StarDust: A Science Fantasy Romance: The Five Elements, #2

By Nicole Wells

He's cute and smart. Too bad he's off his rocker.

 

I'm drawn to Brayden from the first moment I meet him. But he says he's part of this secret society of First Peoples. And he expects me to join them in saving the world.

 

I'm between tours and I was looking forward to some peace and quiet so I can be the real me — not Aurora, the Australian superstar singer, not the activist worried about the sudden increase in natural disasters, nor the woman still wounded from her last relationship. Too bad I just discovered I can move things with my mind..

 

Why do the good ones have to be so dedicated and supportive? It's all "We've been waiting hundreds of years for you" with him. Guess to get the guy I'll just have to go with it and save the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicole Wells
• Release date: Dec 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9798201374297

Book preview

Prologue

July 2023

Colville Indian Reservation, Washington state, United States

Another wave of pain rips through her. Her body contorts in agony, and she screams out despite her best efforts to ride the involuntary spasms. All her world focuses on only the brief respites outside the contractions and the all-encompassing birthing pains. The urge to bear down builds, an undeniable force that promises relief.

The child breaks free in a gush. He is slippery and wailing, protesting the abrupt expulsion away from the comforting weightless warmth he has known. The world here is heavy and overwhelming, attacking his tender senses.

He latches onto her breast. She is shaking with relief, exhaustion, and joy, but she holds him steady. As the Earth element, she is the ultimate mother, even if she doesn’t know it. She offers him the shelter of her body, along with nourishment, sympathy, and comfort.

The Earth strokes his back, then massages his perfect, miniature feet. Welcome to the world, my love. The thought beams from her heart.

The whole experience has been miraculous and awe-inspiring but exhausting. So when she has a sense of disorientation and feeling small and cold, she is not sure if she truly experiences it. It is almost too much to imagine it is real, the responding flood of love from a mind too young to know the word but bathed in the concept, just born from a place so pure, a womb of unadulterated love.

The words may not be formed, but the meaning is clear: I love you too.

PART ONE

Chapter One

It begins with water. The vast nothingness of water, the dark. Thus, life is born from water. All the 10,000 things that populate our world. They start from nothing, from everything. From possibility, from formlessness. From water.

From the Compilation Project: Oral Tradition of the First Peoples

---

August 2023

Shoreham, Victoria, Australia

---

Have you ever had something extraordinary happen that failed to register at first? And then there’s that moment when everything is fine — despite the fact that it isn't — before the freak out sets in? Yeah, that happened to me. I had one last moment when my crazy world was my version of normal before it all went to hell in a handbasket.

---

Uh-huh. I make the noncommittal noise of encouragement into my mobile. My best mate Marlowe is relating how she quit her latest job as a platypus conservationist. She doesn’t need to work — I’ve given her enough money — but it’s the normal thing to do.

I mean, just because he’s a stubby short of a six-pack doesn’t mean I can’t tell him he’s as useful as a third armpit, she gripes about her former boss.

I apply another layer of SuperNova Metallic Gold to my toenails, extra careful because my fingernails are still drying. It’s my tradition to do my own nails when I’m finally home; it helps me de-stress.

Like really, I need certification to operate a chainsaw? A 'Level One' requirement? It’s not like I’m carving statues for the buggers!

I don’t even want to know what she was supposed to be doing with a chainsaw. I try to pull my ear away from her increasing volume while still keeping the phone nestled against my shoulders, which is no easy feat.

There's always some hiccup going off tour and coming home. This time, it’s missing earbuds, but that’s a small price to pay to be back home, alone, in peace and quiet.

She screeches some more, and as much as the sound grates, inwardly, I also love it. I’ve known Mar since we were kids, and she grounds me like no other. Right now, she’s letting me live vicariously through her, and I soak up everything: Mar’s attitude, the mannerisms in her speech, and all the everyday events. Between her and the trivial act of leisurely doing my nails, I’m already starting to feel restored.

The calming peach and beige color palette to my room also help. I’ve filled my bedroom with rich and dainty textures and elegant fixtures. Golden afternoon light spills through my wall of windows, catching the glitter on my newly adorned fingernails.

