least she was here, learning what she could.

The Manor didn't come cheap. Her aunt footed the bill, but it was Vanessa who'd convinced Abby to become a Manor resident.

I gestured to her bathroom. "Go get ready."

"Will you still be here afterward?"

"Absolutely. I'm not going anywhere."

"Pinky promise?"

"Always." I came forward and held out my hand so we could lock pinkies, a cozy habit from our youth.

Only now her touch sent a jolt of hunger through me. I severed the connection quickly, shooing her into the head. What I really wanted was to take a shower with her, to lather every inch of her sweet body.

She grabbed a change of clothes and gave me a lingering look before she closed the bathroom door, wanting me as badly as I wanted her. Even a guy who wasn't psychic would've recognized the yearning in her eyes.

Dingo roused from his sleep and jumped off the bed. While I waited for Abby, I rifled through her desk drawer, where she kept the imaginary dog treats. Dingo barked and twirled, and I tossed him a cheese-flavored bite.

Abby had created him a few months after she'd manufactured me, but he didn't grow older the way I did. He would be the same young, playful age for the rest of his fake-canine life.

After a short while, Abby emerged from the bathroom looking like a ragamuffin. Her oversized oxford shirt was wrinkled and misbuttoned, and her razor-edged hair had been towel-dried but not combed. She also had a speck of toothpaste near the corner of her mouth. If she were my lover, I would've pulled her tight against me and licked it off. I did the next best thing. I scooped it up with my thumb and tasted it that way.

To cover my tracks, I named the brand, as if identifying the product had been my agenda.

She merely blinked. The heat between us had gone minty fresh. I craved another taste. I pointed to her blouse instead.

"You better fix that before you go to breakfast," I said.

Visibly dazed, she glanced down. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does."

She debated what to do, the indecision evident in her baby blues. She didn't know whether to turn her back or fix it in front of me.

My pulse pounded with anticipation.

Waiting...

Hoping...

She remained where she was. A bold step for her. Bold for me, too, because I shouldn't have stood there and watched, not with the way I was feeling.

She undid the buttons, one by one, her hands unsteady. I didn't dare offer to help. She was the least deliberately sexy girl I knew, yet I'd never been so aroused. A barely-there glimpse of her plain beige bra was enough to give me a hard-on.

Her cheeks flushed. Not because she noticed my skinny black jeans were getting tighter, but because she was shy about what she was doing.

She finally completed her task and neither of us breathed for what seemed like a century.

"Did I...get it...right?" she asked, her voice crumbling like a deliciously iced cake.

"Yes." I expelled the air from my pent-up lungs. The buttons were in their respective holes.

Truthfully, neither of us was getting any of this right. We'd both gone silent again. I was behaving like a dumbstruck schoolboy. Every song I wrote these days was a tribute to Abby.

She slipped on a pair of sandals, the huarache kind the Beach Boys sang about. Surfin' USA. I thought Brian Wilson was a genius. Not only because of his stellar contribution to music, but because he suffered from a schizoaffective disorder that mimicked schizophrenia. His troubled mind made me admire him even more. Anyone who was similar to Abby was sure to captivate me.

I glanced at her toes peeking out from the woven leather. She needed a pedicure something awful. I would gladly massage her feet and paint her toenails, but not at the risk of getting another boner.

"I better go," she said.

"Yeah, you better."

More silence.

She hesitated. Then she furrowed her eyebrows. "I'm not crazy. They just think I am."

"I know." What else could I say? "You're as sane as I am." Which was about as insane as it got, considering.

"The medicine they give me is a waste. They should save it for someone who needs it."

"Just humor them and take it, okay?"

"Okay. But I only agreed to come here to get away from Aunt Carol."

I was well aware of how she felt about her aunt. She was terribly paranoid of Carol. But I had to admit that there was something unnatural about the way her aunt interacted with her.

She fussed with the tails of her properly buttoned shirt. "I'm scared, Seven."

"I know you are." She wasn't talking about her aunt anymore. She was making a reference to me, to us, to our shaky future.

At some point, I was going to get stranded in Room 105, losing my ability to return to Abby, which would make me a target for the monsters who patrolled the 105 border. All of Abby's people were going to get stuck there. This happened to 105ers who were created by kids.

The border monsters were the same type of horrific creatures that sometimes hid under children's beds and scared them half to death, which was why they preyed upon those of us who'd originally come from the minds of children. Their favorite victims were 105ers like me. At one time, I'd been a kid, created by a kid. I was a monster's dream. They would have ambushed me a long time ago if it had been allowed. But they weren't permitted to attack a child. They'd been waiting for me to grow up, toying with my future and preparing to seize the moment. When they decided the time was right, they would try to take out Abby's other people with me.

The only way for us to survive was to be rescued by a man known as the warrior. He wasn't going to be invisible like me, though. When he appeared, he would be a regular person, seen by everyone he came into contact with.

The clincher was that Abby had given Vanessa the responsibly of creating him. Yes, Vanessa. The non-schizophrenic sister who worried about being becoming mentally ill. How that was going to resolve itself was beyond me.

"We just have to wait it out," I said.

"What if the warrior never appears?"

"He will," I assured her, when in fact, I had no idea if we could count on him. Vanessa certainly didn't want him to appear. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.

And that made the possibility of Abby and I losing each other a terrible reality. If the warrior didn't show up when Abby and I needed him, we were doomed.

He was our only solution. I couldn't stay here, instead of traveling between both worlds, to eliminate the risk of getting stuck in my homeland. Defecting wasn't an option. I was connected to 105, and it had a permanent hold on me. If I tried to escape, it would pull me right back.

Abby fussed with her shirt again. "I wish you could come to breakfast with me."

I should insist that she go by herself, forcing her to be independent of me. It wasn't wise for me to keep coddling her, especially with our separation looming in the balance.

But I caved in, falling deeper under her mentally mixed-up spell. "I'll come with you, and I'll bring Dingo, too. But you shouldn't talk to us while you're there."

She gave me an adoring look. "I'll be good. I just need you to be with me."

I scooped Dingo into my arms, and the three of us left the room together. Hell and damnation, but I needed her, too.
Chapter Three

We entered the dining hall, where a cafeteria-style breakfast was underway. Some of the other patients were already seated at circular tables and others stood in line, waiting to be served.

Abby shuffled forward. She didn't like being around groups of people. She glanced back, making sure I was there. I definitely was, right behind her in line, even if I wouldn't be receiving any food. Dingo squirmed in my arms and sniffed the sausage-and-bacon-scented air.

I could tell that Abby wanted to talk to me. I shook my head, reminding her not to give in to the temptation.

Curious, I glanced around at the other patients. Most of them looked much more normal than Abby. But I suspected the majority of them were on the road to recovery.

Schizophrenia was a freaky disease, where the victim struggled to separate reality from fantasy. It was often confused with having multiple personality disorder or dissociative identity disorder or whatever the fuck it was called these days. But the fact of the matter was, schizophrenics only had one wacked-out personality.

Abby frowned at the tray in her hand. She was a picky eater. I nudged her arm, encouraging her to accept another helping of eggs.

Once her plate was full, she looked for a safe place to sit. She chose an empty table in the back, and we took our seats. Dingo settled in on my lap, and Abby slipped him pieces of meat when no one was watching.

Truthfully, no one seemed to care what she was doing. Abby was so antisocial, so detached from everyone else, that sometimes it seemed as if no one at The Manor saw her, almost as if she was as invisible as I was.

Even the staff let her be. Abby had been in therapy for most of her life, but she was a fairly new patient here, so they weren't putting pressure on her. For now, all that was required of her was to be part of the daily routine, even if she chose to stay in the background.

I guess they figured that some of it would sink in, helping her develop at least a few of the skills she needed to manage her disease, no matter how minimal those things seemed to the rest of us. But for someone like Abby, remembering to shower and put on clean clothes was a major ordeal.

I wished she was healthy, and I was real. In my dreams, I would become rich and famous, and Abby and I would move in together, get married, and raise a family.

How amazing would our kids be? Little rockers going on the road with their mama and daddy.

My heart clenched with the thought.

I didn't have parents. Abby had never given me a family in Room 105. It hadn't occurred to her to create anyone for me.

Sweet, scatterbrained Abby. I would never forget the first time I appeared to her, the very moment she brought me to life. She was nine, and I was eleven, and she was sitting alone on her bedroom floor. Although her room had been typically girlish, with pastel colors, lacy curtains, and stuffed animals all over the bed, she was listening to Mötley Crüe.

Music that darkened the environment.

Home Sweet Home was the song that had been playing. A haunting ballad. Lyrics that would come to define me.

When she'd glanced up and saw me standing off to the side, we stared at each other. Instantly drawn to her, I'd lifted my hand and waved in a silent greeting. She'd waved back, waggling her fingers and making me smile.

I thought she was weirdly cute, with her matted hair and enormous blue eyes. It hadn't occurred to me back then that I was going to fall in love with her when we got older.

After I walked over to her, she said, "Your name is Smiling Seven."

I wasn't wild about the name she'd just given me, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings, so I kept smiling, letting it become part of who I was.

"You're sort of like him." She showed me an album cover and pointed to a picture of Nikki Sixx. Her dead mother's record collection was piled on the floor. Some of them were CDs, some were cassettes, and some were vinyl.

Granted, it was odd for her to be telling me who I was, but it felt right, too. She was treating me as if I was important.

I sat down next to her, and with a boy's cocky pride, I said, "Someday I'm going to be a musician. I'm going to sing and play guitar and write songs and make it big." I gestured to the album cover. "Like them." Already their music was filling my young soul, shaping me into the pierced-and-tattooed man I would become.

Abby said, "You're from Room 105. It's an otherworld created from people's imaginations, and I just created you." She leaned forward. "When you're here, no one but me is going to be able to see you."

"Have you ever been to Room 105?"

She shook her head. "The door to it is in a secret location, and I don't know where it is. You don't know where it is, either."

I was getting confused. "Then how did I get here?"

"You just walked across the border. People from 105 can do that."

I dragged a hand through my hair. Walking across the border made me sound pretty cool.

"They have monsters there," she said.

Holy crap. "Monsters?"

"That patrol the border. Someday they're going to try to hurt you, but it won't happen until you're older. The monsters are mean and ugly and they like to scare kids, but they aren't allowed to kill them."

"But they can kill me when I'm grown up?"

She nodded.

I shrugged as if it didn't matter. If it was a ways off, then I wasn't going to dwell on it, even if it gave me the creeps. Besides, it was better to be tough and brave.

She tugged on her top. She was wearing a Tinker Bell T-shirt and cut-off shorts.

"You kind of look like a fairy," I told her.

"My sister says that, too."

"What's your name?" I asked. She'd yet to introduce herself. For all I knew, she really was a fairy. I imagined her with paper wings, decorated with glue-clumped glitter.

"I'm Abby Winston." She tapped her chin. "And you know what I think?"

"What?"

"That your smile makes your powers stronger."

"I have powers?"

"You're a psychic, Seven. But your abilities are just starting to develop."

"Really? Damn." I was going to smile all the time. I liked the idea of knowing stuff other people didn't know.

She sat up a little straighter. "I'm going to use you as my private consultant." Her pretentious attitude intrigued me. I figured that she must have been smarter than she looked. I was impressed with how bright she was.

We stayed like that for hours, sitting on the floor, listening to music and becoming friends.

When it was time for me to leave, I promised her that I would come back and visit as often as I could.

After I disappeared and walked across the border and into the land of 105, I was thrust into a peculiar world. I quickly learned that 105 could be light and airy or dark and ominous.

My first experience was frazzled in fear. I sensed the border monsters watching me. I couldn't see them, but I knew they were there, hiding under boulders, their red eyes peering into the night. What Abby said was true: someday they were going to try to hurt me.

And now, all these years later, the threat was getting closer, along with the ache of being separated from Abby.
Chapter Four

After breakfast, Abby and I put Dingo back in her room. Then we went to the nurses' station, where she was given her meds. Some patients were permitted to take their medication without supervision, but Abby wasn't one of them.

I tagged around with her all day, but she didn't let on that I was there. At the moment, we were in a cooking class, and Abby's group was making chocolate chip cookies.

She lingered, watching instead of participating. As usual, no one paid her any mind. The other students were too focused on the lesson to care about what Abby was doing, and the instructor was letting her stay in her comfort zone.

I decided that I should put a stop to Abby relying on me so much, so I walked away and stood in the back of the room. She wasn't pleased that I left her side. She kept looking over her shoulder at me.

