Layla
I know I’m in a dream.
The room around me is all white–creamy white curtains drifting in a phantom breeze, white walls glistening with warm sunshine. It feels like I’m out of my own body as Dalton lowers his head, his incredible green eyes shining like smooth jade. I wrap my arms around his neck while his lips hover over mine.
He’s close enough I could kiss him. I want to. I wonder what he tastes like more than anything.
“Tell me what you want, Angel.”
“I want you,” I whisper, trailing my fingertips over the back of his neck.
“Eyes on me,” he whispers, then lowers his head. I feel the briefest featherlight touch of his lips against my own before the dream disintegrates and I’m yanked back to startling reality.
Naked and tangled in sweaty, damp sheets, I sit up and rub my eyes. My head throbs as the memories of last night come rushing back to me.
Gin. I’d been drinking gin. I’d also been day drinking and ordered a mimosa at practically every cafe we explored before even thinking about checking out New Orleans’s night scene. Then, back in Hahnville, I’d stumbled out of the Uber and walked back to the house where Dalton had met me halfway down the driveway.
The memory of him almost tugging my dress down and exposing my breasts–the thought of him touching me so intimately in general–has my skin prickling with the need to be touched.
I’m on dangerous ground with him, I realize. There’s obviously something heated brewing between us, and this could get out of hand.
Do I want to fuck him? Uh, hell yeah. Especially now that the man haunts my dreams almost every night. Is falling into bed with him a good idea?
Absolutely not.
I know with every fiber of my being that Dalton is the kind of guy that could fuck up my life. He’d fuck me like a god and then disappear. I’d wear our encounter like a scar for the rest of my life.
My phone buzzes on the bedside table. I blink into the sunlight and reach for it, shocked to learn it’s nearly noon already. I swear I left it in the Uber…. Maybe I was more drunk last night than I thought.
Thank God it’s Sunday, and I have the day, and night, off.
I flop back against the pillows and stare up at the ceiling. I’m sticky with sweat, and the stifling heat of the day has already warmed the room past the point of being comfortable. But, I have nothing to do. No plans, nowhere to go, nowhere to be.
My phone rings, and I pick it up, squinting at the screen for a moment before answering it.
“Hey–”
“Hey! I’m just making sure you’re okay!” Bailey’s voice echoes through the phone.
I wince, the volume sending my already aching head throbbing anew. “I’m totally fine. I just drank way more than I realized and felt pretty sick.”
“Well, I’m glad you got home all right. You could drive out and meet us back in NOLA if you want. I’m not going back to Hahnville until later tonight.”
“I’m gonna stay here. You were right about me needing to catch up on sleep.”
“Did you just wake up?” She laughs, her voice like soft music.
“Yeah, I did.” I smile to myself as her laughter fills my ears. I turn my head toward my bedroom door while Bailey gives me the rundown about the rest of the night, how she danced with some guys from the club until the early hours of the morning, and how Adam and Carlos went to brunch without her this morning.
But as she talks--and talks, and talks--I’m barely listening, unaware of most of her words because I’m staring at an empty bottle of scotch on the side table next to my bedroom door.
A single rose sticks out of the top, its blood red petals shimmering in the sunlight.
“Bailey,” I say after I find my voice again. “Do you know much about Dalton?”
The line between us fizzles and cracks, the call momentarily breaking up. “What did you say? I can barely hear you?”
“Dalton,” I repeat, slowly sitting up with my eyes locked on the bottle of scotch. “The artist who lives here.”
“Who? Layla–”
The call abruptly drops. My phone slips out of my hand as I stare at the bottle. One of the petals falls from the rose, fluttering down to land on the table without a sound.
I’m out of bed in an instant. I pull on a shirt and shorts then storm barefoot out of my room and hurtle down the stairs, skipping the last few steps.
Dalton is nowhere to be found on the first floor or the second. I even open the door to Aunt Penny’s room, where Vera is sitting in the chair reading a magazine. She glares at me, shooting daggers with her eyes as I shut the door and continue looking in each and every room on the second floor.
Reluctantly, I walk up the creaking staircase to the third floor and begin yanking on every door I come across.
Everything is locked, and I didn’t bring the keys.
The fourth floor is the same, and I don’t spend a second more than I have to up there. It’s the one untouched floor of the house. The wood floor is caked in dust and grime from decades of neglect. “Dalton?” I say into the damp, dust filled air.
The creaking, scratching sound answers me, right above my head where the attic rests.
I sprint away like my life depends on it, almost falling down the stairs leading from the third floor, and race down the narrow, darkened hallway until I reach the flight of stairs leading to the second floor, then the first.
Vera is in the supply room now. She turns, shouting, “Nurse Bryant! What on earth are you doing?!”
I skid to a stop in the foyer, panting, my sleep ruffled hair standing on end as I fight for breath. “Where the hell is Dalton?”