There’s something just so inherently captivating about sparkle and shine. It’s like hope and dreams and magic made real, with maybe a pinch of innocence and fun, too. I notice one of the pendants from my crystal chandelier has captured a ray of sun and coaxed a rainbow out of it. This is why it’s so good to be home: my best friend, sparkles, rainbows, and a bit of quiet to enjoy it all.

The non-stop touring whirlwind just drains the soul out of me. Well, this business does that too. My agent says it’s good I’ve got a ‘no holds barred’ demeanor. I tend to call it like I see it and stick up for myself, and I guess that keeps people from taking advantage. She also admires my easy-going Aussie attitude. I’ve learned to roll with the punches.

I swipe the bangs out of my face with the back of my hand, concentrating on my second to last toe, almost done. My drying fingers are splayed as I work, which oddly makes me feel like some evil villain in a superhero movie. As if villains don’t know how to use their hands properly. Or they use them excessively. You don’t see the good guys drumming their fingers or steepling their hands while plotting world domination.

Come to think of it, they probably wouldn’t have metallic gold nails, either. Only superstars do that. Like me. My last three records went triple platinum. It’s been absolutely insane, not helped by the fact that I’m twenty-one and have been living on my own for the last five years.

Why did you even take that job? I ask. Much as she speaks her mind, she is a people person, and I never saw the conservation shtick jiving with her.

I didn’t know weeding and the like was how one saved platypuses. She pauses. Platypusi?

That sounds borderline offensive. How do you not know by now?

She doesn’t respond, and I figure she’s googling on her phone. I contort around on my crushed velvet rose-colored bedspread, trying to get to my pinky toe.

Platypodes? Mar says, but her voice sounds like it’s coming through water. Probably since I’m drowning her out, her voice in slow-mo as I become hyper-acutely focused on the nail polish bottle.

Because my phone just slipped off my shoulder and knocked it over.

You see, I have this thing about stains. I despise them. Oil stains from food on paper? That’s a pet peeve. Nail polish on the bedspread? That’s an epic catastrophe.

I grab for the bottle, reflexes on automatic, and then there’s a moment of relief. Like when things just sync up, you get the luck of the draw, and it all turns out okay.

I’d say that lasted just about 67 hundredths of a second.

The good news: I was wrong about the nail polish. The phone didn’t knock it over and spill it.

The bad news: there is a phone hovering mid-air. It’s defying the laws of physics, hanging suspended, and just gracing the nail polish bottle, which is now also frozen and off-kilter.

I gape at it, disbelieving. My phone and my nail polish are literally levitating. I stare as if my sharp vision can remind the inanimate objects how the world works, or as if wide eyes are the reset button to faulty brain wiring. But it doesn’t work. Each second that passes under my death stare just confirms the impossible.

Holy. Shit.

Chapter Two

L eigh? Marlowe’s tinny voice through the mobile's speaker breaks me out of my daze. But not this delusion. Have I finally lost it? I often feel like no one is in my corner and the whole world is rooting for me to fail. I’ve always been good at rolling with the punches, but maybe this time, that loneliness finally became too much? Boy, would the press have a field day if this ever got out. Goodbye, career!

I take a deep breath, and the sharp sting of the nail polish smell grounds me. Just do it. I reach toward my levitating phone, my hand a little shaky, I’m not ashamed to admit.

Um, I gotta call you back, Mar, I say.

To hell with it. I reach out both hands, one for the nail polish, because it’d still be a crime for it to spill, and one for my phone. No shocks, no black holes, no shattering of the Universe.

Okay then.

I gently try moving them from their midair positions, and they give after a little inaudible pop of resistance.

It’s a bit anticlimactic. I feel like I should have videotaped that or something. Not that I need the attention, though. And my phone is my video recorder, so…

That really happened, right?

I try to shut the doubt down ruthlessly, but it’s insidious like water seeping through my defenses. My refrain of "I’m not crazy" is about as effective as a bathtub made of sandbags. I stare with wonder at my superhero-villain-hands with their bright and shiny upgrades. I force myself to feel the evidence, the sensation of nudging the objects still imprinted in my skin.

But it’s just not possible…

I shake it off and channel my alter ego, Aurora. She’s confident and commanding. She can walk into the unknown and knock the socks of strangers. She’s got this.

A normal person would probably convince themselves the fumes got to them. Aurora? She lays a sacrificial shirt over my bedspread and proceeds to recreate the event, sans Marlowe. I’m not crazy. And I’m going to prove it.