I shot her a little wave of encouragement, and she relaxed a bit. Still, she kept shifting her feet and rocking back and forth. I could tell that all she wanted was for the class to end.

I thought the chocolate chip batter looked mighty tasty. I wouldn't have minded pitching in. Soon the cookies would be going into the oven, scenting the air with a home-baked aroma, the kind of sweetness I missed out on by not having a home.

As a boy, I lived like an orphan on the streets, hanging out in the back alleys of 105, immersed in the stench of garbage and liquor. On occasion I would charm my way into the backdoor of a bakery and let the owner take pity on my poor, hungry soul. Mostly I resorted to stealing. I never told Abby how tough my young life had been. It was easier to keep that stuff to myself.

"You stink," I heard a voice say from behind me.

Fuck. I turned around, knowing it was Face. He was another of Abby's people. He wasn't a whole person, though. Basically, he was just a huge round head, sans hair, with nondescript features and long, tapered hands attached to his chin. His purpose in life was to scold you when you did something stupid. But sometimes he just poked fun at you for the hell of it.

"Screw you," I said to him.

Face made a tsk-tsk sound. That was his signature noise. "You reminded Abby to shower today, but you never took one yourself. Like I said, Seven. You stink."

I didn't smell from missing one measly shower. Did I? I almost sniffed my armpits to be sure, but I decided not to give Face the satisfaction of knowing that he'd made me question my hygiene.

I squinted at him. He bounced around, keeping himself afloat and using his hands like wings. He was a weird-looking duck. I'd always thought of him as a cross between Mr. Potato Head and Humpty Dumpty, but without Mrs. Potato Head or all the king's men.

"Go pester someone else," I said.

"No one can see me except you and Abby."

He had a point. "Then go take a nap with Dingo. He can see you."

"Don't be an idiot. How is he going to see me if he's asleep?"

He had another point. "Then go find Bud." He was another of Abby's people.

"Bud's busy, you moron." Face motioned to the other side of the room.

Sure enough, there was Bud, behaving as if he was scouting the kitchen classroom for his next location. In Room 105, Bud was a movie director who smoked cheap cigars and idolized Alfred Hitchcock and Carlo Ponti. He actually looked a bit like the two of them: short, fat, and partially bald. But that was where the similarities ended. His work would never compare to theirs, nor did he speak with a British or Italian accent. He talked like he was from the Bronx, even though he'd never been to New York. He also had this ridiculous habit of mispronouncing the word people, saying "papple" instead. He looked about sixty, but in schizophrenic years, he was immortal.

I understood why Abby had created me and Dingo, but Face and Bud? The only thing I could figure was that Face represented the jerks in the outside world who bullied Abby when she was little, and Bud was there to direct the craziness.

I turned back to Face and saw that he was flipping me off. Christ almighty.

"You're a dickwad," I said. "Oh, no, wait." I gave him the once-over. "You don't even have a dick."

"Ha. Ha." He rolled his eyes. He loved this type of banter. "I heard that it's movie night tonight."

"Who told you that?"

"Bud. He said the patients gather in the rec room and watch a DVD the staff chose for them." He went deadpan. "Do you think they'll be showing One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?"

I bit back a laugh. "Don't be an ass."

"Okay, then how about Psycho? Or American Psycho? Shutter Island might be a good one, too."

"Knock it off." I was going to lose it for sure.

"Running with Scissors?"

"Shut up."

"Donnie Darko?"

"You're not funny."

"Silence of the Lambs?"

"No more." I shoved him away.

But it didn't work. He flew straight at me, and we started bitch slapping each other like a couple of kids.

Abby spun around, and we quit acting up. I smiled at her, hoping that she would be interested in movie night. Because now that my foolishness with Face was over, I was in the mood for some true entertainment. A light comedy. A romance.

Something soft and nice that I could enjoy with Abby.
Chapter Five

Abby agreed to movie night. We'd learned that Back to the Future was the show they'd be playing. We'd both seen it before on cable, but it was the kind of classic you could watch again and again. Plus it was from the eighties, and that was right up my alley.

I convinced Abby to change into a pretty outfit. She didn't know what to choose, so I thumbed through her closet and found a white sundress trimmed in blue ribbon that matched her eyes.

She didn't change in front of me. She went into the bathroom.

Face, Bud, and Dingo were gone. They'd returned to 105 for the evening. I was glad to be rid of Face. I didn't need him ruining the ambience. I wanted this to seem like a date, or as close to one as Abby and I could get.

She came out of the bathroom, glowing like a teen angel. She'd even fluffed her hair and put on a smattering of lipstick.

"You look gorgeous," I said.

"Thank you." She gnawed on her bottom lip. The sparkly pink color she'd applied wasn't going to last long.

"I need to get spruced up now." I was going to take a shower and throw on a nice shirt with my jeans and boots. No way was I going to risk smelling bad. "Wait for me."

"Okay." She sat on the edge of the bed and folded her hands on her lap. All she needed was a pair of white gloves to look as innocent as she was.

I knew that Abby had never been kissed. I longed to be the guy who put his mouth against hers, who tasted her crazy goodness.

I took my turn in the bathroom. I even slapped on some cologne after my shower. I got dressed and returned to my girl.

She was still sitting in the same spot where I'd left her. She glanced up. By now her lipstick was all gone. I wish I'd been able to kiss it away.

"How are we going to sit next to each other at the movie?" she asked. "No one is going to leave an empty spot for you."

Damn. I hadn't thought of that. I considered a remedy, a daring alternative. "We could use the same chair."

"How are we going to do that?"

"You could sit on my lap."

Her breath caught.

I backpedalled. "Unless you don't want to."

"No, I do. I'm just..."

"What?"

"A little nervous."

Of being that close to each other, I thought. "I know. Me, too. But I'd still like to try it."

"So would I."

I reached for her hand. If we were going to treat this like a date, then some good old-fashioned handholding was in order. Our interlocked fingers felt incredibly nice.

Secure. Warm and gentle.

Hand in hand, we went to the rec room, where they'd lined up a bunch of folding chairs in front of a giant flat screen TV. Already the place was filling up.

"Let's sit in the back," I whispered in her ear.

She nodded, and we proceeded to the very last row and took an end seat. I plopped down first, my heart beating triple time.

Abby sucked in her breath. Her nerves were showing. I gazed at her with anticipation. Then I smiled. It had always been my method of keeping her calm, of solidifying the bond between us.

She took the plunge and scooted onto my lap. She was stiff and shy at first, but after I slipped my arms around her waist, she melted against me like buttercream frosting. I imagined her with little sprinkles on top, her confetti-dotted colors spinning around my heart.

An orderly came by and handed out cartons of popcorn. Abby accepted one for us. Once the rec room was full and everyone settled down, the movie started.

As intimate as being this close to Abby was, I kept my libido in check. I didn't get a hard-on, even when she moved around to get more comfortable. I was determined to make our first date as respectful as two people wedged in the same chair could be.

She ate most of the popcorn. From time to time, I reached around to grab a few handfuls. She made sure that her head didn't block my view.

We were good together.

So very good.

My favorite scene was when Michael J. Fox went into the heavy metal riff at the dance and everyone stopped and stared at him as if he was from another planet.

Abby had lots of favorite scenes. She laughed at the funny parts and sighed over the romance: the McFly dad winning over the mom when they were teens.

I hoped that I was winning Abby over in the same tender way. As the credits rolled, I took a chance and kissed the side of her neck.

She shivered deliciously in my arms. She nearly dropped her empty popcorn carton, too.

Boom!

The lights came back on, and she jumped up and smoothed her dress. Abby hardly ever fixed her clothes. I stood and righted myself, as well. You'd think that we'd been making out hard and heavy, with the freaked-out way we were behaving.

Abby dashed into the hallway, and I zoomed after her. For now, we were the only ones who'd left the rec room.

"I wish the garden was open," she said.

The garden was her favorite location at The Manor. "Me, too." I needed a gust of air. A breeze. A cleansing of my lungs. "You okay?"

She nodded. "Except for the way you made me feel. I could've rubbed myself all over you, Seven."

Holy hell. Now I was going to get a boner. Either that or I was going to howl werewolf-style at the moon. If only we could go outside. Anything to escape my hunger for her.

I cleared my throat. "I better get you tucked into bed."

"Are you going to join me?" she asked, with expectation in her eyes.

"No," I replied, afraid that I would take it too far. "I'm tucking you in alone."
Chapter Six

Once we were in her room, the awkwardness set in. Not that it wasn't already there from before, but it was worse now.

"Go get your pajamas on," I said.

"I don't want to." She sounded like a stubborn child.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No."

"Did I hurt your feelings?"

She shrugged.

"Oh, Abby. Don't you know how much I want you?"

She blinked, her lashes fluttering around those big blue eyes. "You want me?"

"Fuck, yes. I could devour you like a custard-filled pie."

Her mouth tilted in a slightly crooked smile. "I'm going to have to learn to make one of those."

"You need to learn to make buttercream frosting, too. And sprinkle those little candies on it. 'Cause when you were sitting on my lap, that's how good and sweet and colorful you were to me."

"Then why won't you stay in my bed tonight?"

"I just shouldn't."

She searched my gaze. "Can't you just sleep beside me? Can't you at least do that much?"

I was trying my damnedest to be good, to earn my Boy Scout badges or whatever, but she wasn't making it easy. She could be persistent as hell when she wanted something. "Yeah, I suppose I could do that. But I'm keeping my jeans on."

"How do you normally sleep?"

My skin went goose bumpy. "Naked."

She dropped her gaze to my fly. "I've never seen a naked man, except in pictures."

Did she have to go and look at me like that? "Don't do that."

She ignored my order. Instead, she stood there, like the sparkling little fairy she was. I'd written a painfully romantic song about a blue-eyed fae, but I'd never played it for her.

"How many naked women have you seen?" she asked.

"Lots." I fidgeted with the leather bands around my wrist. They were starting to feel like handcuffs. "There are girls who chase after guys like me."

"I know what groupies are, Seven."

"Then why did you ask me that question?"

"I just wondered if you were sleeping with them."

"I was, but I'm not anymore."

"Because of me?"

My breath clamped in my throat. "Yes, because of you. Now quit bugging me about this and go get your pajamas on."

"If you're going to sleep in your jeans, then I'm going to sleep in my dress."

"Okay, fine." I didn't see where it made a difference, as long as we were both relatively clothed. "But we still need to brush our teeth."

"In case we kiss?"

My pulse throbbed in all the wrong places. "No, Abby. Because that's what people do before they go to bed."

"Oh, right. You know how I forget that kind of stuff."

She was smiling like an imp, which told me that she hadn't forgotten a damn thing. She'd only wanted an excuse to bait me into kissing her. She was way more seductive than any groupie I'd ever been with.

Innocently clever, I thought. Cleverly innocent.

We went into the bathroom and brushed our teeth, taking turns running the water and spitting into the sink. It struck me as domestic, like something a married couple would do.

I wondered what she would say if I told her that I had fantasies about marrying her and planting babies in her womb.

Invisible babies? Kids who weren't any more real than I was? The thought made me sad. And frustrated. And everything I didn't want to feel.

I removed my boots and tossed them in the corner. I peeled off my shirt, too, and ditched it, as well.

When I glanced up, Abby was staring at the bareness I'd exposed.

I wasn't rippling with muscle, but I had a rockin' body just the same. My chest was smooth and strong, my abs were decently formed, and my jeans hung rather sexily at my hips.

But what the hey: I looked the way Abby wanted me to look when you considered that I was born of her imagination.

"Get your butt into bed," I said, sounding harsher than I intended. I turned out the main light, leaving on the preferred nightlight for her.

She climbed under the covers. She was still staring at me. I wanted to tell her to knock it off, but I liked it, too.

"Now you get your butt into bed," she said, sounding every bit as harsh as I had.

Touché. The girl had moxie.

I slid in beside her. But I didn't move close enough to hold her.

She turned to face me. "Are you sure you're not going to kiss me?"

I said a silent prayer, asking the god of sex to grant mercy on my Abby-starved soul. "Yeah, I'm sure."

She blew out a sigh, a sound of disappointment. "What's it like having a pierced tongue?"

Damn. She was way too good at making me suffer. "It was weird in the beginning, but I'm used to it now. You should be used to it, too. I've had it for years, and I told you about it when I first got it."

"I know, but we never really discussed the specifics." She angled her head. "Do you have any other piercings? In places that I'm not allowed to see?"