“Who?” she asks, blinking at me with a scowl pinching her thin brows together.
“Dalton,” I pant, throwing her an exasperated look. “The boarder.”
She rolls her eyes and turns back to whatever she was doing. “I don’t see anyone else here. Do you?” She turns and gives me a look that makes me assume she thinks I’ve lost my mind.
I huff out a breath and run my hands over my face before walking toward the kitchen. She’s just fucking with me to be mean. I make a pot of coffee, tapping my nails on the counter while I wait for it to brew. That creepy motherfucker left me a rose, didn’t he? How long was he in my room? And what, exactly, was he doing while he was there?
I slip on a pair of sandals I leave in the kitchen, and I’m out the back door the second I have a mug of coffee in my hand, stomping down the steps. I walk for a while, unsure of where I’m going. All I know is that I need to get out of the house--now. I walk until I reach the tree line where Curtis’s immaculate landscaping ends and the wild marshlands begin.
It’s strangely noisy here. Insects buzz and chirp, and a breeze rustles the leaves overhead. In the distance, I can see the slight rise of the old cemetery. The marsh hugs it, creating what I can only describe as a small island, the murky water surrounding the headstones shimmering in the sunlight.
I lift my coffee to my lips to finally take a sip but catch movement out of the corner of my eye. A tall, dark haired man is walking through the marsh, his back to me. His outfit is… strange. Old and out of place. He looks like he just stepped out of one of the BBC dramas my mom loves to watch.
“Dalton!” I screech, my temper flaring. Dalton–and I’m sure it’s him–continues to walk through the trees until he disappears from sight. Fuck. I chug my coffee and toss the mug behind me before stepping across the boundary of the backyard into the wild marsh beyond.
It’s much cooler out here in the shade of the trees. I carefully walk in the direction I saw Dalton headed in, dressed in his weird outfit. Maybe he’s into historical reenactments? LARPing? Who knows, but that’s not what’s important right now. I grumble curses as I maneuver through the woods which eventually gives way to the marsh. Soon I’m ankle deep in water, and can’t see the house behind me anymore.
“DALTON!” I cry out. My voice is absorbed by the sounds of the swamp, disappearing into a flurry of birdsong and the flapping of wings. I instinctively cover my head as several large birds I can’t identify erupt in flight behind me, squawking with alarm. “Jesus Christ,” I groan. “Where the hell am I?”
I’ve lost Dalton at this point. He had to know I was screaming his name, right? Surely he wouldn’t just leave me out here. Or, this was his plan all along, and now he’s got me alone and vulnerable.
I stalk forward, unsure which direction I’m traveling in now. My sandals catch in the muddy bottom of the marsh as I fight my way toward a thicket of trees that looks like it’s situated on a rise. My priorities shift from tracking down Dalton to getting out of the marsh and back on dry land. What had I been thinking?
Finally, I haul myself out of the marsh and make my way through the trees. It is, in fact, a slope, and in a few minutes, I’m cresting a small bluff with a sweeping view of the marshlands beyond.
The cemetery is only a few hundred yards away, by my estimation. If I can get there, it’s a straight shot back to the house, but it means trudging through the marsh that encircles it again.
I blink into the sunlight, which is absolutely roasting me. Wiping sweat from my brow, I pant, and start my journey to the cemetery.
“Fuck you, Dalton,” I groan ten minutes later. I’m wet to the knees, my legs covered in mud, and my sandals are absolutely trashed. My hair falls over my shoulders–sticking to my face and neck. It has to be close to a hundred degrees right now, and there’s no breeze over here. Not at all.
I grunt with effort as I wade through another stretch of marsh water and reach a set of decaying stone steps. The hair on the back of my neck rises as I step out of the water and look around, noticing headstones partly submerged in the swamp, the visible stone covered in algae and moss.
I shiver at the thought of the sheer number of graves I’ve just walked over to get here.
But, thank God, I can finally see the house again, and I know exactly what route I need to take to get back home.
Tired and overheated, I sink into a crouch and rest my elbows on my knees, closing my eyes against the relentless glare of the hot summer sun. I’ve almost forgotten why I came out here in the first place when I open my eyes again, and something red catches my attention.
At the crest of the small hill, an unkempt and severely overgrown rose bush snakes between a trio of headstones. It’s in full bloom and smells divine in contrast to the rank stench of the stagnant water all around me. A cold sweat breaks out along my hairline as I slowly raise my head and peer at the blood red rose blooms.
That fucker not only left me a rose, but he’d picked it here… in the cemetery.
I struggle to my feet, my legs aching from my trek through the marsh, and walk to the rose bush, brushing my fingers over the satin-like petals. I reach to pluck a particular perfect rose from its stem when a shadow looms over me.
My scream barely leaves my throat before I’m yanked away and whirled around, my wet, muddy sandals sliding over the overgrown grass.