Blood of Zeus (Blood of Zeus #1) - Meredith Wild Page 0,26
questions.
With that, she’s opening the door to things that are harder to accept. Feelings I’ve long buried. My own curiosity. The deep-seated need to find answers.
The conflicting thoughts are a skirmish in my skull. They brim over, electrifying the air with palpable energy.
It’s now three a.m., and I’ve officially declared sleep my enemy tonight. After changing and running the eight blocks to my twenty-four-hour gym, I push myself through a workout that has the three other lunatics in there with me—film stuntmen keeping up their game—openly gawking. Other days I might care. This morning I don’t.
By the time I jog back home and shower, it’s time for Recto Verso to open. When I go, I’m often the first one in the door—usually for the exact reason Sarah cites as the brass doorbell jingles over my head.
“Bad dreams?”
A fine dust swirls through morning rays illuminating the front half of the store. She turns away from me to whip up my daily latte and then hands it to me. After accepting it, I reach over the long bar into the syrup well and add a shot of cinnamon flavoring to the savory brown liquid.
One of her brows jumps. “All right, then?”
I blow some of the foam off the top of my drink. “How about you let me get at least halfway through this before you start the interrogation?”
She answers with nothing but a soft chuckle. Probably a wise move considering I’m this jittery before the caffeine hits.
At last I mutter, “Why did you instantly go there? I mean, about the dreams?”
At first, that earns me nothing but a subtle smile. With Sarah, the look could mean anything from “take out the trash” to “I know the path to world peace.” Right now, I sincerely hope it’s neither.
“You have the look,” she offers at last.
“The look?” I narrow my gaze and twist my lips. “Like what?”
“The look you always get.” She shrugs, but not very convincingly. The movement causes the sequins on her classic Bowie tee to flash in the Tiffany-style lighting. The coffee bar has more muted light than the store’s reading areas, for which I’m grateful at the moment. Dimness is good for downplaying confusion—though I’m likely not very effective at it either. “Like you haven’t just been dreaming.”
“Oh?”
The word is all she needs. Like Reg, Sarah knows not to play with small talk when I’ve been pacing instead of sleeping. “Like you had a dream, woke up, and then decided to act it all out for your stuffed animals.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or swear. I settle for a weird mix of the two beneath my breath before responding, “I never had any stuffed animals, Sarah.”
“I know.”
Just like that, the lights seem even dimmer. Too damn dark. I straighten on my stool and smack my hands together, appointing myself official mood lifter. Seems only fair. “So. What’s new around here?”
A weighted silence—resulting in my new misgivings. Unlike Reg, Sarah’s usually the first one to jump on the bandwagon for lightening the conversation. She has serious game at it too. The woman is up-to-date on every speck of pop culture gossip there is, from the top of the pop charts to the bottom of the fashion faux pas.
“Well,” she finally murmurs, “I reckon that’s what I should be asking you now, yes?”
“Hmm.” I take another sip of my latte, assessing her over the rim of the cup. The woman can be the queen of neutral composure and is out to prove it with irritating thoroughness.
“You ‘reckon,’ eh?”
She solidifies her stance, though the posture thing is only a backup for the resolve in her stare. “Aha. Now I get it.” She jabs up her chin. “You didn’t dream last night because you didn’t sleep last night.”
I set down my mug with an equally purposeful clunk. “Not a statement I’ll be able to deny.”
“Bollocks,” she mutters. “I was hoping to be wrong.”
“But you pretty much knew you’d be right.” I arch a brow. “Right?”
She frowns, readjusting her stance again. “But you’re only a few days into the new semester. What gives?”
The uptick of concern in her tone is weirdly comforting. And greatly needed. I’m off-balance. I have been for hours. Probably longer. When a dam has a crack, it’s easy enough to ignore. But the crack is becoming a fissure, making me realize how much pressure has really built up behind it.
I take another second to sip my cinnamon brew. The taste alone lends me courage to say my next words.