Jesus Lord. "No, smarty, I don't."

"Can I touch the one on your tongue?"

"Abby."

"Just with my finger. Please, Seven, just let me touch it."

She'd resorted to begging. I could've strangled her for that. I loved it when women begged. I stuck out my tongue to let her cop a feel.

She reached out and rolled her finger over the stainless steel knob on the barbell. "I'll bet it makes kissing hot."

I pulled my wayward tongue back in my mouth. It made other things hot, too, but I wasn't going to discuss my oral sex methods with her. "We need to change the subject."

"And talk about what?"

"I don't know." Anything that would take my mind off of ravaging her, of burying my face between her legs and giving her my barbell treatment. "Just come up with something and we'll talk about it."

"I can't think, not after touching your piercing."

Did she have to keep mentioning it? Cripes, but I couldn't think, either, not with how badly I wanted her. As usual, Abby had left me in a whirlwind of heat and fucked-up emotion.
Chapter Seven

I racked my brain, forcing my thoughts in a non-sexual direction. "We can talk about the movie. Not you sitting on my lap, but the film itself."

She adjusted her head on the pillow. "What's there to say about the movie? It wasn't the first time we've seen it."

"I know, but there must be something about it we can discuss." I was using her other pillow, the spongy softness cushioning the side of my face.

"Maybe we can talk about the different parts of 105," she said. "That's sort of like the movie."

She was right, in the sense that Room 105 was divided into three realms: the past, the present, and the future. Going back to the future, as it were, was a way of life there.

"That works for me." I was willing to yap about anything that would take my mind off of getting naked with her.

"What's your favorite 105 realm?" she asked.

I had a ready answer. "I like the present one. It's similar to being in this world. You wouldn't really know the difference, except for the surreal quality, I guess. Things are brighter in 105, more intense." I'd told her this type of stuff before, but it was a safe conversation, so I went with it.

"Do you go to the past realm very much?"

"Not if I can help it. It's a bit too rough. Untamed, like what you'd expect if you were going back in time."

"Unless you landed in the fifties like in the movie. Carol has clothes from that era in her shop. Poodle skirts and stuff." She toyed with the ribbon at her neckline. "This dress came from her place. I think it's from the eighties or maybe the nineties, but it looks like it could be from now."

"Yeah, it does." Personally, I thought their family business was cool. Her aunt owned a consignment store that carried vintage fashions and furnishings. Not that Abby was interested in what they stocked. Her sister was, though. Vanessa worked at the store and provided Abby with most of her wardrobe, items Abby didn't take care of. She would probably wake up in the morning and consider herself ready for the day, having slept in her dress.

"How about the future realm?" she asked, leaving the wardrobe conversation behind. "Do you spend much time there?"

"Not really. That realm can be confusing. It changes all the time. But that's how the future is. Uncertain."

"I wish I knew where the secret door to 105 was."

"Me, too. Then you could come there with me."

"But it wouldn't do any good, would it? Not until the warrior appears and you're out of danger."

I merely nodded. I wished that as a child she hadn't created the border monster scenario and put us at risk of being attacked. It would have made more sense to have created people who would never leave her, who weren't in danger.

But when it came to Abby's disease, logic didn't apply. Her hallucinations weren't like daydreams, where she consciously decided how they should play out. They were more like regular dreams, with unexpected outcomes and nightmares tossed into the mix. Even I couldn't predict where her mind might go. And once her delusions were in place, there was no taking them back. The peril of losing each other was devastatingly real.

"Are you getting sleepy?" I asked.

She nodded. "A little."

"Do you want me to hold you until you fall asleep?"

She widened her eyes. "Will you?"

"Yes." I knew I shouldn't, but the thought of losing her made me want to tug her into the shelter of my arms.

She inched closer, and I reached for her. When she put her head against my chest, I thought I might die. Her messy blonde hair tickled one of my flat brown nipples.

I'd done some edgy things in my time, but this felt like the wildest moment of my life.

Full-blown torture.

If she attached screws to my thumbs or stretched me out on rack or burned me at the stake, I wouldn't have known the difference. Her nearness grazed my heart.

A bewitching. A painful enchantment.

"We should sleep like this every night," she said.

No, we shouldn't. Not unless I was going to peel that virgin-white dress off her delicate little body and make balls-deep love to her.

I squeezed my eyes shut. What I needed was to get stumbling-ass drunk and erase her from my mind. Or maybe I needed to start fucking other women again.

Be a rebel. Be a rocker. Get raunchy.

But here I was instead, being a pussy.

Unable to help myself, I put my arms tighter around her. Possession was nine-tenths of the law.

And at least for tonight, Abby belonged to me.
Chapter Eight

The following day, I arose in a surly mood. I got out of bed and sat in the chair beside the window, watching Abby sleep. How could I keep doing this? I should just go back to Room 105 for good. Because, really, who gave a shit if I got stranded there? Or if I got attacked by monsters?

Abby gave a shit, I reminded myself, and that was primarily the problem.

A few minutes later, she woke up, all rumpled and pretty, and smiled at me. "Hi, Seven."

"Hi." My voice was deliberately devoid of emotion, the tone painfully dry. I wanted to scoop her onto my lap and kiss her forever.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Fucking everything, I thought. "Nothing. I just think that you should go about your day without me."

"But I want you to be there. I need you."

"That's crap, Abby. You're supposed to be learning to manage your disease, not be relying on me for false support. You need to take the initiative on your own."

"It isn't false." She clutched her pillow to her chest. "And I don't have a disease. You know as well as I do that I'm not crazy."

I should have told her the truth. That she was ill, and I didn't exist. But I shoved those words to the back of my throat and swallowed them.

The very best I could do was, "Just hurry the fuck up or you'll miss breakfast."

She looked like she might cry. I prayed that she didn't. I couldn't handle her tears.

She climbed out of bed, and much to her credit she held it together, keeping the waterworks at bay. But that didn't ease the devastation that penetrated her eyes. I could tell that I'd just broken her heart.

I wanted to fire a bullet through mine. A full metal jacket. But it was better this way. She had to stop depending on me.

"Breakfast, Abby."

"I know. I know. I'm getting ready." Her voice vibrated. She was walking in circles, searching for shoes. She went after the first two she saw, an orange flip-flop and a red tennis shoe.

Holy fuck. I should help her. I should make it all right. But what was the point? I would only be enabling her.

Then again, how could I send her out there like that?

"Damn it," I said. "Look at yourself."

She took my statement literally and studied her reflection in the mirror. A wrinkled dress and mismatched shoes. She didn't seem to know how to fix her appearance, so she turned to me for help.

I went to her dresser and grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt for her. This was the last time, I told myself. From here on in, she was on her own.

She managed to put them on, but her shoes were still a dilemma. I dug around in her closet and found a pair of combat-style boots similar to mine. I even tied the damned laces for her.

Before she left the room, she stood in the doorway and stared at me with her big, wounded eyes, waiting to see if I'd changed my mind about going with her.

I made a motion with my hands, sending her away.

She trudged down the hall alone. Even in her tough clothes, she looked like an urchin.

I cursed myself to hell.

Shout at the Devil.

Shout. Shout. Shout.

I left the treatment center and went for a walk, heading down a busy street in my black garb and screw-the-universe attitude.

I wandered into a liquor store and spotted a bottle of whiskey that made my mouth water. But I couldn't buy it. The clerk behind the counter couldn't even see me, let alone accept my money. Another reminder that I didn't exist in this world.

Maybe I could steal it. I'd been an accomplished thief when I was younger. I'd ripped off plenty of shit in Room 105. I had no idea if that would work here, though.

Still, it was worth a try.

Bold as you please, I fisted my prize. Easy as that, I had the bottle in my hands. Thing was, I didn't know if I was grabbing the genuine article or if it was just a figment of my mind. But it didn't matter. Fake whiskey was the same as imaginary whiskey. Nothing I did was real, anyway. No doubt about it, I was a nonentity, a non-person, like all of the other assholes from 105.

Speaking of which...

As soon as I strolled out of the store, Bud and Face appeared.

"Go the fuck away," I told them.

"You're acting like a self-serving prick," Face said.

"No shit," came my response.

"Slow down, son," Bud said. Aside from the compassion in his eyes, he looked like his usual self, puffing away on one of his cheap-ass cigars.

"I'm not your son." I jerked away from the meaty hand he placed on my shoulder.

I glanced around the parking lot and noticed a dumpster. I made a beeline for it.

Face and Bud followed me.

I sat on the ground behind the dumpster and leaned against a concrete block wall. Why I was keeping myself hidden didn't make sense, considering that I was invisible. Maybe I just preferred being in the shadows.

I twisted open the bottle, seconds away from drowning my sorrows.

"That isn't the answer," Bud said.

I glared at him. "Piss off."

He huffed out a fat man's breath and plopped his butt down next to mine, the smoke from his cigar curling between us. "You treated Abby like crap this morning."

"She needs to be free of me."

"No, she doesn't. You're the sanity in her life."

"Yeah, right." I scowled at him, then at Face, who was hovering above us. "We're all part of the insanity."

"Speak for yourself, you dipstick." Face spun around to showcase his birdlike skills, his fingers flapping in the garbage-fueled air. "I'm as normal as it gets."

Bud lifted his bushy eyebrows. I couldn't help but react in the same way. Face looked downright maniacal. Mr. Potato Head and Humpty Dumpty had nothing on him.

I raised the bottle to my lips, but I didn't take a drink. I was thinking about Abby's expression and the hurt I'd put in her eyes.

Flustered, I threw the whiskey at the side of the dumpster and the glass shattered, spilling the amber liquid. How could I have purposely hurt the girl I loved? I was supposed to be her dearest friend, the guy who appeared to her when she needed warmth and affection. She'd created me to be someone she could count on, the goodhearted bad-boy.

"I behaved like a bastard," I said.

"The bastard of bastards," Face mocked.

"You need to make it up to Abby," Bud said.

"Will you guys help me figure out how to do that?"

"Of course we will." Bud was all for it.

Face was, too, even if he harassed me about it the entire time we headed back to The Manor, telling me what a stupid son of a bitch I was. A useless jerk. A turd that belonged in the toilet.

I let him berate me. I didn't care what kind of names he called me. All I cared about was repairing the damage I'd done.

And proving myself to Abby.
Chapter Nine

I spent most of the day with Bud and Face, working on a surprise for Abby. Then I waited to see her. She didn't come back to her room until evening, and by then Bud and Face were gone. But they didn't intend to stay, anyway. This was about me and Abby.

She didn't seem to be confused like she'd been earlier. Somewhere between then and now, she'd gotten a little stronger.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I'm making an apology."

She clutched her middle. "I don't forgive you."

I deserved a swift kick to the heart, so I stood there and took it. "I don't expect you to come running into my arms. I know I need to earn your forgiveness."

Tears pricked her eyes, the dampness emerging like pinpoints of light. "Go away, Seven."

"I can't." I wasn't going to give up that easily. This was our first fight, the only falling out we'd ever had.

"I don't want you here." She tightened the hold on herself.

"If I leave now, neither of us will ever get over it." I could tell that she still loved me. It was evident in every fragile move that she made, in every blink of her eyes, in every catch of her breath.

I still loved her, too. Nothing could ever make me stop. "Please, let me make it up to you."

"You were mean to me. You aren't supposed to be that way."

"I'm only human." Or as human as a hallucination from Room 105 could be. "People make mistakes."

"What if you get mean again?"

Clearly, she didn't trust me. "I won't, I promise." I couldn't bear for her to become paranoid of me. "I would die for you, Abby."

She shivered, the chill going straight to her bones. "Don't say that."

"But it's true. I'm alive because of you. You created me. I owe you everything." My heart, my soul, my life. "You're my world."

"You're mine, too, but that doesn't make it any better." The lights in her eyes, her tears, threatened to fall.

I tried for a smile, my secret charm. Or so I hoped. "I have a surprise for you."

"What kind of surprise?" She sounded curious, but cautious, too.

"Come outside with me and I'll show you."

"Outside where?"

"In the garden."

"It's not open at night."

"I know. That's part of the surprise. Us sneaking out there together."

She appeared to be considering her options. Was she wavering, deciding if she should grant me the forgiveness I sought?

I held out my hand, waiting to see if she would accept it.

She stepped forward, and my pulse jumped to my throat. Finally, I was making headway, inching toward my goal.

Our fingertips touched. Heat. Electricity. We gazed desperately at each other.

