Steady

By Nicole Tillman

When Bree Preston's best friend gifts her a Ouija board for her twenty-first birthday, she's ecstatic. The dorms of Missouri State University seem as good a place as any to try out her new toy, but she quickly realizes that—although factory-created and mass-produced—her board is no ordinary plaything.

Because of her carelessness, Bree opens a door and sets in motion a series of events that test her heart, her faith, and ultimately, her will to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicole Tillman
• Release date: Jun 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513000435

Nicole Tillman

Nicole Tillman is an author who hasn't always had a love of reading. As a child, she struggled to string words together and would hide in the back of the classroom with her head down in hopes that the teacher would forget she existed. Eventually, she was introduced to a young adult series by a family friend and her love of reading bloomed. Nicole now weaves her own stories, content to lose sleep in order to write both contemporary romance and thriller/suspense novels. She lives in the Ozarks of Missouri with her husband, two sons, and two dogs. Nicole has an Associates Degree in General Studies though Missouri State University and was on her way to completing her Bachelors in Creative Writing when she decided to take a sabbatical to focus on work and her family. Now a stay at home mother, she dedicates her time to her boys, writing, and photography.

Book preview

For J.B.

Other Books by Nicole Tillman

Saving Mercy

One Vibrant Hue

The Blood Pawn

DUPONT Series

Come Tear Me Down

Don't Make Me Look

Please Let Me Stay

HOPELESS HERITAGE Series

Secondhand Sapphire

Temporary Partner

FORCED HOME Series

Loving the Cult

Taming the Cult

The PARANORMAL PEACEKEPER Series

Whisper in the Rain

Scream in the Wind

Cry in the Fog

Sin in the Storm

Dance in the Hellfire

Prologue

THAT SPEECH KICKED some serious ass.

Carter offers me a fist bump as we step into the elevator. Judging by the lack of cars outside the hotel parking lot, I'm guessing this graduation party is going to be a flop, but my friends are here and they make the best of any situation, no matter how much it sucks.

It really did, didn't it? I smile coyly. Best speech in the history of the school. Want me to sign your commencement programs?

Carter and Nora exchange eye rolls, and I can't say I blame them. Normally, I'm a humble person, but not today. Not after the brutality of that ceremony. But I'm hoping that in ten, twenty, even thirty years I'll be able to look back on this night and be proud of myself, no matter where I've landed in life.

The elevator doors open with a dull ding and the three of us step out into a depressingly (although not surprisingly) empty banquet hall. Instead of a party in full swing, we're greeted by a small group of our quieter classmates looking nervous and out of place. A buffet of finger foods and desserts line two walls while the rest of the room is open for dancing and mingling—neither of which is currently taking place.

Nora's shoulders fall as our eyes land on the long group of five party-goers. This is...

Pathetic, Carter finishes for her.

She nods. Yeah. I was going to say lame, but pathetic works too.

Then why are we here? he asks.

An hour ago, Carter rallied for us to go to Evan Porter's 'Graduation Extravaganza' instead of the school-sanctioned class party, but I—the class valedictorian—vetoed his vote.

Evan graduated two years before us and has yet to do anything with his life. He lives off his father's dime and uses his charm and good looks to lure naive high school girls into his bed. He's a parasite.

But as the stereo system begins playing a song from the early nineties, I admit I'd rather be throwing back Jell-O shots at his house than enduring this lame reincarnation of the Jr. High Homecoming Dance. 

C'mon.

I loop my arms around Nora and Carter and pull them back into the elevator, pressing the button for the ground floor as soon as the doors close. 

If you tell me we're going back to your house to play Scrabble, I'm going to punch you in the throat, Nora threatens.

No, I say, watching the numbers light up. We'll find something else to do. Anything but this.

There's always Evan's, Carter says, grabbing my hand and pulling it to his chest. C'mon, Bree! This is the biggest night of our puny lives and we're missing out on the greatest graduation party in the history of graduation parties.

His party could be just as sad as that one, I say, jerking my head in the direction of the room we just left.

No way. He shakes his head. Not possible. Evan's parties never bomb.

And what are the alternatives? Nora asks, mindlessly scrolling through her Facebook feed. After a second she locks the screen and looks up. Oh wait, there aren't any.

She's right. Our town is a short drive from Kansas City, but still far enough away and small enough to be considered 'Podunk'. When a party here is successful, it's only because there's nothing else to do. And no one else is having a graduation party apart from the school and...Evan.

Thinking back to the wallflowers at the hotel tapping their feet to a boy band my mother still listens to, I admit defeat.

Evan is our last resort.

Locking eyes with the two people I love more than anything, I cock an eyebrow and watch as they silently beg me to drop my prejudices for one night. Our only graduation night. A night they want to remember.

Fine. You drink. I'll drive.

