Duality (The Duality Series Book 1) Read online

  None of us were in an amiable mood.

  The officers argued with me to allow a medic to look at the gash on my back. It throbbed and bled in short, cold streaks. My attacker left me a nice little gift, probably with a side of tetanus. How sweet.

  Perched precariously on the edge of the couch, a smallish woman in EMT gear assessed my injury. She pronounced me likely to live, then told me she’d return after loading my attacker into the ambulance.

  My fingers fidgeted with my pearl-and-obsidian ring throughout the entire ordeal. The calming distraction soothed my mind as I methodically slid the ring onto one finger, took it off, put it on the next finger, turned it.

  Focus, Jex. Get this over with.

  Their questions began innocently enough, but quickly nose-dived and plummeted toward dumpster-fire status.

  “Ma’am, we need to know what happened,” officer one huffed, “it’s a criminal offense to lie to the police.”

  He seriously ma’am’d me! I delivered my absolute best fuck-all-the-way-off face.

  “I’m not lying,” I snarled. “I’ve sat here—patiently, I might add—answering the same question five, six, seven times. What more do you want from me?”

  In fairness, I’d left out how I could have run inside. BPD would surely frown on the fact I could have gotten away without causing further harm.

  Still, they seemed very interested in how I’d incapacitated a knife-wielding attacker. Officer Krupke, as I thought of him, considered my five-foot-four height and curvy frame and his assessment was obvious—he didn’t think I could deal damage to a paper bag, let alone an armed drunk with a hundred pounds on me.

  It’s not as if I’m a lightweight. I shouldn’t complain, since my hourglass bumps me up a notch on the hot-or-not scale. I could probably lay-off the soda and zebra cakes, but no one’s perfect.

  Krupke’s interrogation tactics escalated, the menace intensifying until his face splotched with every shade between white and red. His partner only passively watched while Krupke imploded.

  The EMT returned with a package of butterfly strips and braced a shoulder with one hand while she worked.

  “Ma’am, I don’t appreciate your tone of voice,” he said. My temper flared, and I gave a pointed look.

  “I’m nobody’s ma’am, first of all,” I retorted. “I’m twenty-four, so save the snide ma’am’s for someone else.”

  Contempt bubbling over, I sneered at him. Officer Krupke wasn’t causing any fuzzy feelings, and I felt little need for tact. No chance I’d let pass the opportunity to disabuse him of his entitled attitude.

  “Maybe you should talk to Chester Molester out there. I’m sure he can verify no one else was there. My knowledge may be limited to Law & Order reruns, but shouldn’t you question the guy with a knife and advanced cirrhosis?”

  “You’re lucky we’re not doing this in an interrogation room,” he thundered, looking hard at his partner, “and I still think we should take you in. That ‘guy with a knife’ has a broken wrist, two bruised ribs, and a cracked vertebrae. How do you explain that?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did the boozer get a boo-boo? In that case, maybe I should apologize to him.”

  I snatched the pad and pen from beside me on the key table and read as I wrote.

  “I’m … so … sorry … you … couldn’t … kill … me. Next … time … try … sober.” I peeled the page off and waved it around with my index and middle finger. He hulked over me, so I took the opportunity presented.

  “Help a girl out and deliver this to him?”

  My smile twisted as I folded the page in half and tucked it into his breast pocket.

  As he reared back, returning my sneer, the second officer edged between us.

  “Ah, Bill, why don’t you go check on the medics?” Officer Two told his partner.

  Krupke broke his death stare to glare at Two before stomping outside, hands balled into fists. It was satisfying to watch his sulky retreat. I pay the rent; I’m the only one allowed to have tantrums in my house.

  “We need to know exactly what happened,” Officer Two continued. His worried face seemed sincere, and my anger ebbed a smidge.

  “I told you what happened. I took the trash out. As I came back, he grabbed my arm and put a knife to me. I swung him around, and he hit the wall and fell over.”

  Officer Two appeared unconvinced as well.

  “No one was there to help you? You did all that damage by yourself?”