"Seven." She said my name in the softest of ways.

I opened my arms, and she walked into my embrace. I wrapped myself around her, holding her as close as I possibly could.

Nothing had ever overwhelmed me more. She'd created me, and I was healing her, taking away the pain I'd caused.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered.

"It's okay." She put her head on my shoulder and suddenly her tears began to fall.

I held her while she cried, running my fingers through her choppy hair. I loved her messiness. I loved everything about her.

"Abby?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I kiss you?"

She raised her head. Her face was streaked with salty rivulets. But she smiled anyway.

"You can kiss me from now till eternity," she said.

"Then that's what I'm going to do."

Were we actually saying this kind of stuff to each other? It sounded like the script from a cornball movie. We probably looked as if we were filming one, too. Bud would've been proud.

Our mouths came together, our tongues meeting in passion-drenched need. An image flashed into my mind: the honeysuckle flowers that grew wild on her aunt's property. When we were kids, we used to pluck them off their vines and suck on their sweetness. Abby tasted like that, only sexier.

She pressed against me. I was too tall for her, and she was standing on her toes, her combat boots tapping mine.

This was the kind of attachment dreams were made of. The fucked-up guy and the crazy girl.

We kept kissing.

And kissing some more.

Life as we knew it was going to change. After tonight, everything would be different. We couldn't go back and do things over. But by the same token, our future remained uncertain. Only now wasn't the time to think about that.

When I lifted my mouth from hers, she said, "Your barbell does make kissing hot."

She had no idea what else I could do with it. But I wasn't going to take her in that direction. I moved gently away from her.

"Let's go outside," I said, eager to show her how truly romantic I could be.
Chapter Ten

I opened the window, and she gaped at me.

"We're going to sneak out that way?" she asked.

I nodded. "It'll be easier than trying to slip out the front door without being seen. Or one of the side exits or whatever." In actuality, Abby could leave anytime she wanted. This wasn't a mental ward, like at a state or county hospital. Her admittance to The Manor had been voluntarily. Fancy-ass places like this usually were.

She climbed out the window first, and I followed her. She glanced back and grinned. "Good thing my room is on the first floor."

The Manor didn't have multiple stories. "Everything here is on the first floor."

"I know, but good thing, huh?"

I smiled. She was being girlish and giddy. I grabbed her hand as soon as our feet hit solid ground.

I guided her around the side of the building and toward the garden. We crept around like cat burglars, only we wouldn't be stealing anything.

We came to a stone wall with an iron gate shaped into a whimsical design.

"What should we do now?" she asked.

"We're going to go over the gate." It seemed easier than trying to scale the wall. "Just put your feet through the swirls at the bottom and keep climbing until you reach the bar at the top."

She nudged me ahead of her. "You go first."

That was probably a good idea. Once I was on the other side, I could help her down.

I climbed the gate like a primate, moving up and over it as if it were a tree. Thankfully there were softly lit security lights keeping the area from being too dark.

"Your turn," I told her.

She took her time, clutching the wrought iron carefully. Once she got closer to me, I circled my hands around her waist, making sure that she didn't stumble before her feet touched the earth.

"I made it," she said.

"You most certainly did." I gave her a loud, happy kiss, smacking her lips with mine.

She squealed and wrapped her arms around me. Tonight, life was good, becoming everything it should be.

I said, "Before I take you to your surprise, I want to tell you about it."

"You can't just let me see it?"

"I'd rather tell you first." I thought that was the best way to make this work. Otherwise, how was she going to see what I wanted her to see? In order to plant the right hallucination in her mind, I needed to describe the upcoming visual.

"Okay. Go ahead. Tell me."

"It's in the middle of the garden. In the arbor covered in wisteria. It's especially pretty now because the flowers are blooming." I paused for effect. "We made a fairy den out of it."

Her gaze locked onto mine. "We?"

"Me and Face and Bud. We did it together. Face flew up and around the wisteria and hung strings of lights throughout the vines. He put lights inside the arbor itself, too. Bud directed the whole scenario, making sure each of us did our jobs."

"What was your job?"

"I decorated the den with streamers and candles and pots of flowers. I also got the food and laid it out on a pretty blanket. It's an assortment of pastries: cupcakes with buttercream frosting and colorful sprinkles, custard-filled pie, chocolates in the shapes of hearts. I got sparkling cider, too. We can pretend its champagne and toast each other." I figured it was better to keep alcohol out of the equation since she wasn't old enough to drink, and I'd nearly gotten bombed earlier.

"I can't wait." She hopped up and down, light on her feet in spite of her heavy boots. She looked so bright and happy, wonderfully pleased with the description of my surprise.

"I'm going to sing you a song I wrote, too."

"Is your guitar in the arbor?"

I nodded. "It's an authentic 1939 Martin acoustic." By most standards, a guitar like that would be staggeringly expensive, but in the sphere of schizophrenia, I could afford to own one. "The song is about a blue-eyed fae. That's why we made the arbor into a fairy den."

She sighed like a smitten teenager, which was exactly what she was. Nineteen and Crazy. Like the country song, only with a different interpretation.

"Can we go there now?" she asked.

"Absolutely." We walked toward the center of the garden, with the moon and the stars for company.

As we approached the arbor, she gasped. "Oh, Seven. It's beautiful."

It was a work of art, at least to us, anyway. No one else would be able to see it. If someone from the staff came outside, all they would find was Abby alone in the garden, without the idyllic trimmings.

I tried not dwell on how truly sad that was or how it made me ache inside. I pushed away the bad feelings and took her hand.

We ducked into the arbor and I said, "The blanket is blue and trimmed in lace, and the lights are soft pastels, just like the streamers." I wanted her to see it exactly the way we'd created it. We'd spent hours working on it, treating it as if it was real. "The candles aren't burning yet. I'll light them now." I removed an old-style Bic from my pocket and flicked it. "They're caramel-scented candles in jeweled decanters."

"This is the most magical place ever." Imagination bloomed in her eyes. "I love it." She pressed a hand to her heart. "Everything is perfect. And the pastries. They look delicious. Where did you get them?"

"From a bakery in 105." I'd paid for them fair and square. If I'd gotten them here, I would've had to steal them. "All of the decorations came from 105, too."

We sat down together, and I opened the cider and poured it. I lifted my flute to hers. "To the most amazing girl I've ever known."

Her glass clinked with mine. "And the most amazing boy. You're my beautiful musician, Seven."

Her compliment tugged at my heart, reminding me that she was my beautiful muse. We would always belong to each other in that way.

She glanced around. "Where's your guitar?"

"Over there." I gestured behind us. "I covered the case in rose petals."

"Oh, yes. I see. Oh, my goodness. You thought of everything."

I leaned forward to kiss her, soft, slow, and rife with passion. The caramel candles had begun scenting the air, making the moment sweeter.

Soon we were indulging in the pastries, feeding each other bits of cake and pie and chocolate. While we ate, we made sounds of pleasure. It was downright orgasmic.

When the time came for me to sing her my song, my nerves kicked in. Once she heard the lyrics, she would know for certain how tragically in love with her I was.
Chapter Eleven

I dusted the rose petals off the case and opened it, removing my prized guitar. Eric Clapton had used one in his iconic unplugged performance of Tears from Heaven, and somehow that seemed fitting. The fairy in my song was from heaven.

I played it for Abby. I sang it from deep within my tortured soul.

Tears rushed to her eyes. She understood. She comprehended the message.

She was the blue-eyed fae who sprouted from the angels, her wings constructed from paper and glue and glitter.

So easily torn. So easily damaged.

The fairy's smile was slightly crooked, her hair blonde and ragged. She was afraid of sleeping in the dark, but she danced in the moonlight when no one was looking. She wore clothes her sister gave her, and she took medicine that didn't matter.

She was the light of my meta-universe life. Without her, there would be no me. I was Seven because of her, and she always made me smile.

If the monsters attacked me, I would bleed into the ground, giving her what was left of me. Warm and red. Crimson from my veins. Scarlet from my heart.

I was hers, and she was mine.

When the song ended and I put my guitar aside, Abby climbed onto my lap, face forward, so we could look into each other's eyes.

"I love you," she said, her voice, her words, spiraling through me. "I think I've loved you from the first moment I saw you, only I was too young to know it."

"I think it was like that for me, too." I scooped my arms around her. This was the kind of hallucination everyone should have.

She rocked against me, putting her mouth to my ear. "Let's go back to my room. Let's take off our clothes and do what people do."

Her suggestion made me weak. I wanted her more than anything, but I knew better than to act too soon. "We shouldn't be together like that, Abby."

Her chest rose and fell, and her tone was soft and pleading. "Yes, we should."

I inhaled the caramel that permeated her skin. Desire battled for control, assaulting my senses. "No, we shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because it will make losing each other worse."

"Can't we just mess around a little?"

"A little will never be enough."

"It's better than not at all."

Angels and fairies and desperate bits of sex. She was right. To abstain completely would hurt beyond repair. I lifted her up and carried her out of the den, the lights flickering behind us.

"What's going to happen in the morning?" she asked. "When someone from The Manor sees how you decorated the arbor and finds our half-eaten food and your guitar?"

"Bud and Face are going to put it back the way it was before morning comes. They'll pack up my guitar, too."

"Your song was the most special song in the world."

"Only because it was for you." I'd never talked this way to a girl before. But I meant every white-hot word I said.

We reached the gate, and I put Abby down. I watched her climb over it, thinking what a fine little ass she had. And now all I wanted was to cup its round perfection in my hands.

I followed her over the gate, and we ran to her window like breathless children, reaching it in record time.

Once we were inside her room, the dance of sweet destruction began.

"We're not going to take our clothes all the way off," I said. If we stripped naked, I wouldn't be able to hold back. "We'll get rid of our shirts, but leave our jeans on."

Her cheeks flushed. "So you're not going to touch me down there?"

"Yeah, I'm going to touch you there, but I'll do it with my hand inside your jeans."

The flush got brighter. Pretty and pink. "That's how I do it to myself when I fantasize about you."

My vision blurred. My cock flared. I fantasized about her relentlessly. Sometimes when I was fucking other women, I imagined that I was inside her, thrusting all the way to her throat, but I decided not to mention that.

I removed my shoes and shirt and waited for Abby to do the same. She went slowly, toying with the laces on her boots and fussing with the hem of her T-shirt. I wasn't about to tell her to hurry. The anticipation aroused me even more.

Finally, she stood before me in her bra.

I flashed my dirtiest smile. I was just moments away from taking her to bed and giving her a creamy orgasm.

She unhooked her bra. Her breasts were small, but I'd always believed that more than a mouthful was a waste.

I moved forward and tugged her against me, fusing her nipples to my chest. While we were in that position, I took the liberty of cupping her ass, just once, the way I wanted to.

We got under the covers and kissed, our bodies still pressed together. I dry humped her, rubbing my pelvis against hers and letting her feel how hard I was. If I'd been any less experienced, I would've popped. But I'd learned to control my urges.

Someday I would make proper love to her, when the threat of losing each other was gone.

If it was ever gone.

I licked her nipples, going back and forth and making each one stand at attention; I put my thumb inside her belly button; I worked my hand into her jeans.

Past her panties.

Down.

Farther down.

To her clit.

She nearly jumped off the bed. I'd hit her hot little button. Her eyes drifted half-closed. She whispered my name, so warm, so feathery.

I upped the ante, putting my fingers inside, yet still keeping a pulse on her clit. Her muscles went taut, the heat between her legs deliciously wet.

Making her come was my mission, and I did it well.

Abby lifted her hips and thrashed with pleasure. She opened her eyes. I was braced on one elbow, watching her expression, and she dragged me down for a kiss.

We rolled over the bed, kicking the covers out of our way. She rubbed me through my jeans, producing feel-good friction. Satan himself couldn't have tempted me more. But I refrained from yanking off my pants.

Good-bad me.

This wasn't the time, and I was determined to wait. We slowed down, floating in a sea of togetherness. But that didn't stop her from climaxing again, her paper wings taking flight.

And sprinkling glitter all over me.
Chapter Twelve

In the afterglow, she smiled, and my heart raced to the moon. It was the best sexual experience I'd ever had, and I hadn't even gotten laid.

She nudged my fly. "You're still hard."

"I can't help it. You have that effect on me."

"Can I see?"

Little minx. She was flashing a dimple in the corner of her mouth that rarely made an appearance. "We already established the rules, missy. I'm keeping my pants on."