The elevator sways when the two of them break out their happy dances, and I grab Nora's car keys when the doors pull open. My two overly-giddy friends bound out into the parking lot and jump into the back seat of the car as if I'm some kind of chauffeur instead of the designated driver.

Onward! Carter yells. To greatness!

Their excitement is becoming infectious, but I don't let on. Keeping them mellowed out is my utmost priority if I don't want the night to end with Nora stripping on a kitchen island and Carter breaking his neck attempting a keg stand.

I pull out onto the deserted main road and head in the direction of Evan's 'Party Pad'. Everyone in town is either already at a party or at home getting ready for bed, so there's no a single pair of headlights in sight.

Tunes! Nora shouts. I need tunes!

No one calls them 'tunes' anymore, Carter chides.

Nora ignores him as she pushes between the front seats and connects her phone to the stereo. In seconds, the windows are vibrating with the intensity of each bass note and I'm already regretting this decision.

Buckle up! I yell to be heard over the music.

We're almost to the dirt road, Carter says, as if our current geographical location somehow negates automobile safety.

I flash my eyes to the rearview mirror and glare until Carter relents.

Yes, mother.

I turn off onto one of the many gravel roads leading out of town and the sound of tires crunching adds to the cacophony, and I can barely hear myself think. Which is why I almost miss Nora yelling for me to pull over.

What? Why?

Before she can answer, I see it.

Up ahead, a pickup truck with dead headlights is barreling down the road, weaving back and forth, kicking up a whirlwind of dust in its wake.

I ease onto the brake and pull off onto the non-existent shoulder, waiting for him to pass, silently praying whoever it is stays on their side of the road. Or at the very least turn on their lights so they can see where the hell they're going.

My breath stalls in my chest as the giant vehicle charges forward, never slowing, never stopping, never moving into its own lane. The black truck weaves to and fro, seemingly unaware of the small car honking and flashing its lights while the people inside come unglued.

The music continues to blare.

Carter and Nora scream from the backseat.

Fear has my heart jackhammering against my ribs and I can't move.

This isn't happening. They have to see us. Have to. It'll be okay.

They're going to stop.

Glued to my seat, my hands cemented around the wheel, I'm forced to ask a series of terrifying questions.

What happens if they don't stop?

What happens if they don't slow down?

Is this going to hurt?

The only part of me still moving is my heart; my crazed, panic-stricken, still-beating heart.

I don't move.

I don't even blink.

Everything—the noise, the fear, the insanity blaring all around me from all sides—is silenced as the car crumples in around my body and the world falls dark.

Chapter One

Three Years Later

NORMAL PEOPLE MAKE a wish when they blow out the candles on their birthday cake.

Not me.

I fill those five seconds staring at those tiny flickers of flames with words of immense gratitude. I don't wish for anything. Instead, I give thanks. That's what you do when every birthday you're alive to celebrate is a gift.

It would be ignorant to say my continued existence on planet earth doesn't boil down to sheer, dumb luck. Or fate. Or God. Who knows? Either way, I was given a second chance, and I vow to never forget that small act of mercy. But that reminder is a double-edged sword.

I lived.

Nora and Carter lived.

The drunk driver lived.

But a stranger died.

While my mother was wringing her hands in the waiting room, praying for me to make it through, another mother was getting news that her child's life had been taken.

I'm reminded of that every time I open my eyes to the sun streaming through my curtains. Every time I laugh. Every time I take a breath. And every time I catch my date staring at my chest. That last one is always a moment shrouded in annoyance, because I know they're not checking out my rack. Guys don't get that dreamy, lusty look in their eyes when they round second base with me. There's always a look of shock, or even blatant disgust, when they get a good look at the jagged, puckered scar running from my throat down to my belly button.

My first year in recovery, I met a number of transplant patients, but never any whose scars resembled mine. Most transplants are scheduled, planned—prayed for even. But not mine.

When a steering wheel slams through your chest and obliterates your heart, you're only given a sliver of a chance at survival. Luck might have been on my side that night, but even the most skilled surgeon on the planet wouldn't have been able to put me back together in an attractive fashion.

The fact that I survived when I could have very easily been the one getting harvested for organs is not something I take lightly. I didn't take it lightly when I was wheeled out to my mother's car on my first day out of the hospital, and three years later, I still don't. Not after moving four hours away from my family, my childhood home, and the sight of the dusty stretch of gravel road that still makes my throat constrict with panic.

But I'm alive.

And my heart continues to beat.

Missouri State University—particularly it's satellite branch in West Plains—didn't appeal to me when I first started applying to colleges. But after everything I've been through—the surgeries, the clean rooms, the isolation and fear of rejection or sickness—I want nothing more than to be close to my friends, and MSU-WP grants that wish.