  “It must have been adrenaline, I don’t know, but no one else was around. He attacked me. I defended myself.”

  I folded my arms and winced as it caused the skin on my back to separate. Ouch.

  The medic grunted and yanked my shoulders into position, then began reapplying the butterfly tape.

  Officer Two surrendered and handed me his card. He gave an obligatory, “Give us a call if you remember anything else. We may ask you to testify,” before following his partner outside.

  The medic finished by pressing medical tape halfway across the length of my back. Great, how was I supposed to change that? Being un-coupled is great, until you decide on an unfortunate back tattoo or need someone to zip your dresses.

  “You’re pretty lucky,” the medic said, “most knife wounds are much worse. Like they say, assume you’ll get cut if you’re confronted with a knife. Which class did you take?”

  “Class?” I looked at her blankly.

  “Yeah, isn’t that how you disarmed him? Self-defense classes? I hear the Kenpo class at the Y is great.” The confusion must have been plain on my face because she continued, “The broken wrist? The damage looked like it was from a wrist lock.”

  I paused, trying to detect any hint of humor. Her face reflected only wide-eyed innocence. She hadn’t done anything to draw my ire, but with the way I felt, casualties could abound.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” I hedged, and looked away to foreclose further conversation. What else could I say? Why, yes, I went Karate Kid on his ass even though I have basically no training and, of course, I can explain what I did with perfect clarity.

  The medic left extra dressings and care instructions and disappeared into the ambulance.

  As I sank into bed, my whole body felt tender. It was nearing three in the morning, and I had to be awake and alert in four hours. My head throbbed, and it was difficult finding a comfortable position that wouldn’t irritate the slash across my back. My calico, Georgia, jumped onto the bed and licked at my arm.

  Life would be so much simpler if I were a house cat.

  Chapter Two

  MacGyver himself would have been proud of the long-handled kitchen tong technique I devised to change the dressings on my back.

  The rest of the week mercifully whizzed by. I didn’t attack anyone and, thankfully, the heat never burned through my chest again. I told no one about the incident. It was ludicrous, and not the fun Ludacris that made me dance and drink too much when it came through the speakers.

  If ignorance is bliss, then willful denial is at least somewhere around making-it-through-the-day.

  By the time the end of the week rolled around, the slice on my back had at least stopped stinging every time I moved. Tuesday was on its way to being a fading memory.

  On Friday morning, with Georgia safely ensconced under my neighbor’s couch, I gathered my rolling bag and headed to the airport.

  As I edged out of the Orlando airport rental car lot, heat drifted from the asphalt, making the landscape waver and my eyes glaze. The sun’s too bright in Florida, too sweltering. Sweat stuck to my skin, despite the car’s blasting air. The stark shift from frigid north to boiling south always threw me. The locals still thought this was cold.

  Visits home were bittersweet. I’d developed a strong independence young, which strained my relationship with my father. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I accused him of “a clinical case of self-righteous assholitis”—a phrase I’d managed to keep in my head to that point. The disorder entailed roaring
his statements, really commands, along with the phrase “because I said so,” while that vein in his neck bulged.

  Why don’t parents understand that “because I said so” is a terrible response to anyone over the age of six? Thoughtlessly following authority without understanding the reasoning or consequences never gets you anywhere.

  Blind faith, one; critical thought, zero.

  The return trip home began uneventful, but an ominous cloud planted the first seeds of apprehension during the drive. I’d been on the ground for just half an hour and was already edgy and anxious.

  As if they knew my destination, my cheeks flushed under the stress of the literal and emotional hostile climates. A regular side effect of my father’s assholitis included my face swelling from crying and screaming. Many a Kleenex were slaughtered on the altar of teenage angst.

  If I were entirely honest, the move to New England was not solely about the job and adventure. I’d bit my tongue so often on these trips it was a wonder I still had taste buds.

  In the driveway, I stared at my parents’ home and tried to prepare myself for what waited inside. Awkward relatives. Inadequate junk food. Anna’s school friends, who’d seep disappointment when I explained that life in Boston was not a Matt Damon movie. And my father …

  Maybe if I sat here long enough, I’d gather the courage to drive away?

