Celestra: Books 1-2 by Addison Moore
“No, but it’s my job to rob you, and I don’t feel too good about it.” He presses an assortment of buttons, and the register springs open.
“How about you take me to dinner and a movie? We’ll call it even.”
“Deal.” He slams the register shut, and I get out of line, so he can help the people behind me.
It’s busy tonight, like everyone on the island decided it was a good night to bowl.
I see Brielle waving us over in the far corner of the room. Drake strides ahead, as if she’s waving at him exclusively, and judging by the come hither look in her eyes, the cleavage down to her navel, she just might be.
“Hey, you playing?” Gage flicks at the shoes in my hands.
His hair is slicked back, exposing the sheer perfection of his features. I’m shocked there aren’t a hundred girls mobbing him at any given time. Logan’s looking pretty hot too, but I would never want to imagine a single girl mobbing him, let alone a hundred.
“You always this bright?” I can’t help responding to the natural inclination I have to be a little mean to Gage. I’m afraid if I give him the wrong signals he’ll think the wedding is on, and he might send his pet bird after me again.
“I’m off in ten. If you want to make it even, I can hang out.”
“Whatever.” I look back at Logan. The line just exploded out the door. Wish he were off in ten.
Drake sets up the computer. Instead of Drake, he actually writes Count Drakeula and I want to crawl in a hole. For Brielle he writes sexy thang—again displaying his incredible lack of judgment. Thankfully for me, he just puts Skyla. Gage hops over before he’s done filling in the queue, so his name goes beneath mine.
“You think it’ll look like that on our wedding invitations?” I tease, leaning over to put on my shoes.
He folds his arms and slides deep in his seat. He doesn’t find any humor in the situation, just chews the inside of his cheek out of frustration.
I miss both Brielle and Drake’s turns because I’m too busy staring down Gage— trying to decode his mysterious aura.
“You’re up.” He kicks playfully at my foot.
I’m sharing a hot pink eight-pound ball with Brielle. Before I head down the lane to shoot I note she scored a strike, so it’s got to be good luck. I take a running start then go to release, only it doesn’t release, it sticks to my fingers popping off in midair and lands hard as an anvil on the gleaming wood floors. Sounds like a cannon just went off.
My shoulders pinch up around my neck, and I’m praying no one saw, only I know Gage did for sure because I can feel him burning a hole through my shirt right this very second.
I turn to find not only Gage, but an equally stunned Brielle and Drake gawking at me as though I had just committed the most heinous sporting crime ever. And to my delight and horror the bitch squad happens to be picking out balls with none other than Logan just past our table—they’re all probably wondering who gave the blonde jackass a bowling ball to play with.
The return cycle spits out the hot pink nightmare, and I pick it up again. Logan appears next to me holding a blue marbled ball that looks as though he’s shrunk down the earth and sky for me.
“Try this one, it might be a better fit.” He takes the monster ball with a serious mind of its own away from me. I’m surprised he doesn’t come after me for damages.
“Thanks.”
“Here, I’ll show you how to shoot.” He walks me down the beginning of the lane and bends my arm back. I can feel his leg press in hard against mine. His arm slips just behind my elbow, his warm neck cradles in the crook of my shoulder.
I never knew bowling could be such an erotic sport.
“Neither did I,” he whispers hot in my ear.
I laugh as we chuck the ball awkwardly down the lane. Only this time it’s not an automatic gutter ball. This time, it rolls all the way down and knocks back half the pins.
Logan and I exchange high-fives.
I hop back to my seat filled with glee, even though Logan went back to answer some ludicrous question Michelle screeched over at him. I watch as he sits down at their table and starts filling in their computer board.
Gage bullets his ball down the lane with a vengeance and gets a strike right off the bat. I’d accuse him of dumb luck, but he’s probably bowled in the dark and achieved the same feat.
I glance over my shoulder and catch Logan’s name popping up on the neighboring screen.
“I thought he was working tonight,” I muse to Gage as he takes a seat.
“He’s the boss. Always doing what he likes.” He stretches his arm across the back of the curved bench, his fingers touching the top of my shoulder.
Brielle screams and shouts with great exuberance from her second strike in a row, which I missed again—some friend I am.
“Congratulations,” I say without the required enthusiasm.
“Is that what’s bugging you?” She clicks her tongue over at the next table. “Logan has a way of getting around.” She pulls a face. “Sorry. He’s just friendly that way.”
“Is this true?” I ask Gage below a whisper.
“I try not to affiliate myself with rumors,” there’s a palpable sarcasm in his tone. “Judge for yourself.”
I try to look back without being so obvious. Logan has his hand on Michelle’s arm as she leans in and whispers something to him. I know what he’s doing. He’s reading her mind. I’m sure it’s loaded with equal portions of lust and lunacy.
Logan looks back and sees me watching. He gives a brief wink, a barely there expression of acknowledgement, before turning his full attention to whatever it is she’s filling his head with.
They openly share a laugh.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear they were a couple.