Nora was recruited to play volleyball for Missouri State, and once Carter got word that she was moving four hours away to a small school where no one knew their names, he applied as well. We all relished the idea of a fresh start. No stares, no pity, no judgment. Their fresh start just came a year earlier than mine, which means I don't get to room with my bestie—a thought that sunk my spirits at first, but that was before I met Sydney.

I beam at my petite roomy as I hold the door open so she can sneak a bag of ice into our dorm room. Her thick brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun, her full lips strained tight as she carries two bags of ice against her chest, dripping water with every step. She's creating a trail of evidence, but I figure it will dry before anyone notices.

Once she's inside, I wait for Nora and Veronica to follow. They do their best Mission Impossible impressions as they tiptoe in front of the RA's room while carrying brown paper sacks concealing alcohol and junk food.

If they don't hurry, we'll all be reprimanded for sneaking out after bed checks, so I wave for them to book it. But Nora, being the comedian she thinks she is, slinks low to the floor, humming the M.I. theme song while Veronica fights to contain a bubble of high-pitched giggles. When they're within reach, I grab both their arms and haul them inside before locking the deadbolt.

Was that really necessary? I grab one of the bags from Veronica.

Absolutely, she answers in a breathless huff. What better way to kick off this secret night of debauchery than by channeling our inner Tom Cruise?

Veronica—in all her tall, toned glory—is a blonde vision that could cause jealousy in even the most secure of women. But luckily, she's as sweet and kind as she is beautiful.

Nora might have been channeling Tom, I say, but I think you were channeling Muttley.

Veronica's flawless brows furrow over her wide blue eyes as she shakes her head, confused.

Muttley. The laughing dog from the—never mind. Google him. I pull her away from the door and direct her toward the kitchenette.

Bree, are you one hundred percent positive you don't want to go out tonight? Sydney asks. We can get all dolled up and crawl from one seedy bar to the next until sunrise. Live in the moment. Be spontaneous and reckless and—

We're not going out, Nora cuts in. For one, the bass in the bar makes Bree nervous.

She jerks her head in my direction while opening a bag of chips with a flourish. I try not to cringe when crumbs puff out in the air between our faces.

And you have to admit, she continues, being able to feel your organs vibrating inside your body is freaky.

Veronica nods. Sydney simply rolls her eyes.

Look, guys, if you guys want to go out, I'm game.

Their eyes light up, until Nora levels them with a glare that could melt glaciers.

"We're staying here, she says, tapping her index finger against the counter. The RA is studying, your uptight suite-mates jumped ship early to go home, and everything we need for the night is right here. She gestures to the overflowing table. Besides, what I have planned for tonight can't be done in a bar."

Yay! Veronica cheers, clapping as she bounces on the balls of her feet. Streaking!

I cough to disguise my laughter.

No, we are not streaking, Nora huffs. After setting the chips on the table, she turns back to her messenger bag and pulls out a large cardboard box. Turning, she smiles proudly, awaiting our reactions.

Oh my God! I squeal. Yes! Freaking yes!

I fling my arms around Nora's neck and try my best to squeeze the life out of her.

A Ouija board? Sydney's voice hitches as she fills shot glasses with spiced rum. Aren't those things, like, dangerous?

Veronica grabs the box and tips it on its side, scanning the directions. "Can't be that scary. It's made by the same company that makes Easy-Bake Ovens."

Bree's always wanted one, Nora says, tugging on the braid of red hair resting against my spine. But her mother would shit a chicken if she even thought about bringing one home.

Actually, I think my mother would drag me to the nearest church and demand they exorcise whatever demons are possessing me, but close enough.

I pull her close until our cheeks smash together. You're my favorite person.

She tries to hide the way she flinches when our faces touch, but I don't miss it. I know the small scars marring her face—courtesy of a surgical intern digging shattered glass from her cheeks and forehead—still cause her pain, so I'm quick to release her and offer an apologetic smile.

I'm gonna need to get stupid-drunk to handle this, Veronica grumbles, reaching for a glass.

Nora leaps forward and slaps Veronica's hand. Bree gets the first shot. And we have to toast!

Uh-uh. No toast. I motion for Veronica to slide me a glass and toss it back as soon it meets my hand. I cringe at the warm sting settling at the back of my throat but force a smile. I have birthday veto power. No toasts. Just shots.

Shots are distributed and we all cough as the bitter liquid burns our throats. Even though I don't have a cake or a candle to blow out, I still close my eyes and send up a silent thank you.

For my friends. For this life. And for second chances.

An hour passes in a tipsy blur, and I laugh more in that hour than I have in the past few months. The RA on our floor must either be passed out or wearing headphones because we're not even trying to keep it down.

Can we invite Daniel from downstairs to come up? Sydney whines. My lady parts like him. They like him a whole lot.

Nora shakes her head. No dudes.

Daniel? Really? I laugh