Bermuda shorts—wearing, souvenir-toting foreigners with digital cameras had a good time watching and taking pictures, while in the distance, hundreds lined the beaches, laying out in next-to-nothing bikinis to catch that perfect shade of seasonal bronze on their skin. Occasionally, mixed in with the coconut tanning oil was the smell of reefer.
Ryder and Sy owned the second and third floors of the three-story building I was in. The first floor, however, was one of the permanent businesses on the boardwalk. It was a little French-inspired coffee shop, and if smell was anything to go by, it was probably delicious, which reminded me that I was definitely ready for some food. My stomach had begun growling sometime after twelve in the afternoon, and it was now almost two. In the excitement of the morning, I’d forgotten to eat.
I did, briefly, think about poking through the fridge, but PTSD kept me from actually doing it. People say things like “Make yourself at home,” but really, it’s easier said than done. I had my hand slapped too many times by my aunt or grandmother on a number of occasions as a child, because I dared to “make myself at home” when I lived with them. I’d always had to ask permission first.
So you could understand why, even though I was totally starving, I would never go into Ryder’s fridge, particularly after he acted like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Honestly, this was likely not going to work out. Maybe I could call my cousin and see if she had any familial feelings toward me. At least enough that I could hang with her until this problem got resolved.
But I was starving! I needed to go out and get something.
Unsure of what to do and unwilling to be helpless and reliant, I figured it wouldn’t take long to run downstairs to the little restaurant. In fact, I could be helpful and properly appreciative of the protection and support Ryder and Sy were providing by getting us all sandwiches and coffees. I could just leave a note or something.
I grabbed a paper towel from the roll in the kitchen, grabbed a pen from my purse and wrote a quick note that I left on the granite counter. It would have to do. Snagging my purse and phone, I started to pack my smartphone into its holder when I realized it needed to be charged. I hadn’t charged it the previous two nights, being that I was on a different planet and all, so I needed to plug it in now, which I did. There was a plug next to the nightstand in the guest room, and I was able to leave it there, where it was already programmed to serve as an alarm tomorrow morning for work. My everything phone. My one luxury. I loved it.
I slung my purse over my shoulder and went downstairs.
The restaurant was very quaint, rustic and casual. Small, bistro-size tables graced both inside and out space, each containing miniature glass vases with a fresh rose. The glass case had all kinds of this-will-equal-more-time-at-the-gym pastries and sweets that were calling to me. Evil things! Pure evil! My good angel must have been prostrate with hunger on my left shoulder, totally failing me, because my little devil took over on my right shoulder, telling me that I needed to grab a chocolate croissant as dessert for later. I got in the line, which felt extraordinarily long, but which also gave me time to thoroughly analyze the menu options. A black chalkboard behind the cashier sported a simple menu of sandwiches, wraps and salads, all of which looked tasty. I chose some turkey-and-cheese sandwiches, thinking that would be generic enough for everyone’s tastes, and I happily paid for it with my credit card.
It took fifteen minutes for all of the food to be ready, so I took a quick stroll along the boardwalk to peek in at the different shops and vendors, wanting a few moments of normal before reentering my alternate reality of other planets, mind reading, dreamwalking and people trying to kill me.
When the food was ready, I liked the ambiance of the restaurant so much that, figuring the guys were probably still working in their secret room, I went ahead and decided to eat comfortably at a table on my own. I hadn’t had any alone time in days, and I needed the peace. Letting down my wall to see if being completely open helped me to be successful, I practiced my telepathic abilities—shamelessly listening in on thoughts and feelings, justifying it by telling myself that I needed to practice, that I wasn’t doing any harm and that I needed to experiment with this amazing ability. Yeah, right. It was actually just fun, but no one was giving up any good gossip, so I started thinking about my to-do list.
My car had to take priority. Was there anything I could sell? Did I have anything valuable? Maybe I could put up a few of my nicer shoes and clothes for sale online. It wouldn’t have to be too many, as I only likely needed a couple hundred dollars. Was the car even worth it? Would it just be easier to use public transportation? That would save me gas money, insurance and registration fees. Hmm. Verifying where the car was would probably be most important. Maybe I could call the police for that. I did have to get back to work tomorrow. It would do me no good to get fired at this point.
Feeling like I could breathe again, I grabbed my purse, trashed my sandwich container and grabbed the food bag for the guys.
I was feeling pretty good again, in control, until I went back upstairs.
Sy met me at the door with fiercely drawn eyebrows that eradicated his dimples completely. He looked worried and impatient. Obviously, something was wrong. “Taylor, where have you...” Sy broke off with a groan. “I can see where you’ve been. You went down to get food.”
“I left a note.”
“You did?”
“On the counter. Where’s Ryder?” I glanced around with a sense of foreboding. He felt gone.
“Out looking for you.”
“What? Why? I went to get sandwiches. I haven’t been gone all that long. Maybe forty minutes at most.” I sounded defensive to my own ears. My blood pumped with a frisson of alarm.
I was enveloped in feelings I hadn’t experienced since the last time I was living at my aunt’s house, reliant on her lack of goodwill. PTSD once again. Ryder wasn’t like my aunt. I knew that, but even knowing that, I couldn’t make myself breathe evenly.
“He tried to call you, but there was no answer.”
“I left it on the charger.” I set the bag of food on the counter in the kitchen, bewildered by the circumstances. It wasn’t my fault my phone needed charging. It hadn’t been my idea to haul me off to another planet without my full consent. It hadn’t been my idea to have me come here.
“I’ll call him, let him know you’re here.” Sy grabbed his phone off the countertop and stepped away.
“Where did he think he was going to find me? Where the hell would he even start to look? How absolutely ridiculous! I’m a grown woman!” But I was talking to the air. Sy had dialed the number and was speaking quietly by the hallway opposite the one where Ryder’s room was located. I wondered if that was Sy’s wing of the condo.
After a moment, he stepped back with a tense smile on his face, which clued me in that Ryder was likely not a happy camper. “He’s coming back. So...uh...what did you bring?”
Now I was really nervous.
“I hope you guys like turkey and Havarti.” I pulled the takeout containers out of the bag, setting them on the dining room table to keep busy.
“You won’t find me complaining. Thanks a lot.”
Sy grabbed one of the containers and took a seat, but his attitude was highly circumspect. It was like he knew I felt like a big, sloppy, emotional mess on the inside and didn’t want to get splashed by it. He grabbed up half the sandwich and bit into it heartily, which was somehow calming for me. Still, he kept a watchful eye on me, like he was analyzing me.