"Come on, Seven. Just let me peek into your jeans."

Holy mother. I stared at her smile. At her dimple. She was going to be the destruction of me yet. "All right. One peek."

I unzipped my pants. This made me feel like I was in middle school and I'd never even gone to school. I wasn't formally educated. I just knew what I knew.

I opened the denim a tad wider, and she glanced at the body part in question. It preened under her attention, bopping forward.

When she reached in to touch it, I pulled my jeans closed. "No way, Abby. We're not going there."

"Drat." She watched me zip my jeans. "I really like how it looked. Big and hard and milky at the tip."

Lord. Jesus. She sounded like a porno. "Okay. I get the picture. It turned you on. But no more talk about it."

She nuzzled closer. "When the danger is over, we're going to be together for real, right?"

"Absolutely. I'll make love to you every night." I would use my piercing on her, too. I would do everything I craved to do. Nothing would be off limits. "The bedroom is going to be our playground." I Frenched her to prove my point, making both of us warm and melty.

She blinked at me when the kiss was over. "What if the warrior doesn't show up?"

That was a definite possibility, but as always I tried to convince her not to worry. "Don't fret about it. It'll happen."

"We've been waiting for him for a long time. Since I was twelve and Vanessa was thirteen."

"I know, but he was young then, too, remember?" They'd created him to be the same age as Vanessa. "He couldn't take on his duties as the warrior until he became a man."

"He should be all grown up by now."

"And he's out there somewhere, getting ready to make himself known."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive." That was a lie, of course. I wasn't sure of anything. All I could do was hope that it came to fruition.

She relaxed in my arms. "I've always believed in him, but sometimes I get scared. I think it's because Vanessa doesn't want him to appear."

"Don't let her doubts cloud your belief in him. Just keep insisting to her that he'll come. Try to make her believe it, too."

"Okay." A stream of silence passed between us. Then she said, "I haven't told Vanessa how I feel about you."

"Because you know she won't approve?"

Abby nodded. "She would say that you're not right for me."

I was well aware of how Vanessa perceived me. I was too much of a bad-ass and not the kind of hallucination she wanted hanging around her sister.

"You don't have to tell Vanessa what's happening between us," I said. "You can keep it a secret from her."

"What if I decide that I want to tell her someday?"

"Just do whatever feels right." I wrapped her tighter around me, holding her with every ounce of my non-existent being.

Keeping the border monsters from attacking me was the warrior's responsibility. But oddly enough, his life was in jeopardy, too. Vanessa had cursed him on the day she'd created him, willing him to die when he reached a specific age.

Twenty-one, I thought. The age I was now. It didn't bode well for me or the warrior. Or the rest of Abby's people. The threat of monsters loomed over their heads, too.

But I couldn't lose hope. I needed to hang on, the way I was encouraging Abby to do. I had to believe that this other man—this tall, dark stranger—really would save us all.

But for now, Abby was with me, close at hand. My girl. My fae. My sweet, crazy love.

End of Prequel

(If you're curious to know more about Seven and why author Sheri Whitefeather made him the hero of this story, please continue reading. Also included is an excerpt from Book One, where you'll meet Vanessa and the warrior.)
Author's Note

Thank you for reading BEAUTIFUL MUSICIAN, the Room 105 prequel. The series will consist of three more books, BEAUTIFUL CONFUSION, BEAUTIFUL WARRIOR, and BEAUTIFUL JOURNEY.

I've provided an excerpt of the prologue and first two chapters of BEAUTIFUL CONFUSION, Book One. It's a full-length novel that features Vanessa and the warrior you just learned about. Abby and Seven play a part in it, as well.

But first, here is the background on Seven and how he came to be. It involves the real musician who inspired him, as well as snippets from my life. I sold my first romance novel in 1998, but prior to that, I fluttered on the fringes of rock 'n roll.

During that era, I had some memorable encounters with Nikki Sixx. This came about through his association with my ex-husband, Dru, who is a leather craftsman. He worked with Mötley Crüe for many years, designing guitar straps, belts, and other accessories for them.

In fact, people sometimes thought that we named our son, Nikki Lee, after Nikki Sixx and Tommy Lee. But it had nothing to do with them. At the time, I'd heard Mötley Crüe's music, of course, and knew of their success, but I wasn't aware of their individual identities until after our son was born and people started mentioning it. Nikki was just a name I liked, for either a boy or a girl, and Lee is my mom's name, which was an androgynous choice, as well.

The first time I encountered Sixx was when he phoned our house to speak to Dru. I inquired as to who was calling, and Nikki stated his name. Since Dru's career was still fairly new and the only work he'd done for Mötley Crüe had come through outside sources and not from the band members themselves, I wasn't prepared for the call.

In reaction, I replied, "Oh," thinking that Nikki was my kid's name, too. Then, after a moment's pause, it hit me that this was the guy people thought my baby boy was named after, and I repeated "Oh," with a stronger inflection.

Soon after that, I was hired to paint the sleeve of a leather jacket for Nikki, with an image of a naked woman who resembled Vanity, the singer he was dating then. This was arranged through Mötley Crüe's clothing designer, who'd seen a painting of a leopard girl I'd done and suggested something similar, only with Vanity's long, lean likeness.

It wasn't necessary for me to meet Nikki to complete the job. Dru, however, began working directly with the band, spending time with them at their rehearsal studio and building a personal rapport.

I finally met Nikki backstage at the Forum Club at somebody's concert. (Can't recall who.) We were introduced, and he reached for my outstretched hand, mumbled a greeting, and stared straight through me. His eyes were glassy and he could barely speak. This was around the time he was keeping a journal which would later become a brilliant book called The Heroin Diaries: A Year in the Life of a Shattered Rock Star.

My path crossed with him again, albeit indirectly, when I was working for Chanel cosmetics. Brandi, his playmate model wife at the time, used Chanel, and whenever she would order something the other salesgirls would give me the sale because they knew that my husband had a connection to the band. I would send Brandi notes with the latest product information, along with regards from my family to hers. By now, Dru had been to their house a few times and had given Brandi a gift when she and Nikki had their first child.

The last time I saw Nikki was at a music trade show, about four or five years later. Based on his healthy appearance, I assumed he was drug-free. We'd just received a Christmas card from his family with an adorable picture of his kids.

His gaze kept drifting in my direction, as if he thought that he should acknowledge me somehow. I was standing in the background while Dru chatted with him and Tommy.

When the band members walked away, a cluster of fans following them, I got the sudden urge to call out to Nikki.

He spun around and I made reference to the card, telling him, "Your children are beautiful."

He flashed a proud smile and thanked me. He was beaming, and I saw the look of a man who loved his children more than anything. He also seemed achingly vulnerable. (His marriage was on the skids, but I didn't know that then.)

Later that day, Dru attended a business meeting, and I left the trade show with some friends and walked around the area. Then one of my friends said to me, "Nikki Sixx is across the street and he's waving at you."

Yes, indeed, there he was, smiling once again, and trying to get my attention. It was the sweetest moment, as if I was the celebrity instead of him. I waved back, just a little finger waggle, and we headed off in separate directions.

A lot of time has passed since I saw him, and I doubt he remembers me, as our encounters were rather fleeting. But what's important is that I remember how he affected me that day.

When I started plotting this series, I didn't intend for Seven to get his own book. But as his character developed, he prompted me to tell his story, to give him a voice, even if he wasn't supposed to be real.

So there you go: my experience with Nikki Sixx and how it triggered a schizophrenic hallucination named Smiling Seven.

And now, if you're so inclined, you can turn the page and read the excerpt from BEAUTIFUL CONFUSION and continue on the path of Room 105.

.

BEAUTIFUL CONFUSION

Book One in the Room 105 Series

Prologue

I hated schizophrenia. I hated everything it did to Abby, the sister I adored. With her pixie blonde hair, disturbed thoughts, and enormous blue eyes, she reminded me of a scattered little fairy. Her full name was Abigail Ann Winston, but I'd been calling her Abby for as long as I could remember. As for me, I'd been christened Vanessa Day Winston and no one had ever shortened it to anything. She was twelve and I was thirteen, and although both of us were said to have gifted IQs, our minds were light-years apart.

"My people need a warrior," Abby muttered, sitting on the floor, rocking her shoulders back and forth, her legs crossed Indian-style.

Abby's "people" were the characters she created in her head. Some of them weren't even people, per se. Dingo, the dancing dog, often slept at her feet. And Face, an oversized, disembodied, generic-looking head with hands attached to his chin, sometimes flew around the room, shaming you when you did something wrong. There was also a movie director named Bud and a wild-spirited guy called Smiling Seven who wanted to be a rock star.

Four characters in total, and I knew them almost as well as Abby did. But I couldn't see them the way my mentally ill sister could.

"You have to create him," Abby said.

"Me?" I recoiled. I didn't want any part of the crazy process. My biggest fear was that someday I would develop schizophrenia. It wasn't a common childhood disease. Most people didn't show signs of it until later.

Abby rocked a little faster. "Remember when I told you that someday my people are going to get stuck in Room 105? I just figured out that the warrior is the only one who can save them."

Room 105 was another dimension, a place that was inhabited by everything you could imagine. Abby said it was because all of the beings there were imagined, made up by people on earth who brought them to life. She'd never been there, but her people had told her about it. They lived in Room 105 when they weren't with her.

I thought of it as schizoid central, but Abby claimed that parts of it were beautiful, like dreams from a fairy tale. Of course some of it was ugly and evil, with nightmarish creatures that preyed upon the good. Supposedly it was divided into three realms: the past, the present, and the future. The door to it was in a secret location. Even Abby didn't know where it was, which was why she'd never been there. Her people didn't know where it was, either. They traveled back and forth by simply walking across a magical border, but earthlings, like Abby, weren't able to do that.

"Maybe it will be okay if your people get stuck there," I said. If they were gone, then Abby wouldn't see them anymore.

"Noooo." My sister keened out the word. "If they get stuck there, the monsters that patrol the border will be able to attack them or maybe even kill them. Don't you see? I can't live without my people. If they go away, then I'll go away, too."

Go away how? Deeper into her madness? I shivered, catching a reflection of myself in the closet-door mirror. Abby and I could pass for twins, except my hair was longer and wasn't matted like hers. Abby wasn't very good at personal hygiene. That was part of the illness, too.

I turned away from the mirror. "Why can't you give the warrior life? Why do I have to do it?"

"I can't create a protector for my people. Someone else has to do it, and you're the only one I trust." She leaned forward. "Carol would screw it up."

Carol was our overwhelmed aunt, who'd taken us in when our parents had died, nearly five years ago. Abby had been a little odd, even then, but nothing like she was now.

I finally gave in. If I didn't, this conversation would go on forever. "Okay, fine. I'll create the warrior. Just tell me how to do it."

"Make him your age, so he will get older when you get older. And make him handsome so you can kiss him someday. He'll deserve to be kissed for protecting my people."

Oh, cripes. "All right. He's my age and he's hot. What else?"

"Describe him out loud, exactly what he looks like and what type of warrior he is. And give him a regular job in this world, so he can blend in when he's here."

"Why does he need to blend in?"

"Because he won't be able to make himself invisible like the rest of my people. Now, think. Picture him in your mind."

I pretended that I was concentrating on the task, but all I wanted was to get this stupid thing over with. The best I could come up with was, "He's an Indian warrior," because Abby was still sitting Indian-style.

"What tribe is he from?"

He wasn't from any tribe, I thought. He was a figment of nothing. But I said, "He's a universal warrior. He has a little of every tribe in him."

"Oh, he sounds amazing already. Tell me more."

Glad that my sister was pleased, I went ahead and pictured him, as I'd been instructed to do. "His hair looks black, but in the light you can tell that it's dark brown. It's straight and shiny and falls to his shoulders, but sometimes he wears it in a ponytail. His features are strong and bold, and his eyes are piercing and fierce. But he has a gentle side, too." I considered what sort of job he should have and what would make the most sense. Logic in the middle of make-believe. "In this world, he's an artist, and he works alone in his studio. That's why he's able to travel back and forth between here and Room 105 and no one notices when he's gone."

"What's his artwork like?"

I thought about it for a while, then decided it should be connected to the place he comes from. "He paints pictures of Room 105. The nice parts of it. He rides a big black horse with a flowing mane. He's known as the dark warrior there. Not just because of his horse, but because of the darkness of his skin."

Abby looked as if she'd just slipped into psychotic heaven, dreamy with the details. She was rocking with a gentler sway now.