17
Snake
The sky has split open. It yawns long stretches of rain—torrential downpours— until the roadways look like muddy rivers polluted with battery acid, mud the color of rust rising up on its sides.
Brielle called and asked if Drake and I wanted to come over, hang out and watch a movie, so we go.
The house looks different. More structured, less carefree than the last time I was here. It’s been dusted and swept and the dishes are not migrating all over the counter, most likely courtesy of Brielle herself.
She’s wearing a brand new black sweater with peek-a-boo lace trim. It’s embarrassingly apparent she’s not wearing a bra. Deductive logic reasons this by the way she’s bouncing around. Her face is done up kabuki style with too much makeup and not enough reality left for the discriminating eye. Something tells me I’ll be watching this movie on her larger than life plasma all by my lonesome.
“So Drake,” she over annunciates his name, “would you like a tour of the house?”
“Really?” I ignore the opening credits and turn down the volume. “Is that where this is headed? Because I could leave, and you two can tour the world for all I care.”
“No, no! Don’t do that, please.” Brielle purses her lower lip in a dramatic fashion.
“Fine I’ll stay.”
As soon as they head upstairs, I pluck out my phone and start texting Logan.
Where are you? I’m doing time at B’s. She’s getting busy with monkey boy. ~S
A fair amount of the movie goes by before my cell vibrates over the coffee table.
Work. Want to come? I can use the help. Must be a great day to bowl. What is B doing with a monkey?
I hear the distinct knock of a headboard whack against the wall a few times then nothing. I’m afraid to move, or breathe, and I want nothing more than to run home in the pouring rain and pull the covers up over my head. I’m not sure that I’m fit to live in a world where monkey boy gets action with a beautiful girl like Bree, especially not if said action is taking place right above my head. It feels like an unholy violation listening to it in real time.
Trust me, I’d much rather help u. It is the perfect day for bowling. And to answer yo
It takes less than a minute for him to respond.
Rutting?! You have a way with words. You should write poetry.
I laugh at the thought. If I wrote poetry it wouldn’t be about my rodent-like stepbrother and newfound best friend. I would pen rivers of sappy words, all strung together in an effort to capture the intense feelings I have for Logan. I might just do that anyway.
I’ll save my poems for you. I promise they will not include the word rutting. Ever. ~S
I try and formulate a poem for him in my mind, but each time the word love pops up uninvited. Is this what it feels like to be in love? What I feel for Logan?
He buzzes right back.
Rutting is my new favorite word. BTW, Gage wants me to give you a message. He very much looks forward to rutting with you.
Ha. Ha.
Tell Gage anytime. I’m waiting and coincidentally very lonely at this very moment. ~S
Less than ten seconds.
Never mind. I suddenly have a great disdain for the word rutting. You must never rut with Gage. Promise me this.
My heart warms at his sudden burst of jealousy.
Will you rut with others? Turnabout is fair play. ~S
No.
Promise. ~S
I place down the phone and settle in to watch the rest of the movie. It was a strange yet comforting conversation with Logan. I think I’m one inch away from being his girlfriend. I wonder how it gets to be official. Write on your Facebook wall? Change your status to read in a relationship? Or maybe it just becomes so painfully obvious that after a while everybody and their mother knows. I’ve never had a boyfriend before, but I’d sure love the answer to these questions.
18
Take Down
It’s not fifteen minutes into cheer practice that I manage to tweak my ankle entirely on my own. I’d love to blame just about anybody for today’s literal misstep, but the bulk of the blame is on me—OK—all of it.
“How’d you do this?” Logan’s football coach hovers over me. He presses his finger down over the growing bulge until I squeal in pain.
“Nice method of evaluation,” I slap his hand away, “if this were the middle-ages.”
His eyes bug out with surprise. I don’t really care what he thinks, I’m not one of his jocks who needs to take whatever he dishes, especially if what he’s dishing involves pain.
“Ice it. Stay off it for a day or two. Nothing’s broken.” He rises to his feet then claps his hands extra loud in an effort to break up the crowd.
Logan reaches down and picks me up effortlessly with one arm under both knees, the other supporting my back. “Where to?”
“I need ice.” I try not to let on that I’m on the verge of tears. It’s not so much the pain than the embarrassment and extra attention. I was never a big fan of either.
“I know just the place.”
Brielle walks beside us over to his truck.
“There’s no way you’ll get her in there,” she says, full with concern over the aerial feat Logan is ready to attempt.
He has Gage hold open the door and block Brielle’s view as he lifts me safe into the seat as though I were as heavy as a hollowed out egg.
Gage hops in the back and we take off.
“First sunny day in a week and I blow it.”
“Blaming yourself for an injury is a defeatist attitude,” Logan says, looking at the road. “It’s time to relax and let your body heal.”
“Wise and true.” I wave to Gage out the back window.
We turn left instead of right at the light, away from the bowling alley or my house, so I’m clueless as to where he might be taking me.
“Falls of Virtue?” Actually that’s to the left as well. It’s just my round about way of grilling him for details.