Unfortunately, it’s not so easy.

I should probably mention, it takes a lot of energy to be in show business. Always on your best, always ready to go, always bouncing back, ready for changes in plans, surfing the stratospheric highs and the mundane lows. Fame and all the people around you require you to be the Sun, constantly beaming, constantly on, unless you want to burn out.

I wouldn’t be here if that wasn’t a fit for me. And on hiatus? I love the recharge, but it does get boring as hell. Usually, I throw myself into the creative process for songs for the next album, but I’m only eleven days in.

So now I throw all my energy into this investigation. I devote myself to it like my life depends on it, because at least my sanity does. Phase One: Recreation is a bust, so I jump on the internet and initiate Phase Two: Research.

I don’t see anything about solar flares, but honestly, I have no idea what I’m looking for. I check social media, and it’s not blowing up about psychic phenomena. Hey, it could happen. After everything happened with the psychic Enya, there were a lot of babies in L.A. born with rare, fatal genetic diseases, and the conspiracy theorists went wild. Even I had heard some of the rumors of aliens and government experimentation. And at least four families are claiming their kids have psychic powers, although honestly, it's L.A. No one was really surprised that people used it to get their kids into the limelight. They start early over there, seriously.

I throw a few more random terms into the search engine, but I don’t find any unusual astronomic events. Maybe it takes a while for it to show up in the news feeds?

I sit back and drum my fingers on the bedspread. Omigod, I am turning into a superhero villain!

I decide to put said fingers to good use and redial my best mate. Hey Mar, do I strike you as the superhero-villain-type?

That sounds like an oxymoron, she says, unperturbed.

Way to avoid the question, I quip.

I didn't know if you were serious or if that was the cool chic superstar way to say ‘Hi’ after leaving her mate hanging in suspense. And no, I wouldn't call you a villain. A sexy maniacal overlord, yes, but your plan to take over the world was happenstance. You're just a victim of your own talent like the rest of us, she states.

Um... Okay, thanks? Was that a compliment? I can barely follow her banter, preoccupied as I am. I smooth my bedspread as I talk.

The sexy part was. So, what’s up? What happened?

I think I may have superpowers, I tell her, just laying it all out there. I think I may be going crazy.

I didn't think life with you could possibly get any more dramatic. Way to prove me wrong, she says in her dry, blunt voice. I love Mar; she keeps me grounded.

You are so bombed, she chides, sounding totally serious. Please stop doing drugs.

Okay, listen. Really. Something happened, I steamroll on.

I mean, I get it. It's what all the superstars do these days, right? But you gotta say ‘no.’ Don’t give in to peer pressure. Tell them you’re allergic or something, Mar continues, and I can’t tell if she’s serious or not.

Allergic? What? Mar, listen, I’m not doing any drugs. Man, I wish I’d recorded it because you're not going to believe this. I’m shaking my head; I can hardly believe it myself.

Your powers of prediction are astounding. I hope that’s not your new superpower. It’s already honed beyond measure, she states dryly.

I think I stopped time, I persist. Or turned on anti-gravity. Or something. I’m really trying to convince her. And myself. My hand moves back and forth on the bedspread like a windscreen wiper.

What the hell are you talking about? Seriously? Her incredulous voice keeps rising in pitch. If you are baiting me for some reality or practical-joke show after I have told you numerous times I have no tall poppy syndrome, so help me God, I'll—

I was painting my nails when we were talking, right? Well, my mobile dropped, and it stopped. I swear it. My hands get sweaty just thinking about it.

You’re serious? she says.

Yes! Just go with me for a sec, I plead. Picture it hypothetically if you have to, so you can be my sounding board, and I can work this out…

Okay. Fine. Bloody hell? Dropped and stopped?

The nail polish. I thought it leaked onto the bedspread. It didn't. It halted in midair along with the phone, I explain. My sweeping hands have now managed to clear a little island of uniformity in my crushed velvet bedspread.

You’re so far lost in your own world, I don’t think I can retrieve you. I knew stardom would change you, but honestly, I wasn’t expecting this. This sounds like some Hollywood drama you've created to deal with your weird alienating world. I think you need a shrink. Or at least run it by one of your mega-star friends, she says, like she’s already moving on.

