Eternal Rider - Larissa Ione [21]
Her living room. She was in her living room, on her couch. The weird dream faded, replaced by real-life confusion. She’d obviously fallen asleep on her couch, but… why was there a glass and an empty bottle of vodka on her coffee table? She didn’t drink, not a drop since the break-in two years ago. She’d learned that life was fragile, full of surprises, and she didn’t want any of her senses—or reflexes—dulled by anything, including medications or alcohol.
Unease rolled down her spine as she ran her hands over her face. Her skin felt tender, and as she dragged her fingers down to her mouth, the unease doubled. Her lips were swollen, inflamed.
As if she’d been kissed.
A sudden image of an impossibly huge man holding her against him popped into her head, and whoa, that had to have been part of a dream, because no one was that big. Or handsome. A vision unfolded in her mind of him lowering his perfectly shaped mouth to hers. She could practically feel his warm tongue stroking her lips, and it was so real that her body flamed hot.
A pleasant flush spread over her skin, but when the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, she suddenly went from oddly aroused to feeling as though someone was watching her. Forgetting her swollen lips and the dream man, she whipped her head around, but there was no one there. Damn, she was sick of this paranoia, but that didn’t stop her from scanning every corner twice.
Satisfied that there was no one in the room, she ignored the lingering sensation that eyes were on her to focus on the TV, which was blaring some breaking news about a deadly malaria outbreak in Siberia. Since Siberia wasn’t exactly a malaria hotspot, the disease was a big deal, made bigger by the fact that experts had never encountered this particular strain.
“The Siberian outbreak is only one of dozens of odd occurrences of highly lethal plagues striking populations all over the globe,” the anchor was saying. “Religious leaders everywhere are citing end-of-the-world prophecies, and scientists are advising people to use common sense. As one researcher at the World Health Organization puts it, ‘People screeched about Armageddon during the last swine flu outbreak. And before that, it was the bird flu. What we’re seeing is nature rebelling against insect control chemicals and antibiotics.’ ” The journalist’s expression was grim as he looked into the camera. “And now we go to the Balkan peninsula, where rising tensions—”
Cara turned off the TV. It seemed like lately the news was all bad, full of disease, war, and growing panic.
She stood, feeling a little wobbly… and what the heck? Her pajamas were filthy, as if she’d rolled around in a barnyard. Two different colors of dirt smeared her pjs, and there were grass stains on her sleeves. And was that… blood… on her top?
Heart pounding wildly, she patted herself down, inspecting for injuries, but other than a kink in her neck she could probably blame on the lumpy couch, she felt fine.
If losing her mind could be considered fine.
The sound of a vehicle engine broke into the cacophony of her jumbled thoughts. Grateful for the distraction, she drew aside the front window’s heavy curtains. The mailman’s Jeep pulled away, which explained the pounding that had woken her up. She went to the door, relieved that all the locks were in place. But still, why was she filthy? Had she sleepwalked? And sleep-slammed a dozen shots of vodka?
Caffeine. She needed caffeine to figure this out. The spiderwebs in her brain seemed to be catching all her thoughts and tangling them up so they couldn’t form a coherent explanation for any of this.
She worked the locks, being careful to check the peephole before unhooking the chain, and then grabbed the box and rubber-banded mail the mailman had left. The letters turned out to be bills. Lots of them, and all of them with yellow or pink slips inside.
Well, electricity and running water were luxuries, weren’t they?
The box, containing her only indulgence—gourmet coffee—she left unopened.