drowned and
suffocated, only to have them return to haunt her over and over.
The ones she’d never confessed to anyone. Not even Raze.
The ones instigated by those dreams of the
man with the pain and the passion in his eyes. But she saw them.
Her dreams of that man had grown up over the years. Now, when she
dreamed of him, she went to him. And he looked up into her eyes and
he knew her. She knew he did. He’d slowly get to his feet, and he’d
reach for her, and she’d go slowly, willingly into his arms,
tilting her head up for his kiss. Never a timid kiss. His mouth
would cover hers, and his tongue would plunder, and his body would
send silent messages to hers. He’d set fire to her blood as
he kissed her. And in the blink of an eye, she’d see them naked,
clinging to one another in a frenzy of lovemaking so intense it
left her weak. She’d wake from those dreams breathless, shivering
and damp with sweat. And because the dreams kept coming, more often
and more potent all the time, she knew the wanton inside her must
be growing stronger and more restless.
Sister Mary Agnes would be appalled if she
knew about those dreams. It was times like this that made Brigit
glad her twin sister was only part of the Fairytale, and not
a real woman. Certainly not the fair angel she’d become in Brigit’s
mind. The living, breathing image of feminine perfection. Of
goodness.
Or if she were real, thank goodness she
didn’t know what kind of woman Brigit had become.
But she tamped that thought down, too, and
moved forward, and thought about how stupid it had been to dress in
faded jeans and a crop top in order to try to fit in at the
university. To pass as a student. The scents of flowers grew
stronger and more varied as she approached her place— her
place, the little flower shop called Akasha which she had
bought, which she owned. She smelled daffodils and
narcissus.
To Brigit the mingled aromas were the smell
of peace, of security, of happiness. She even managed a small smile
and picked up the pace. Sun glinted from the glass walls of the
little greenhouse, which projected from the rear of the narrow
brick building like a house’s back porch.
The spell shattered to bits, though, when she
reached the front door and saw the man sitting on the step. He wore
a suit and a tie, but he was filth in human form. He was a
nightmare from the past. He was the embodiment of her many sins,
finally come to demand their wages.
“Out to lunch, Brigit? Well, I’m glad you’re
back. I’ve been waiting.”
“Zaslow. You said you’d give me until
tomorrow,” she whispered, glancing up and down the walk at
passersby, feeling as guilty as if they could tell at a glance why
this man was here, what he wanted, what she’d done. Who she really
was underneath the civilized facade. A wild thing.
That other part of herself was one Brigit
thought she’d buried a long time ago. She was the one who’d lived
on the streets with Raze, who’d learned to pick pockets with the
stealth of a cat when the need arose. Or to spend fifty cents in a
grocery store, and leave the place with fifty dollars’ worth of
food, and who’d done it without compunction if it was what it took
to stay alive. She could steal from the cleverest, and fight with
the dirtiest, and do it better than anyone. That was the other side
of Brigit. The side she tried so hard to pretend no longer existed.
The side without inhibitions or fears.
“I changed my mind,” Zaslow said, bringing
her back to the present as he got to his feet. Stepping aside, he
nodded toward the door. Zaslow was a big man. Barrel-chested and
broad, but not flabby. Intimidating.
There was little choice. Brigit fished her
key from her pocket and unlocked the shop. As she stepped inside
the chimes above the door tinkled a magical welcome, and the
countless other sets hanging from every possible appendage followed
their example. The smells of hundreds of plants embraced her, as
they always did. But the
suffocated, only to have them return to haunt her over and over.
The ones she’d never confessed to anyone. Not even Raze.
The ones instigated by those dreams of the
man with the pain and the passion in his eyes. But she saw them.
Her dreams of that man had grown up over the years. Now, when she
dreamed of him, she went to him. And he looked up into her eyes and
he knew her. She knew he did. He’d slowly get to his feet, and he’d
reach for her, and she’d go slowly, willingly into his arms,
tilting her head up for his kiss. Never a timid kiss. His mouth
would cover hers, and his tongue would plunder, and his body would
send silent messages to hers. He’d set fire to her blood as
he kissed her. And in the blink of an eye, she’d see them naked,
clinging to one another in a frenzy of lovemaking so intense it
left her weak. She’d wake from those dreams breathless, shivering
and damp with sweat. And because the dreams kept coming, more often
and more potent all the time, she knew the wanton inside her must
be growing stronger and more restless.
Sister Mary Agnes would be appalled if she
knew about those dreams. It was times like this that made Brigit
glad her twin sister was only part of the Fairytale, and not
a real woman. Certainly not the fair angel she’d become in Brigit’s
mind. The living, breathing image of feminine perfection. Of
goodness.
Or if she were real, thank goodness she
didn’t know what kind of woman Brigit had become.
But she tamped that thought down, too, and
moved forward, and thought about how stupid it had been to dress in
faded jeans and a crop top in order to try to fit in at the
university. To pass as a student. The scents of flowers grew
stronger and more varied as she approached her place— her
place, the little flower shop called Akasha which she had
bought, which she owned. She smelled daffodils and
narcissus.
To Brigit the mingled aromas were the smell
of peace, of security, of happiness. She even managed a small smile
and picked up the pace. Sun glinted from the glass walls of the
little greenhouse, which projected from the rear of the narrow
brick building like a house’s back porch.
The spell shattered to bits, though, when she
reached the front door and saw the man sitting on the step. He wore
a suit and a tie, but he was filth in human form. He was a
nightmare from the past. He was the embodiment of her many sins,
finally come to demand their wages.
“Out to lunch, Brigit? Well, I’m glad you’re
back. I’ve been waiting.”
“Zaslow. You said you’d give me until
tomorrow,” she whispered, glancing up and down the walk at
passersby, feeling as guilty as if they could tell at a glance why
this man was here, what he wanted, what she’d done. Who she really
was underneath the civilized facade. A wild thing.
That other part of herself was one Brigit
thought she’d buried a long time ago. She was the one who’d lived
on the streets with Raze, who’d learned to pick pockets with the
stealth of a cat when the need arose. Or to spend fifty cents in a
grocery store, and leave the place with fifty dollars’ worth of
food, and who’d done it without compunction if it was what it took
to stay alive. She could steal from the cleverest, and fight with
the dirtiest, and do it better than anyone. That was the other side
of Brigit. The side she tried so hard to pretend no longer existed.
The side without inhibitions or fears.
“I changed my mind,” Zaslow said, bringing
her back to the present as he got to his feet. Stepping aside, he
nodded toward the door. Zaslow was a big man. Barrel-chested and
broad, but not flabby. Intimidating.
There was little choice. Brigit fished her
key from her pocket and unlocked the shop. As she stepped inside
the chimes above the door tinkled a magical welcome, and the
countless other sets hanging from every possible appendage followed
their example. The smells of hundreds of plants embraced her, as
they always did. But the
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