I sigh. My whole meteoric rise to fame and she takes everything in stride, but this she can’t.

Mar, please. I don’t know anyone else I can talk to who has a chance of hearing me out if Mar won’t. I know it sounds like I’ve gone troppo, but it really feels like I’m not hallucinating.

Do you think something could be going on? I ask Mar. You know, especially with all that Enya stuff that happened?

She pauses, and I breathe a sigh of relief. She’s actually listening to me now. Together, we can suss it out.

But that wouldn't be possible. It's not like you were just born, she reasons.

But it did just happen. What if it wasn’t only babies affected, and whatever Enya did then activated me or something?

Six months later? Mar asks, the sarcasm palpable.

I don't know, maybe the conditions were right? I say, thinking out loud.

And you've been on your Europe-Asia leg of your tour. Nowhere near LA. And you’re back home in ‘Straya now. That’s like as far away as you can get.

Okay, yeah, it doesn’t make any sense. I sigh again.

Did you ever meet her?

No. I think about it. I meet so many people in show business, but I don't remember her. No, I don’t think I did.

Oh, March nineteenth! It says here that you were both featured on the U.S. late-night show. But that doesn't mean you met. Her voice sounds farther away as I figure she's on her phone's browser. The wonders of the internet. It has all the answers.

Google levitating objects and new powers, I joke.

Hmm...Some stuff about Buddhist Monks, Hindu Yogis, and others performing levitating miracles. Almost all of them had other powers, though. And a whole lot of fiction about saving the world. Superheros and stuff. You know, cause people gotta tune out when there’s all this devastation around them.

She pauses, and I think she’s just scrolling through info until she says, Hey, you know no one expects you to save the world, right? You’ve gone above and beyond with all your activism and all the charity work you’ve done.

My manager, Liz, encouraged me to take a rest earlier than planned, especially after the tsunami that wiped out most of the Aleutian Islands, killing thousands. I know there are only so many fundraisers and donations one person can do for all the natural disasters taking place, but all the death and destruction broke my heart because we had a charity event planned two months from now for the Tsunami Timeline, an improved, worldwide early-warning system. Who knows what difference it would have made if I had just planned it earlier.

Who knows what a difference it would make if I could do more than just throw money at things or cull money from the public. It’s a familiar guilty feeling. I’ve just yet to figure out how to make it go away.

I don’t want to talk about my charity work. Luckily, Mar lets my silence slide.

Some stuff about psychics too, but they were all shown to be frauds.

Speaking of, I ask Mar, Do you think I’m crazy?

Fair dinkum, you’re incredibly level-headed considering the world you live in. And the fact that you're asking is good. But it does sound like you’ve got a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock. This is all most likely just some glitch in your system or something. Your neurons are not working. Maybe a nervous breakdown? Everyone kinda forced you to take a break, right?

And we’re back to my shortcomings, and I’m back to sighing.

Relax, get a good night’s sleep, and see how you feel tomorrow, okay?

Sure. Thanks, Mar, I say distractedly. I love touring, but by the end, I was glad my manager had insisted on scheduling the break. I’ve been taking it easy since I got home, and so long as I don’t think too much about my place in the world, I’m finding myself again. Not the fabricated performing me, not the businesswoman, not the political activist. The real me underneath all that.

And she doesn’t feel crazy.

No worries, she replies before disconnecting the call.

I put the mobile down and pull my laptop into my lap. I spend the rest of the night on my computer in bed, completing Phase Two: Research. Which is better than advancing to Phase Three: Call A Professional Shrink.

Chapter Three

Water is the fear that permeates. Nothing can hold it back. It seeps, it finds the crack, it is relentless. Water is the fear that freezes. It shocks you, transforms you. One is fluid movement; the other is solid crystal. Which do you choose? Ah, but there is not a choice. Water does as it will, and you can either fight it or flow with it.

From the Compilation Project: Oral Tradition of the First Peoples

---

By 4:43am, I’ve used up enough nervous energy staying up on my computer that sleep is finally deciding to claim me, so when I first see it as a search result, it doesn’t register. When it does connect, it’s like a dream, and I have to do a double-take.

The Five Sacred Powers According to the Five Elements: Prescience, Telepathy, Levitation, Bilocation, and Manifestation.