  Nope, can’t do that. Anna would be very unhappy. She undoubtedly knew my plane’s ETA and probably signed up for rental car notifications. Even if I tried to escape, I could envision the carefully worded Amber Alert.

  As if she instinctively knew I was avoiding her party, Anna came out the front door.

  My sister and I look almost nothing alike. She’s two sizes smaller but taller by several inches. The phrase “chicken legs” was a staple of my vocabulary when we were younger. I’d matured, though. Now I screamed it mentally.

  As kids, I’d teased Anna for her “pixie pretty” smooth skin and rosy cheeks. She seemed delicate and breakable, like a tanned Kewpie doll and about as threatening. That is, until she opened her mouth. At that point, the hardest gangster would cower.

  I’ll admit I’ve been called pretty, even beautiful, by people who were not drunk at the time. Probably didn’t help that half my personality came from the movie Clue.

  Still, my sister was the envy of every girl in school, and very used to the people around her indulging her whims.

  She walked toward my car with a playful hop-skip that made her dress swish. Her soft curls had been cut into a blunt bob, the ringlets bouncing as she moved. Hints of hibiscus perfume wafted into the car when she sat in the passenger seat.

  Anna’s pale pink sundress showed off the slightest baby bump. She’d only found out she was pregnant a few weeks ago and was clearly going to milk it for all it was worth.

  “Hey, Jex,” she said with a toothy smile. She fussed with my hair and brought out a cherry lip gloss.

  Uh oh, danger ahead.

  “What did you do?”

  Her smile morphed into a mischievous grin. She held out the pause after my question until I thought the Cheshire Cat might explode from her head.

  “There’s a boy in there for you,” she proclaimed.

  I sighed. Twenty-one, married, and pregnant, and Anna still obsessed over my romantic matches. Couldn’t she just get me a kitten? I’d excel at the cat-lady lifestyle.

  “No, hello, so nice to see you? Thank you for flying cross-country for me? So glad you could make it. It means a lot?”

  “Hello, so nice to see you. Thank you for flying cross-country for me. It means a lot, especially to the boy I brought for you.”

  Exhaling yet another exasperated sigh, I repeated to myself how much I loved my sister and did, in fact, want to see her. Didn’t mean I couldn’t poke at her, as required by the Rules of Sisterhood.

  “I’d rather fucking not, dear sister,” I replied with a grin. “I just landed, and this isn’t a swoon-worthy ensemble.”

  She winced. Point to me.

  “Mom bought you a dress. Come on, you need to get over your electrician.”

  “Not my electrician,” I replied.

  “Perhaps if that had been the case, there wouldn’t be a boy here for you.”

  Point to her.

  There was no use arguing, really, and it would make her happy. I could last the few days and flee to the solitude of my northern escape. If she wanted to torment me, well, it was her party.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I mumbled. Putting on my big-girl pants, I pushed open the car door.

  Sweat collected on my hairline, and the slightest ache of heat nipped at my chest as I dragged out my luggage.

  Shit. I hesitated at the odd sensation. Was I about to kung-fu someone?

  Nope, only normal social anxiety and the Florida sun’s hatred of an acceptable comfort level. I hadn’t felt that bizarre burn all week, so perhaps it’d been an exhaustion-induced hallucination.

  The party was getting into the swing while Joss Stone crooned how she “Fell in Love with a Boy.” Decorations shaped like pacifiers were strung along the walls. Pink, fuzzy teddy bears perched on each step of the staircase. Everywhere I looked, something was bubble-gum pink.

  A Pepto Bismol factory had exploded in what used to be my parent’s sleek and elegant home.

  My sister married Seth, a real estate agent, about six months ago. The two had known each other for exactly ten months as of now, but they seemed happy.