But suddenly I felt funny inside, as if I really had created him. Fighting the notion that he was real, I pushed away from my chair. A troubling sound, like a brand-new heartbeat, started thumping faintly in my ears.

I had to fix this somehow, to stop him from taking over my mind.

"He should be allowed to die," I quickly said. "When's he's twenty-one." Last week Aunt Carol had taken me shopping at Forever 21 for my birthday, and it was the first number that popped into my mind. "His warrior work will be done by then and your people will be safe."

My sister didn't seem convinced. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. Besides, if he dies for your cause, it makes him nobler, like the martyr of a movie." An angel of schizophrenic mercy, I thought, as the unnerving thumping grew stronger. This time I almost covered my ears, hating that my imagination was playing tricks on me. "He really needs to be that kind of hero."

Abby appeared to be mulling it over. After a long pause, she nodded her matted head and said, "Okay."

Agreeing to let him die.
Chapter One

The warrior wasn't real. Not real. Not real. Not real.

In the glare of the morning light, I sat up and kicked off the covers. Then I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the thumping in my ears to go away. Seven years had passed since I'd "created" him and his heartbeat continued to haunt me. Not all the time, but often enough to make me cling to the hope of sanity.

When the sound finally subsided, I opened my eyes and let out the breath I'd been holding. But it didn't help. I was still terrified that I would end up like Abby someday.

My sister's condition wasn't improving the way they'd hoped it would. Generally, schizophrenics with an early diagnosis stood a better chance of responding to treatment, but that hadn't happened with Abby. I worried about Abby's future and how she would survive if Carol and I weren't around to take care of her.

So a few months ago, I convinced Abby to check herself into The Manor, a private treatment center that specialized in mental illnesses, with the hope that she would develop the skills to manage her disease by being immersed in daily therapy. Abby had agreed to go there because she was growing increasingly paranoid of Carol and wanted to get away from her.

Schizophrenia was defined by a loss of connection to reality. Sometimes it entailed delusions, like Abby's staunch belief in the existence of Room 105. Auditory or visual hallucinations, like the "people" Abby routinely saw, often factored into it, too. Speech and reason could become disorganized. Paranoia, of course, was another common symptom. In cases like Abby's, the capacity to care for one's self was at risk and required more than just medicine.

Abby was still clinging fiercely to her people. She continued to talk about the warrior, too. Although he'd yet to appear to her, she defended his absence, insisting he would show up when the time was right.

For me, the time would never be right.

But by next year, it would be okay. Both the warrior and I would be twenty-one by then, the age of his predestined death, and he would no longer be an issue.

Or so I prayed.

I hadn't told anyone, not even Aunt Carol, about him. He was a secret that Abby and I kept to ourselves.

But at least I wasn't hiding from my fears altogether. Instead, I'd taken what I hoped was a proactive approach. I'd joined an online schizophrenia support group, and some of the members were meeting in person this afternoon. I needed an outlet that wasn't manned by mental health professionals, like the family counseling sessions at The Manor. This would be much more casual.

Exhausted from lack of sleep, I climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom to shower, letting the warmth of the water soothe me.

Afterward, I blew dry my hair and brushed it until it gleamed. I did my makeup, as well, adding precise placements of color to my fair complexion. I was fanatical about my appearance, determined to separate myself from Abby's unkempt grooming habits.

Next, I searched my closet for something to wear. I chose a bright blue dress that enhanced my eyes, but quickly changed into a minty green one instead. Sometimes when I wore blue, I looked too much like Abby.

I glanced around my room. It used to be riddled with frilly doodads and pop star paraphernalia, but now the décor was sleek and subtle, with natural woods and grown-up accents. This had always been my room, with Abby's being down the hall, except that Abby always wanted to stay in here, too.

I opened my door and caught the delicious scent of bacon and eggs wafting in the air.

Immediately growing hungry, I entered the kitchen where Carol was making breakfast. Not only did we live together, we also worked together at Carol's consignment shop. But today was my day off, giving me the opportunity to pursue the meeting.

"Morning," my sixty-three-year-old aunt said, pushing a strand of graying brown hair away from her eyes. She wore her usual morning attire: a cotton nightgown, soft-soled slippers, and a smidgen of hastily applied lipstick. "Have a seat. It's almost ready."

"Thanks." Although I appreciated her nurturing nature, I was concerned about Carol turning into a lonely old hen. My life wasn't so great, either. I'd never even had a boyfriend. Like Carol, I spent so much time focused on Abby, I'd missed out on the types of things I should have been doing. The heartbeat in my head didn't help, either. How was I supposed to think about having a relationship with the warrior rattling around in there?

"Are you going to L.A. today?" Carol asked.

I nodded. I'd told my aunt about the online group, but I hadn't gone into detail. Carol wasn't keen on it. Even now she was frowning.

"How many of you will be there?"

"There'll be four of us, including me. We're the only ones who live close enough to see each other." Or sort of close. I was about sixty miles from the gathering.

"Are any of them ill?"

The question made me flinch, along with the ever-present fear of becoming like Abby. "It's a support group for family members, not for people who have it."

"How much have you said about yourself?"

"Mostly I just lurk and read everyone else's posts. But I did mention that I have a sister."

My aunt hesitated. "Are you sure this is a good idea? Going off to meet strangers and discuss your personal life?"

"They're going to be talking about their lives, too." Maybe one of them would even admit that they were fearful.

Carol set a full plate of food in front of me. "It's a long way for you to travel for something like that."

"It's only an hour." I was looking forward to getting away. "It's a Starbucks-type place in the Media District. It's called The Coffee Shell."

"Will you text me when you get there?"

"Of course. I'll text you before I head home, too."

Carol joined me at the table, and we ate in silence. She'd already set my vitamins out for me. I'd been through a couple of bouts of anemia and now she insisted that I take lots of iron so it never happened again.

I glanced out the window, which presented a glowing green view of the backyard and the vegetable garden we planted every year. We lived in a lovely old ranch-style house that Carol had renovated years ago. Her consignment shop was highly successful, affording us a comfortable lifestyle, which now included the cost of Abby's private care.

Later, Carol left for work, and I prepared to leave for my outing. But then my cell phone rang with an unfamiliar number on the screen. I answered it, and a man's voice came on the line.

"Vanessa?"

"Yes."

"This is Duncan."

He was one of the people from the support group that I would be meeting, and he was even more of an online lurker than I was. I barely knew anything about his situation.

He continued by saying, "I got your number from Linda. She asked me to call you."

Linda posted actively in the group and was the one who'd arranged the get-together, along with her cousin, Jamie. "Is there a problem?"

"Linda and Jamie can't make it today."

Disappointed, I blew out a sigh. "So it's cancelled, then?"

"Not unless you don't mind meeting with just me."

"You're still willing to talk?"

"Sure. Why not? I'm not as quiet in person as I am online."

"Me, neither." I smiled, feeling comforted by his easy manner. "We might as well give it a go." I paused for a second. "How will I recognize you?" I had a description of Linda, but that wouldn't do me any good.

"I'll be the guy sitting off by himself drinking a double caramel macchiato."

I laughed. As if that was going to set him apart. "I'll be the short, skinny blonde in a green dress and gold sandals. How about if you look for me instead?"

"Will do. See you, Vanessa."

"See you, too."

We ended the call, and I felt a sense of calm. I liked that he'd been cautious online, yet was willing to share in person. It made him seem like more of an ally, more like myself. Was his story as troubling as mine? Was his family member as ill as Abby? For his sake, I hoped not.

***

I arrived at The Coffee Shell and parked my car. While still seated behind the wheel, I texted my aunt, as promised, letting her know that I was safe and sound.

I glanced at the time. Luckily I was right on schedule. I put away my phone and entered the building. It was much bigger than I'd expected and not all of the tables were out in the open, as I'd assumed they would be. A row of high-backed booths were positioned beside softly tinted windows, with natural light filtering in.

I was glad that Duncan would be on the lookout for me, rather than me having to seek him out. Still, I hoped that he would hurry up and notice me. Otherwise I would feel stupid standing around, waiting for him to appear. The place was packed with all sorts of people.

I approached the front counter and ordered a vanilla latte. If Duncan didn't come out of the woodwork before my drink was ready, I should probably call him, just to make sure that he wasn't running late. For all I knew, he wasn't even here yet.

Then, as if on cue, I heard a man say from behind me, "Excuse me, miss, but are you the short, skinny blonde in the green dress and gold sandals that I'm supposed to be meeting?"

I smiled. He'd just repeated what I'd told him about myself. I turned around, intending to reply, "No, you must be looking for someone else," but those silly words died in my throat.

All I could do was stare blankly at him.

He was tall, about six feet, and powerfully built, with piercing eyes and shoulder-length hair. At first glance, his hair could be mistaken for black, but was actually a dark shade of brown. His Native American heritage seemed obvious, chiseled into the strong, bold angles of his face. He was exactly as I'd described him to Abby when we were kids. But Duncan couldn't be him. The warrior wasn't real.

Not real. Not real. Not real.

"Vanessa?"

He spoke my name, his voice now giving me a chill. Was I imagining him? Was this my introduction into schizophrenia? Was my biggest fear coming true? Was I like Abby now?

"Are you okay?" he asked.

I didn't reply. I just kept staring. Unblinking. Unmoving.

He appeared to be searching my frozen expression, concern evident in the depth of his eyes. "I already got us a booth. Do you need to sit down? I can wait for your order."

I struggled to take in my surroundings. Did anyone else see him? Or was I standing there like a loon, interacting with a hallucination?

I couldn't very well ask the employees or other patrons if they saw him. I would look like the nutcase I very well might be.

"I have to go," I said.

"Go where?"

"Out to my car. I left my phone in the front seat." It was the only lie I could think of, and I needed an excuse to get away from him.

I dashed outside. This wasn't how my meeting with him was supposed to unfold. He was supposed to be an ally, not the guy who sent me over the edge.

I unlocked my car and climbed inside, breathing as deeply as I could. What in God's name was I supposed to do?

Somehow, someway, I needed to figure this out.

I racked my brain for an answer. Maybe I should call Linda and ask her about Duncan. Really? And what good would that do? What if I had created Linda and the entire online support group? What if none of this was real? I knew how powerful Abby's hallucinations were. If I was doing the same thing, then there was no way to prove or disprove a thing.

I glanced at the building I'd just exited. Even if I'd manufactured the support group, The Coffee Shell was an actual place. I wasn't sitting at home, imagining all of this.

Was I?

I couldn't be. I refused to believe I was that crazy. So I considered my options. I had one of two choices. Cower in fear or go back inside and talk to Duncan.

I picked the latter, but before I got out of my car, I checked my appearance in the rearview mirror. Thankfully, I looked just fine. Healthy and sane. No one would be able to tell what was going on inside my head.

Upon my return, I found Duncan waiting off to the side of the front counter. In his hand he had a cup of coffee that I assumed was mine. And now that I had a less chaotic moment to study him, I noticed details that didn't match my creation of him: his ears were pierced with small black gauges, and both wrists were inked with tribal-looking tattoos. How could he be the warrior if I hadn't given him those things?

"Did you get your phone?" he asked.

"Yes, and I'm sorry I panicked like that."

"It's okay. I wouldn't want anything to happen to my phone, either." He extended the coffee. "I picked it up for you when they called your name."

"Thank you." I tried not to be overwhelmed by his beauty. Or with the memory of Abby telling me that I was supposed to kiss the warrior someday. Even if Duncan wasn't him, even with the inclusion of the piercings and tattoos, he still unnerved me. "You should have warned me about how handsome you are."

He broke into an instant laugh. "Who says things like that? You're a funny one, Vanessa."

If he only knew how funny. "I just wasn't expecting someone like you."

"It's okay. I'm flattered." He shot me a boyish smile. "And as long as we're on the subject, I think you're hot, too." His smile turned devilish. "If we got together, we'd make cute babies."

I knew he was kidding, but I couldn't find it within myself to appreciate his humor. "I'm sorry, but I'm having an off day. And I wasn't trying to start a flirtation between us." That was the last thing I could cope with.

"I wasn't trying to start anything, either." He went serious. "I know this isn't an online date, certainly not with what we came here to discuss. Are you still up for that talk?"

"Yes." I definitely wanted to find out more about him and who he was.

He guided me to the booth, where he'd left his coffee. We sat across from each other, and I did my best to relax.

I even started the conversion. "Where are you from?"

"I have a loft downtown."