I’d been scouring all the conspiracy groups — there's so many with all the natural disasters on top of the talk about psychics — cycling through with different keywords. The controversy around Enya’s visions and psychic powers has only grown and become more heated, with different research scientists, theologians, psychologists, and doctors all having a say. Some are worried their bosses or families will judge them, but this article came up relatively high in the search engine results, so the author wants it to be seen.

I scan the article. The author, Brayden Phillips, talks about psychic powers in terms of the Five Elements of Fire, Earth, Metal, Water, and Wood. He explains how each power is actually two, believed to represent the yin and yang of each element. I guess he didn’t have room in the title for all that. Jumping to the Levitation section, I read that it’s associated with the Metal element, whose organs are the Large Intestine and the Lungs. I'm starting to think that this stuff is even weirder than the psychic powers themselves, but I kept reading anyway. This is the first somewhat reputable source I’ve found. Everything else has been fandom, debunking, or just too off the wall.

The author stipulates that we each have a home-base element or, more specifically, an organ manifestation of that home-base element. With the right inducement, the sacred powers of the element will come forth. Metal’s powers are Levitation (yin) and Telekinesis (yang). Feeling that this explanation has promise, but also feeling in over my sleepy-again head, I use one of my alias email accounts and shoot a quick query to the author.

Satisfied that I accomplished something, I log off and stumble over to my Cal King bed, which might be on a dais ... under a chandelier...

I might have princess issues. If I end up at a shrink, I’ll be sure to mention that.

I lay my weary head on my ridiculously expensive but amazingly comfortable pillow.

Being home on hiatus, I sleep in. By the time I wake, warm, golden light is streaming through my windows, and for another blissful moment, I’ve forgotten about yesterday, and everything is normal. Then I remember and check my email. Nothing. Oh, well. I drum my gold-tipped fingers and catch myself looking like a superhero villain. If it wasn’t for yesterday, I’d probably do some yoga or get out. It looks to be a beautiful day, so I opt for the latter.

I live relatively modestly in Shoreham, which is five minutes from the beach and close to Melbourne. It’s the neighborhood’s biggest estate, the former Mornington Peninsula’s Ashcombe property, which I grabbed when it went up for sale in 2020. We used to visit these acres of gardens when I was a kid, and it was so enchanting. Vacations in this magical place always felt like reality on pause or like slipping into an alternate reality where we were the perfect family. Running wild through this garden paradise again brings me such a sense of calm, peace, and belonging, especially being able to do so without worrying about my privacy. On tour, I always have security guards with me, but here at home, everything is more down to earth, and I can be a normal person. It’s also the only time I truly get to be alone; I really need the space and privacy.

I go downstairs to the main room, a beautiful open space with cathedral ceilings and a wall of glass. This is my dogs’ favorite place because they can watch all the wildlife. Vela is my tan Basenji with a white chest and paws, and Mocha is my larger reddish-brown Rhodesian Ridgeback. They are a cute pair because Mocha towers over Vela, but Vela is the silent leader. My groundskeeper essentially cares for them and my horses while I’m away, so it kinda feels like we’re co-owners. But that doesn’t diminish the enthusiastic love they shower on me. I spend some time giving belly rubs and kisses, but they keep me on track, having seen me put on my trainers, and nudge me to go, already excited with the knowledge we’re heading outside.

After an exhilarating tour of the property on Sadie, my gentle Palomino mare, with the dogs exploring or running by her shoulder, I head back to the stables to give Sadie a good rub down. There’s something about one-on-one time with animals that just restores the soul. I love the manual labor, the rhythm and mindlessness of it, the quiet, the calm, and the solitude.

Feeling refreshed in body, mind, and spirit, I head back home for a quick shower, checking in on my email one more time. This time I do have new mail! Brayden has given me his mobile, saying it's better to explain the concepts to me over the phone. I was hoping he didn’t want to talk on the phone, but I do have burner mobiles if I need them.

Not wanting to wait, I dial him up once I get into the main room at home.

Hi, is this Brayden?

Speaking. He has an American accent; Texan?

Oh, hi. This is Lee. I emailed you about some questions? I give him one of my frequently used aliases. My real name is Ashleigh Winslow, and I go by Leigh to my friends, but the whole world knows me as Aurora.