“Nope. I know somewhere with much stronger healing properties. The foods pretty good too.”
“If there’s an ER involved, count me out. I hate hospitals almost as much as I hate blood.” A quick spike of panic shoots through me at the possibility.
“No ER, I promise.”
“Is there rutting involved?”
“Only if you want there to be.”
I wince as I shift my weight.
“There’s a yellow lab named Charlie,” he starts, “some hot chocolate, a grilled cheese sandwich, and an ice pack involved—maybe some reality TV.”
“Sounds like Heaven.”
“Almost is.”
A black sports car with deep tinted windows swings over into our lane and just keeps coming. It races toward us without wavering.
“Do something,” I scream in a panic.
The left lane is clogged with traffic and there’s a steep embankment to our right.
I can’t look. I go to cover my eyes, but as I do I notice the cars alongside us are no longer racing in the other direction, the people in them frozen in horror as they observe what’s about to happen.
The truck however is still moving, flying in slow motion over the oncoming traffic as we pass it—obnoxiously slow. Logan takes out his phone and snaps a picture of the men in the vehicle.
Then the world speeds up again, and we’re traveling at a normal velocity on the open stretch of road ahead as if nothing happened at all.
I look over at the truck bed and catch Gage hopping back inside, settling in.
It was him—Gage. He carried us over. Super human strength must be their shared gift.
I wonder what else they can do.
***
Logan and Gage run theories past each other of who those men could have been.
“There’s a meeting at Nicholas Haver’s in two days,” Gage informs him.
“We’re there.” They share a fist bump in the kitchen of their palatial home. Their parents aren’t home and I’m sort of disappointed. I’ve met the uncle, but I’m dying to meet Logan’s aunt, my supposed future mother-in-law. I guess she’d be my mother-in-law either way. I don’t know why, but I’m fascinated with other people’s mothers.
“I want to go,” I interject.
“Go where?” Logan’s busy pulling out the ingredients for our lunch.
“The meeting. It’s a Celestra thing, right?”
“Faction council. You’re a Celestra,” Gage corrects.
“There’s no way you can go.” Logan plucks a pan from underneath the cabinet. “You could endanger yourself. The less people know you have Celestra blood, the better.”
“Once you’re on their radar…” Gage and Logan share a look of discontent.
“Once I’m on their radar, they’ll want me dead.”
“Not necessarily right away. They might give you a fighting chance.” Gage folds his arms across his chest.
“Like you?” I direct it over at Logan.
“Apparently, I have more than a fighting chance. I’m going to live to a ripe old age, remember?” He darts a look over to Gage.
“We both are,” I confirm.
“Remember what I said about vegetables.” Gage slaps his hand against the doorframe on the way out of the kitchen.
I’m going to that meeting, neither Logan or Gage can stop me.
I watch as Logan fires up the stove, sprays the pan with oil.
It will all work out in the end because I’m going to live to be a ripe old age.
A bitter acid rises to the back of my throat.
Live to be a ripe old age.
Gage says so.
If I follow that logic...then I must also believe I’m going to marry him, which I don’t.
Do I?
19
Scheme
“Wake up!” My mother tears open the curtains. “Rise and shine and give God your glory, glory!” Her voice grates in my ears. I think I would have appreciated bamboo shoots beneath my fingernails just a little bit more. Her singing solidifies my perpetual bad mood for the day.
A dapple of pale sunlight streaks across my lids as I roll over, trying to ignore both it and the happy
“Come on, Skyla.” She rattles me by the shoulder. “Tad and I have a surprise for you—for the whole family. Come on.”
My mother evacuates the premises taking her fanatical jubilation with her, and the room reverts back to the peace and calm I’ve come to appreciate. I try to absorb the tranquility, the lull in the air, in an effort to balance out the agitation she just drilled into my bones.
I get up on my elbow and peer out the window. Fog softens the harshness of reality, steals the definition from the world—blankets itself around everything as if it were some supernatural form of protection. I’ve come to love Paragon—its moody days, cool star-filled nights, the falls, even the cemetery is a thing of beauty. Most of all, I love the people. It’s amazing how connected I feel in just a short period of time. It’s like I’ve always belonged here, like everything else was just a waypoint until I arrived at my final destination.
A hard knock detonates on the other side of the door.
“Now, Skyla,” Tad barks.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and push into my flip-flops before heading downstairs.
***
My mother has her hair done, her good jeans on, make-up in place, and it’s not quite seven-thirty.
A small sprig of hope rises in me at the thought of this being their big divorce announcement. Now that would be a surprise. That’s one family meeting I’m very much anticipating.
I plop down on the couch next to Mia and Melissa, while Drake busies himself by pouring a box of cereal down his throat.
“Your father and I—” my mother starts.
Tad cuts her off with a brief wave. She nods submissively and holds out her hands as if to say take it away.
I hate how he does that to her. It’s not the first time he’s interrupted when she’s about to say something. It’s like he thinks whatever’s about to come out of his mouth is far more important.