I relaxed a bit more. If he would have said that he was from Room 105 I would've covered my face and cried.

He reached for his cup. "What about you?"

"I live in Riverside."

"That's off the 91, right?"

"Yes, in the Inland Empire."

"I read in one of your posts that your sister is ill."

"Her name is Abby. She's the schizophrenic in my family. Our parents died in a car crash when she was seven and I was eight. Our aunt Carol raised us after that. Losing our parents was traumatic for both of us, but it was worse for Abby. She was already a troubled child. For now, she's living at a therapy center that's designed to treat people with mental illnesses and help mainstream them. But her progress has been slow."

"Are you close?"

"Extremely. As kids, we were inseparable. We were homeschooled together because my sister wasn't able to handle regular school."

"Did you want to go to regular school?"

"Sometimes. But it was easier for Carol to have me there. Abby has always been paranoid of my aunt."

"But she never gets paranoid of you?"

"No. I'm like her other half, I guess." Which made my fear of becoming like Abby worse. "She always wanted to wear the same outfits as me when we were little. She tried to mimic everything I did."

"That sounds sweet."

Disturbingly sweet, I thought. "There used to be tons of pictures of us as kids, looking like twins, until Abby went ballistic and destroyed every single photograph that she was in. I don't even have a recent picture of her. She refuses to let anyone get near her with a camera. It freaks her out."

"I don't have a picture of Jack, either. He was the schizophrenic man who raised me, but he's dead now. It's a complicated story. That's why I didn't post it online."

"Will you tell me about it?" I was desperate to know what made him tick, to learn what separated him from the warrior, to keep reassuring myself that they weren't one and the same.

"It might make me sound strange."

Nothing could be as strange as what I'd been going through. "I'm not going to judge you, Duncan."

"Most of my childhood is a complete blank. Jack was a homeless man who found me wandering around by myself when I was thirteen."

A shiver ran through my blood. I was thirteen when I'd created the warrior, and he was supposed to be the same age as I was, maturing as I matured. "How old are you now?"

"Twenty."

I forced myself to breathe. "So am I."

"But you know who you are. My identity is made-up. Jack gave me the name Duncan."

God help me. I was sitting across from a man who had a fabricated identity. What were the chances of that? "Why did he pick that name?"

"It was in honor of Duncan MacLeod."

"I don't know who that is."

"He's a fictional character from the old Highlander TV show and spin-off movies. One of the movies was a theatrical release that Jack scrounged up enough money to see. He was obsessed with alternate universes, and Duncan was an immortal from a meta-universe."

Should I tell him that Abby was obsessed with other realms, too? No, I couldn't do it. I couldn't say it.

He continued, "When Jack found me, all I knew about myself was my age and that I was of Native descent. I still don't remember anything else. Where I'm originally from, who my parents are, what tribe I belong to, when my birthday is."

"What date do you use for it?"

"June thirtieth. That's the day Jack found me."

Was that the day I'd created the warrior? I couldn't remember the exact date, but it had been the week after my birthday, which fit the troubling timeline.

I studied him from across the table, thinking about how the warrior was supposed to die. "Your birthday just passed. So did mine. We both just turned twenty."

He raised his coffee in a mock toast. "Here's to us. We have almost a whole year to go before we can officially buy a beer."

Or before he died? I couldn't bear to think about that, not now, not while I was sitting here, trying to figure him out. "Tell me more about you and Jack."

He lowered his cup. "I was scared and confused when he first found me. He was all I had. He protected me, treating me as if I was his own. We lived on the streets together until I was fifteen, then I was taken away from him and put into foster care."

"Why didn't Jack turn you over to the authorities himself? Why did he keep you with him for so long?"

"He thought I was sent to him from another dimension to be his adoptive son."

"The Highlander dimension?"

"No. He knew that one was created for the movies."

Dare I ask? "Then what dimension did he think it was?"

"He didn't know. But he said that I would find out someday. Of course I knew that he was delusional, but I played along with him anyway. I preferred to think of myself the way he thought of me."

"Why?"

"Because I figured that I must have run away from a bad situation. That's what they assumed in foster care, too, especially since they searched for missing kids fitting my description and didn't uncover anything. If I wasn't reported missing by my family, then it seems obvious that no one cared."

"What about now that you're older? Don't you want to know the truth?"

"Not if it's something that's going to trigger disturbing memories. I'd rather just leave well enough alone."

I struggled to comprehend his mysterious past. How could there be so many parallels between him and the warrior? How was that possible? "What last name do you use?"

"Lock. That was Jack's last name."

"So you're Duncan Lock."

"Yep. That's me." He glanced toward the window. "I used to have blackouts during the time I was with Jack, and he said it was because I would disappear and go to the other dimension, then would return with no knowledge of where I'd been. He even said that he saw me disappear. But I knew the blackouts were just part of my amnesia. It stopped happening after I went into foster care."

"Why did that make a difference?"

"I don't know. But Jack had his theory, of course. He said that I couldn't slip off to the other dimension with the foster care system watching me so closely, so I had to stay grounded to this world."

This world. That world. As fearful as I was that I was losing my mind, that he was too damned close to my creation, I couldn't get up and walk away. I kept questioning him, anxious to hear his answers. "How did you feel about being in foster care?"

"I hated it, and I wanted to go back to Jack."

"Weren't you afraid of living with a delusional man? Of him regarding you as his adoptive son?"

"As delusional as he was, he wasn't dangerous or violent. He treated me with love and kindness. He gave me a sense of belonging that foster care never did. And he encouraged my artwork. I used to graffiti when we were on the streets."

The parallels continued, right along with my crazy fear. "Are you an artist now? Is that how you make your living?"

He shook his head, surprising me with his answer.

I double-checked his response. "You're not an artist?"

"Yes, I am. But that isn't how I make my living. I'm a freelance locksmith. I know, and with the name Lock." He shrugged, laughed a little. "I get ribbed about that a lot."

A locksmith named Lock. If this was a hallucination, why had I created that identity for him?

"I actually have my first art show coming up," he said.

I blinked, grappling to break free of the locks. "You do?"

"It's in a few weeks, if you'd like to go. It's at a gallery a friend of mine owns."

A showing. At a gallery. By an owner-friend. How could he be a product of my imagination if he had a life outside my mind? "I'd very much like to go." To see his work. To talk to his peers. "Can I bring my aunt with me?" If Carol met him, then I would know, without a doubt, that my sanity was intact.

"Sure. That would be great."

It was beyond great. He had to be real. He absolutely had to be. "Then we'll both come."

"Do you have a pen and paper? I'll write down the information for you."

I dug through my purse and found a pen, but no paper. He got up and grabbed a napkin to write on.

He gave it to me afterward, and I noticed how striking his penmanship was. Most guys scribbled, but not this one. His script looked like a natural form of calligraphy.

"What's your artwork like?" I asked. "Can I see any of it online?"

"Not yet. Not until after the show. But it has a street vibe, like the graffiti art I did when I was a kid. I'm a fantasy artist, too. Mostly I just paint whatever feels right. I did a self-portrait that depicts my unknown identity. It's a nude. To me, that's the purest form of self-expression."

I merely nodded, wondering, shamefully, what he looked like without his clothes. Then I caved in to curiosity and asked, "Is it going to be at the show?"

"I haven't decided yet. Do you think I should include it?"

Feeling like the virgin I was, I fussed with my coffee, peeling bits of plastic off the rim of the lid. "That's up to you."

Silence drifted between us, intensifying the moment. I waited it out, hoping he changed the subject.

He said, "I did a portrait of Jack that I'm definitely going to include. I painted him from memory, the way I remember him most, with his chipped smile and a frayed beanie pulled down low on his head."

"How did he become homeless?"

"He didn't have any family left and he was too mixed up to hold down a job or make it in mainstream society. The only place that made any sense to him was being on the streets."

"How long ago did he die?"

"It's been three years."

I did the math. "When you were seventeen."

He nodded, his voice brimming with emotion. "I was still in foster care and missing the life I had with him. I used to get on a bus and go downtown and see him whenever I could. Then on one of those visits, I couldn't find him anywhere. Finally, I went into the shelter where he sometimes stayed and learned that he'd had a heart attack and was gone. It happened the night before I got there. I was one day late."

"I'm sorry."

"It helps to talk about it. That's why I joined the support group. I wanted to connect with people who understand what it's like to love someone like Jack."

Someone like Jack. Someone like Abby. "I understand."

His gaze sought mine. "I can tell that you do, and I appreciate you listening to my story."

What would he say if I told him about the warrior? Would he think it was a twisted coincidence? Or would he think it was some sort of beautiful fate? I was still trying to get a handle on it myself.

"Thanks for being here, Vanessa."

"You're welcome."

Tenderness swirled between us, soft and slow, pooling low in my stomach. Suddenly I wanted to touch him, to kiss him, to feel his body pressed close to mine.

He was looking at me as if he wanted to do the same thing. The attraction we'd dismissed earlier was clear and present now. But it was awkward, too.

Not knowing how to handle it, I said, "I should probably get going so I don't hit traffic." It wasn't anywhere near rush hour, but it was the best I could do.

He frowned, and I assumed that he didn't want me to leave. But he said, "I'll walk you out."

We disposed of our cups and went outside. I noticed that his tattoos shined in the sun, the abstract lines appearing darker. Everything about him seemed more pronounced.

I gestured to my hybrid, letting him know which car was mine. Then we both fell silent. I just stood there, and he shifted his stance. Should I lean forward and try to initiate a hug? As much as I wanted to, I didn't have the guts to be that bold. He seemed to debating if he should break the barrier and go for it, but he kept a proper distance instead.

Staring at each other in boy-girl torture, we said goodbye and promised to meet up at the gallery. I got in my car, and he stayed on the sidewalk, watching me pull away from the curb.

Already I couldn't wait to see him again, to hear his voice, to look into those deep brown eyes.

While absorbed in vivid thoughts, I merged onto the freeway. An hour later, I pulled into my driveway and entered the house, still thinking about Duncan.

I fixed a sandwich and picked dreamily at my food. I added ice to my apple juice and sipped slowly, letting the cool, sweet beverage slide down my throat.

Then, finally, I gave up the fight and got into bed under the guise of taking a nap. Reaching for my pillow, I fantasized about Duncan, wishing that he was next to me, steeped in his purest form of self-expression.

Strong and gorgeous and naked.
Chapter Two

I spent the next two days consumed with romantic thoughts of Duncan, touching myself in secret places and whispering his name. But I couldn't indulge in those sweet, hungry feelings today. I was on my way to see Abby.

Should I tell my sister about him?

No, I shouldn't. Because if I did, she would insist that he was the warrior, and I would have to debate otherwise.

Convincing my delusional sibling that he was just some random guy I'd met online would be next to impossible, especially with his similarities to the warrior. I couldn't explain it. Heck, I couldn't understand it myself. But it didn't matter. I was just grateful that he was a real person with a real life. I'd already asked Carol if she wanted to attend his art show, and my aunt seemed thrilled at the invitation.

Clearing my mind, I walked onto the grounds of The Manor and headed toward the garden, where Abby would be waiting for me. The garden was available on visiting days, with wrought-iron benches beneath big shady trees. Of course there would be a staff member nearby. There was always someone within eye-range.

The mission of The Manor was to help the residents grow and change, providing the tools they needed to return to society and live productive lives. The program included things like mood management, social skills, and cognitive behavior therapy, along with cooking classes and other group activities. Once the basics were tackled, job interests and education were explored. The average stay was six to eight months, but some people required longer care. It was impossible to know how long Abby would be here.

I noticed her sitting off by herself. She preferred the company of her make-believe people to the other residents.

"Hey, sis," I said, and sat next to her. Abby appeared fresh and clean, her short blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears. At least she'd gotten the concept of bathing regularly since she'd moved into The Manor. "You look nice."

"Thank you."

Before our conversation turned stagnant, I glanced at the flowers. African lilies decorated the walkways, and combinations of annuals and perennials, like lavender, poppies, and hibiscus, made a colorful presentation. "It's always so pretty in the garden."

"I like it."

"It's good that you're living at The Manor for now."

"It's okay. It's better than Carol always peering at me from beneath her lashes. She can't be trusted."

It was useless to argue with Abby's paranoia, especially when Aunt Carol was the subject of it, but I couldn't stand for Carol to seem like a villain. "She's always taken good care of us. And she loves you, Abby."

"She still can't be trusted."

I sighed. "I think she can."

"She doesn't watch you the way she watches me."