Yes, hi, Lee. Shoot. It’s funny, just in these brief moments, the more he talks, the more I feel like I know him.

I run my fingers over the back of my leather couch. Well, I wanted to learn more about levitation. The Metal power.

Yes, that’s what you emailed. How can I help you? He sounds friendly. I can’t place him, though, if he is someone I know.

Well, I just want to learn more about it, anything you can expand on, really. I’m writing this paper—

Lee, I’m not someone to beat around the bush, so I’m just gonna say it. He sounds tired more than upset, and I feel a well of empathy for him. I picture the poor guy has been running himself ragged. "I’m happy to answer all your questions, but I’ll be honest with you. My purpose in writing that article was to find people who could recognize the manifestations of the sacred powers when they saw them so that I could investigate them. I wanted to reach the people who believed in them, and hopefully some people with eyewitness accounts who could shed some more light on it for me."

So, he continues, was your email possibly inspired by something you witnessed or heard about? Maybe someone having telepathy? His voice is full of hope.

Like reading minds? I ask, delaying a bit. I swear I’ve met this guy before. He feels like an old mate from school, except I didn’t have many guy friends. And I imagine I’d remember him. Maybe it’s just his voice and accent, but I picture him as quite handsome, like he could be a model.

Kind of, yes. Being able to pick up on thoughts that are sent out, and sending thoughts back, more accurately. His American accent has a Western flair like a cowboy, and I can just imagine what he looks like, legs crossed as he leans his lanky frame against a wall.

No. I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone that can do that, I reply, distracted as I focus on my impression of him. His gusty sigh breezes through my mobile’s speakers. For some reason, I can almost picture him standing up straight and then running his hands through his hair. Is visualizing someone a psychic power?

Um, so, I amend and continue to rub the couch, I was also wondering if these powers manifest in isolation or if someone can have multiple powers. And, I was also really interested in the conditions that induce the powers. You said there hasn’t been a manifestation of the powers in recent history. Can you tell me more about that? I try not to sound too desperate.

Sure, but please answer a question for me first. Why are you interested in levitation, particularly? In my mind, his brow is scrunched up. I can picture his face clearer. He has dark hair cut short and striking green eyes. I picture him as a model of lean athleticism, wearing a trendy black T-shirt with an artistic tiger on it and a tribal tattoo peeking under his sleeve.

It just seemed like the neatest of them, I ad-lib, the back and forth feel of the soft suede under my hand comforting. Being able to make things float. It feels weird talking about this to a stranger, but somehow I know he is kind and trustworthy.

Actually, it generally references the gifted person themselves floating or flying. Making an object float would fall more under the domain of telekinesis, he replies.

Can you tell me more about telekinesis then? My hand halts on the back of the couch, and I mentally cross my fingers.

Uh, sure. It's the yang form of the sacred power for Metal, being able to move objects. Metal’s power is rooted in the air and wind, so you can imagine someone being able to manipulate an invisible current to move things or hold them still. And to your other question, it would be highly unusual to have multiple powers.

I try to focus on his professorial monotone, but it’s not the answer I was looking for. And I get distracted because he’s just so cute —a mix of playboy and geek wrapped up in a delicious package — totally my type.

I pause when I finally realize that this whole time, I’ve been picturing him in my head. Precisely.

What color eyes do you have? What color hair? I start to pace. I realize I sound a little bonkers, even for the content of our conversation, and follow with, If you don’t mind my asking.

Um, I have dark brown hair and hazel eyes. And I don’t mind you asking if you’ll tell me why? There is laughter in his voice, a flirtatious smile on his face.

I don’t relinquish control of the conversation. I feel driven now that the alarming thought that this is not normal has taken hold. I must know. First, how old are you?

Twenty-four, he replies without skipping a beat.

What are you wearing? I press, coming to a standstill in front of the couch.

I hear him chuckle. It’s a sexy chuckle, but I can’t enjoy it. Not yet.

Are you going to be charging me five dollars a minute for this? he asks, laughter in his voice.

I don’t answer, waiting for his reply.

Because I think I might be willing to pay it. Lee, you’re a spot of brightness in my dark days. The latter sounds like he’s talking to himself, but I don’t pursue it. I’m still holding out for my answer.