  I carried my bag up the steps, kicking a bear for good measure, and went into the room I’d occupied since I was two. It still held my high-school paraphernalia and brought back echoes of memories. Pictures of friends, leftover college texts, several books—including a fantasy series I never got around to reading—and various other young-adult accouterments covered the walls and floor.

  Even my nightly To-Do list was taped to the ceiling over the bed, pinned up as a reminder to myself after falling asleep one too many times without cleaning the cat box.

  With as much as Anna demanded my return trips, my parents never changed my room. Still, I knew my father was desperate for a private study. I surveyed the jettisoned bits of life that had once been so important.

  “The place is a pigsty. It’s good you’re home to sort the mess.” I whirled, surprised by the sound of my father behind me. He stood in the doorway.

  “Hi, Dad, it’s good to be home.”

  He grunted a response. He looked so much older than the last time I’d seen him, even though it had only been two months. His hair grayed a little more, the line receding.

  My mother stood beside him. Anna gets her waifish figure from our mother, currently donning pearls and a pale pink pantsuit that would do Barbie proud. The decor downstairs was undoubtedly her doing.

  “We’re so glad you came, Jessica,” my mother’s sing-song voice cooed.

  Everyone and their mother was “Jessica,” and I loathed it. Only three people close to me used the name. Jex was unique and interesting, and it made it easier to pick out the creditors and telemarketers.

  Granted, my grandmother once awkwardly told me she would never accept my chosen moniker, which she insisted in a hushed tone was too much like the word “sex” for polite company.

  I gave my mother a look that conveyed how I felt about Anna’s recent shenanigans.

  “Like I have a choice, Anna’s nearly perfected her push-until-agreement-or-death method. She’ll make an excellent mother.”

  Hearing my mother’s hearty laugh warmed my chest. You would never put her, with her slight frame and mild personality, and that laugh together.

  “Speaking of which, you can’t go to her party dressed like that!” She appraised my holey jeans and hoodie that told the world, I’m never lost—people always tell me where to go.

  “It’s fine, Mom, really, not that big of a deal.”

  “Well, I left something special for you. Freshen up and come down to see everyone,” my mother added, motioning to a box on
the ancient sleigh bed.

  My father rolled his eyes, muttering about girls and parties, but they left me in peace to change.

  Parting the tissue paper in the box revealed a navy dress with matching shoes. The A-line silhouette fluttered lightly as I brought it out. The neckline and hem were made of an intricate lattice that blended effortlessly so that you couldn’t tell where satin charmeuse ended and lace began.

  The cut would hug my curves and cinch my waist exactly right to show off the hourglass. I might not be squeal-level girly, but even I had weaknesses.

  Sighing, at least a little of the stress siphoned away.

  The dress gave a nice burst of energy, and I twisted my hair into a messy bun and plucked out a few wispy curls, then paired it all with a drop pendant stolen from my mother’s old jewelry box.

  The cake had been cut by the time I made it downstairs. Starving, I beelined for the buffet, only to be intercepted by my hormone-ravaged sister.

  Anna towed me by the hand toward a small group of people. A woman with long, blond hair and legs up to her neck wore the tiniest patch of fabric that would cover her. She leaned close to a wiry man in a sweater-vest with wavy hair and glasses. Neither of them noticed us.

  The third member, however, immediately looked up and tracked our approach. His physique was all baseball player, tall with wide shoulders and powerful arms. Dark, wavy hair framed intense green eyes and a strong jaw. A forest-green shirt amplified the effect as he stood casually with his hands in his pockets.

  Clark Kent, eat your heart out.

  “Matt, Kim, Ryan, this is my sister, Jex.” Anna became Vanna, complete with a hand wave.

  Sweater-vest Matt ogled my “new dress,” but Kim only sniffed her dismissal. Ryan, Mr. Magnificent in green, leaned over to shake my hand. His grip was firm and considerate, despite callouses on his palms. Too hot, too cold, and just right. The classics never die.

  We must have held hands a moment too long, because Kim wrapped garishly manicured fingers around Ryan’s shoulder. She glared at me.

  He pulled his hand back, replacing them in his pockets and avoiding eye contact.