"She's protective of both of us."

"It's not the same."

That was true. But I didn't have Abby's illness, thank heavens. At least now I knew that I was sane. Funny, how meeting someone who resembled the warrior had helped me tackle my fears.

"Guess who's here?" Abby said.

Obviously it was one of her people: Bud, Face, Dingo, or Smiling Seven. "I can't begin to guess." Any of them could have showed up. "Why don't you tell me who it is?"

"It's Seven. Do you want me to tell him hello from you?"

"You can tell him whatever you want." Smiling Seven was inspired by Nikki Sixx, the bass player for Mötley Crüe, and the very first character Abby had ever created. When she was little she used to sit on Mom's lap and watch their videos. Then, a few years after our parents died, Smiling Seven began to appear.

But he wasn't an adult then. He was young, just a couple of years older than Abby was at the time. He loved rock and roll, and wanted to grow up to be a musician, so whenever he appeared, they would spend countless hours listening to music and dancing around her room.

But there was more to him than met the eye. Right from the start, Abby claimed that he "knew" things that other people didn't know. According to my sister, he had psychic abilities and had earned the name Smiling Seven because he had a secret smile that boosted his power.

Nowadays, she described him as tall and lean and dangerously handsome, with messy brown hair and a boatload of tattoos. He'd become a musician, of course, and was working on his career.

I often worried about his influence on her. I suspected that she'd always had a bit of a crush on him, and he was just too wild for a girl like Abby. I wished that she hadn't created him, but I didn't have any control over her delusions.

She gestured to the empty space in front of her, where I assumed our visitor was standing, lording over the garden like the hot commodity he supposedly was. "Seven thinks that being at the loony bin is fun."

"You shouldn't call this place that."

Abby waggled her fingers, waving at her hallucination. She and Seven were always waving at each other. "I didn't call it that. He did." She paused as if she were listening to him speak his clairvoyant rhetoric. "He's trying to get a reading on you. He thinks something is up."

I squinted into the sun, where Seven was supposed to be. He was notorious for threatening to reveal what he knew, which never turned out to be anything. "There's nothing to read." Nothing except my meeting with Duncan, and I wasn't going to let on about that.

"I'll bet there is." Abby stared straight at me. "You seem different."

I was different. Better. Calmer. "Everything is fine."

"Seven doesn't believe you."

"Seven isn't real."

Abby got frustrated, as she often did, flailing her arms around, the tree above her looming like a woodsy ghost. "He's as real as the warrior. Seven says so."

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. It almost seemed as if Seven had just gotten a reading on my experience with Duncan. But that was impossible. The rocker wasn't standing off to the side, morphing into a genuine psychic.

"What do you think his name is?" Abby asked.

"What? Who?"

"The warrior. He has to have another name when he's here. People in this world have regular names."

"I have no idea what he's called." Nor did I want to continue this conversation. "Can we please talk about something else?"

"You're acting weird."

Look who was calling the kettle black. A schizoid who didn't know reality from a hole in her head. "You're always weird, so we're even."

"When the warrior shows up, he's going to prove that everything I said about Room 105 is true."

"He isn't going to show up." Duncan was already here, but he wasn't the warrior.

"Do you think that's why he hasn't appeared yet? Because we never gave him a regular name? Maybe that's what he's waiting for."

I didn't reply, hoping that if she remained quiet, this discussion would go away.

No such luck. Abby persisted. But she was always relentless in her pursuits. "Seven thinks we should do it now."

"I'm not helping you give him a name."

"Then I'll do it myself. Let me have your phone so I can get on the Internet."

I shook my head. I didn't want any part in this.

"Give it to me or I'll throw a fit and make everyone else stare at us. Then I'll tell them how mean you are."

"Fine." I removed my phone from my purse and handed it to her. I wasn't in the mood for one of my sister's tantrums. Besides, what difference would a fake name make?

Abby got online and dallied around, taking her time, scrolling from site to site.

I coaxed her to hurry things along. "Come on, sweetie. Just pick one and be done with it."

"Don't try to butter me up."

"By calling you sweetie?" I often used endearments for her. I leaned sideways, gently bumping shoulders. I didn't like it when we fought. "I said that because I love you." I gave another little nudge. "Even if you're a pain in the rear."

My sister laughed and the tension between us faded. We sat in companionable silence, with Abby making her slowpoke search.

Then she said, "I'm trying to find a name that means warrior. How about Boris? No, that sounds too harsh. Oh, here's another one. Evan. No, wait. That means young warrior, and our warrior isn't a boy anymore. Oooh. This one is perfect. Duncan."

I flinched, my pulse jumping, my breath catching. How could Abby have stumbled upon that name? How was that possible?

My sister smiled, as bright as the summer sun. "It means dark-skinned warrior. That's part of why they call him the dark warrior in Room 105. That and his big black horse. Remember?"

Yes, I remembered. I'd created those details. As far as I knew, there wasn't a horse to speak of, but there was definitely a dark-skinned man known as Duncan.

Confused, I clutched the arm of the bench. I couldn't handle any more coincidences. There were just too many of them.

Making me feel as if I was going crazy again.

***

On the day of Duncan's art show, I was still reeling from the meaning behind his name and the manner in which Abby had chosen it. All I could think was that it was Smiling Seven's fault and that he'd interfered somehow, even if I knew better.

"Slow down or you're going to cause an accident," Carol said, grabbing my attention.

I glanced over at my aunt who sat nervously beside me. Carol was always bug-eyed on road trips. Of course I was anxious, too. We were on the freeway, en route to the show.

Easing up on the gas pedal, I said, "Sorry, I wasn't trying to be a lead foot."

"I just want us to be safe."

"I know." Carol was our dad's older sister, and she still had nightmares about how he'd lost control and flipped his car, sending it into an embankment. I tried not to dwell on the crash that took our parents' lives, but Carol's antsy behavior sometimes put it in the forefront. She was even more nervous behind the wheel than as a passenger. Since the accident, she'd stopped driving freeways.

I was grateful that I didn't share her panic. I had enough problems of my own.

We rode quietly, then Carol said, "I meant to tell you how pretty you look tonight. You always take such special care with yourself. It makes me proud."

"Thank you. You look pretty, too." She was wearing a tweed suit from the early House of Chanel, embellished with a strand of pearls. I had gone retro, as well, donning a brightly-colored 70s halter dress. Both of our outfits had come from the consignment store.

Carol fussed with her hair. She'd styled it in a poufy bob, reminiscent of the old Jackie Kennedy 'do. "I considered wearing a pillbox hat, but then I thought it might be too much."

"You're perfect the way you are."

"I'm not the artsy sort."

"Yes, you are. Thrifting is all the rage, and you own the best vintage store in the state." Not only did we carry sought-after clothes, we stocked tons of shabby chic furnishings.

"Lucky for me, my parents were junk dealers. Of course it's not considered junk anymore. Either way, I learned the ropes early."

I had never met my grandparents. They'd been gone before I was born. I'd seen pictures of them, though, and found their unconventional endeavors fascinating. "And now I'm learning it from you."

"The store will be yours someday."

"Let's not talk about that." I didn't want to think about losing my aunt. I'd lost too much already.

"Then let's talk about your young man."

I gulped a quick blast of the air-conditioned air. "He isn't my young man."

"I can tell by the way you talk about him that you like him. Plus, it's nice that he understands the disease. What you told me about his relationship with Jack is touching. He'd be a good catch for you."

I thought so, too, except for my confusion over the warrior stuff. Either way, I'd spent nearly every waking moment bundled in the memory of him, wishing and hoping. "There was definitely some chemistry between us. But that doesn't mean we'll start dating."

"I'll bet you will." Carol folded her hands in front of her, obviously trying not to fidget. "How much longer before we get there?"

"We only have twenty minutes to go."

We arrived in twenty-five. The gallery was located downtown in a renovated warehouse. I wondered if Duncan's loft was nearby and what it was like. I wondered all sorts of things about him. Would he ever remember who he was? Had he ever been in a committed relationship? Would he take my virginity if I offered it to him?

"Ready?" Carol asked.

I snapped out of my dangerous musings. "Yes, of course." I steadied my pulse, preparing to learn more about Duncan, to see his artwork, to try to understand who and what he was.

We opened the door and crossed the threshold. The massive three-story gallery presented an eclectic décor: rough woods, chipped iron, and painted concrete, combined with classic elegance, like crystal chandeliers shimmering from museum-height ceilings. Narrow stairwells with twisted banisters led to the top floors. I noticed a gated elevator, too.

But mostly what I saw were scores of urban-vogue people milling in and out of arched coves, corner nooks, and glass-paned rooms, where I assumed Duncan's art was being displayed.

"Look at this place," Carol said. "And what a turnout."

I nodded. It was quite a show, offering a spectacular reception with a glamorous buffet and portable bar, where more guests gathered.

"Where should we start?" Carol asked.

"I don't know." I was just trying to take it in.

My aunt gazed in the direction of the bar. "I think I'd like to get a soda. Do you want one?"

"Sure." I didn't see Duncan, but he was obviously here somewhere, socializing and making connections. I gestured to a room off to my left. "I'll just go in there and wait for you." I didn't want to stand out in the open. I was weird that way. I was weird in a lot of ways.

Carol replied, "We can try the buffet later, after we see Duncan's work and after you introduce me to him."

"I'll have to find him first."

"He'll probably find you."

"I hope so." I watched her walk away. I was glad that we'd dressed appropriately for the occasion. Our vintage garb blended right in. In fact, a short-haired brunette in a rhinestone dress stopped Carol and motioned to her suit. Apparently the shimmery girl recognized early Chanel when she saw it. Soon a conversation between the two was underway, with Carol opening her tidy little handbag for a business card.

I ducked into the room, letting my aunt bask in the glory. Our sodas were probably going to take a while.

I glanced around the room and noticed the walls were blank, except for one, but I couldn't tell what was being displayed because a small group of people blocked my view. I held back and waited. After they moved on, I stepped forward.

Holy mother.

It was the nude of Duncan. He stood in the middle of a dusty road, his arms stretched in a sacrificial pose, his leanly muscled body glimmering in the moonlight. The lower half of him was shadowed, the mystery of his nakedness even more compelling.

He'd depicted himself in what appeared to be war paint, half of his face covered in red and the other half in white, with a black line down the center. His long, loose hair blew in the wind, and his head was slightly bowed, his eyes as fierce as the clouds brewing in the sky.

His unknown identity was that of a warrior.

I locked my knees to keep them from buckling. In the background was the misty image of a black stallion, fading into the night, big and powerful, much like the horse I'd created for him.

Was Room 105 real? Did Abby and Jack know something that the rest of us—the supposedly sane ones—didn't know?

Was Duncan the man who was going to save Abby's people? I couldn't stop staring at his war-painted face, at his bared flesh, at his primal beauty.

Footsteps sounded and I drew a sharp breath.

The intruder entered the room and walked forward, then stood directly behind me.

I sensed it was Duncan. I couldn't explain why, just that I could feel his tall, dark presence.

He'd found me, here, of all places, immersed in the warrior he'd painted. The intimacy between us was evident: his naked image, my unsteady heartbeat.

Because I was too nervous to turn around, I stayed where I was, my gaze fixed on his portrait. His eyes, the ones in the artwork, were locked onto mine.

"Vanessa." His voice traveled along my neck and down my spine, my backless dress leaving me exposed.

"Duncan," I shakily replied, still staring at the warrior.

He put his hands on my shoulders, touching me for the very first time. I nearly pitched forward, shockwaves dancing through my blood and streaming through my pores.

"I included that picture for you," he said. "I wanted you to see it."

"It's beautiful." So damned beautiful. "I could look at it forever."

He moved closer, brushing up against me. "There's no such thing as forever. Someday all of us are going to be gone."

The shockwaves turned to a chill. If Room 105 was real, if he was the warrior I'd created, then he was going to die within sight of a year. I turned, finally summoning the strength to face him.

He looked different from the portrait. His hair was smoothed into a ponytail and he was wearing jeans, a white shirt, and black jacket. But it was his expression that struck me the most. It was warm and ever so gentle.

"I'm glad you're here," he said.

"So am I." Giving in to the temptation to touch him, I reached up to skim his jaw, praying that I could change what I'd done all those years ago.

And keep him alive.

***

BEAUTIFUL MUSICIAN is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. The Publisher does not assume responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Copyright @2013 Sheree Whitefeather

All Rights Reserved

Cover Design: Hot Damn Designs