Okay, well, it’s nothing sexy or sinful. Just a Royal Blood shirt. And jeans. Although I do feel like you should be buying me a drink or something, he jokes, and I ignore the playful look he has in my mind’s eye. Because it’s all just in my mind, made up.

I collapse onto my leather sofa. Thank God. I had this clear sense I was talking to this guy with black hair and green eyes in a black shirt with a tiger on it, not royal blue or red or whatever.

I just pictured some guy as I was talking with you. It was weird. But you're probably used to weird.

And I take it from your tone that I didn’t match up? You know, most people would sound disappointed, not relieved, he says kindly.

Well, I guess dark brown could be black, and hazel could be green, but Royal Blood is not the color of a black shirt with a tiger on it.

Lee? he says hesitantly.

Yes? I reply, even more hesitant, a sense of foreboding making me shiver.

Royal Blood is not a color. It's a rock band. And the shirt I’m wearing has a tiger on it.

I hang up right away, as if the disconnect can suck the words back into the phone and reconnect me back to normalcy.

Chapter Four

Irush to my bathroom , silencing my ringing cell, on automatic as I go through the motions to shower. I’m surrounded by white hexagon tile and glass walls as I take it extra hot and extra-long, trying to immerse myself in just this moment, trying to not let my mind think about anything else. I ground myself, feeling the smooth river pebbles embedded in the floor beneath my feet. The water pounds my back as I try to reclaim some breathing space. I do my breathing exercises, a drill as basic as breathing for a singer like me. The multiple jets of water do their best to help me reset, but the stimulus isn’t enough to stop the refrain in my mind, a replay of the end of the conversation. Something is definitely up.

My dad’s critical voice adds to the chorus in my head, You’re crazy. What’s the matter with you?

I’m not, I silently defend. But I must be. Either that or … what? What the hell is going on?

I shake the water out of my eyes and shut the nozzles off. I brace my palm against the tile and lean into it.

C’mon Leigh. You’ve been through worse than this. Buck up. It’s not you. You know you’re not crazy. You can get to the bottom of this.

I focus on the next step and generate a half-baked plan as I wrap myself in organic 800 GSM Egyptian cotton. At least it’s forward momentum. But I’m gonna need some help figuring this out; I can’t do this on my own. And I have to be extra careful; the media will latch onto any abnormal thing I do and spin it out of control.

I towel off and traipse into the large walk-in closet, headed straight for the back, the province of the ball gowns. Everything’s better when you’re in a luxurious dress.

I pick a rose-gold number, an A-line V-neck with tulle and a linear, glitter overlay. Perfect. Now I’m dressed for success. Next, I grab a couple more burner phones and my laptop. The first phone I used has been ringing off the hook, and although Brayden seems to have some useful information, something unnerving is going on between us. I’m not ready for him yet. I silence it.

The only starting point I have otherwise is Enya. I look up info on the scientific foundation started by her husband. I'll email and see if I can get an appointment through the guise of a donation. One of my alias email accounts shows five new emails from Brayden. Oh, well. Next, I look up some favorite retailers and pick some things to buy. I call the store numbers and see if I get any hits on what the person on the other end looks like.

I'm having no such luck, so I really try to get into it, talking the sales representative up, getting to know them, closing my eyes. Mocha, my big chocolate brown girl, does that happy noise when she’s being petted and wants more, but I don’t let that perturb me. I am focused and—

Okay, that playful yelp was definitely distracting and uncalled for. I open my eyes, and I’m about to remind Mocha who’s top dog when I see him — Brayden! — looking just like I imagined him. In the hall outside my bedroom. Playing on the floor with my dogs. WTF?

My rational mind is shrieking in full-out panic, but my heart keeps me rooted, unable to take action. It tells me I can trust him. I have this inexplicable sense of just knowing he’s not here to harm me, but that he’s on my side. Like I know him, and we’re mates. I should feel alarmed, but I don’t, at least not as much as I should. Instead, I feel conflicted. My palms are sweaty, and my blood is racing through my veins, but my whole body is buzzing with this feeling of well-being, like coming home and taking a breather after a really good run. Or really good sex.

I’m still torn as I take in that he’s grinning at me. He keeps belly rubbing Mocha, attention hog that she is, while Vela tries to push her out of the way for her own share of pats. Traitors.

How did he get here? Wasn’t he in America?

Nice outfit, he says in the same voice as on the phone,