The edge of forever, p.1
The Edge of Forever, page 1
The Edge of Forever
J. Saman
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
End of Book Note
Also by J. Saman
The Edge of Temptation
Reckless Love
The Edge of Forever © 2018 J. Saman
* * *
Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Shannoff Designs
Editing: Proofing Style
Chapter One
“I can’t go on,” Margot moans. “Just leave me here. Save yourselves. This will only end one way.” I’d say my friend here is being dramatic, but considering her head is now pressed against the side of the wood bar, eyes closed and hand lingering next to the now empty shot glass she just finished off, I know she’s not. Because she’s right. This will only end one way. With her face down in the toilet.
“I told you not to take that last shot,” Rina chastises with a disapproving scowl on her face. She puffs out a breath, her hand going to her lean hips. She’s not even being a bitch. Margot does this. A lot even. Every time we go out in fact. None of us understands it. And when we ask for an explanation of her rampant shot consumption, she shrugs us off. I wouldn’t call Margot an alcoholic, because she’s not, but when she’s hiding something, or the slightest bit upset, she drinks. And clearly has no idea what a limit is.
Margot manages to flip Rina off, but that’s all she’s got left in her.
I sigh, silently cursing our other friend, Halle for leaving early and leaving us with a drunk Margot to clean up. I turn to Rina. Time to get serious. I raise my hands, curling one into a fist and positioning it above my other hand that is open, palm facing up. “You ready?”
Rina nods. Brushing her long dirty-blond hair over her shoulders so it doesn’t detract from her focus, she rolls her neck, cracking it once. Then she pivots to face me dead on. Getting her game face on, she mimics my position. She nods her head again, this one a signal that we should start.
“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot,” we say in unison before throwing out our best offering. I go with paper and she hits me with rock.
“Ha.” I grin, giving her a hip bump. “Have fun with sloppy Joe over here.”
“Hey,” Margot objects to my pet name for her, but she doesn’t really have the energy to do much else. “I resent that.”
“You also resemble it, babe. Keep this up and it’s intervention time.” Margot doesn’t respond.
“Best two out of three?” Rina begs with wide big puppy dog eyes. That shit never works on me, so I don’t know why she bothers.
I shake my head. “Nice try, doll face. But I had this distinct honor last time, and it took me two weeks to get the smell of vomit out of my car. Plus, I didn’t drive tonight so…” I trail off with a shrug.
“Fine,” she concedes her loss with grace. “But we really need to put a cap on Margot’s shots. I mean, if the girl can’t handle her liquor—”
“I swear, this is the last time,” Margot slurs out, attempting to raise her head off the wood of the bar and not getting all that far.
“You always say that, gumdrop.” I pat her shoulder. “But for real, next time, we’re putting you on a limit. Think of your liver.”
“Seriously. You’re a nurse. Don’t you know better?” Margot offers up a weak shrug, her brown hair is, well, it’s everywhere. Probably stuck to the beer encrusted bar top. Even the people sitting next to her have shifted to give her a wider berth. “Didn’t you outgrow this madness in college?”
Margot is finally able to raise her head, her eyes opening into tiny bloodshot slits. She shakes her head and then winces. “I went to an all-girls Christian college. It was worse than my all-girls Christian high school. No men. No alcohol. I might as well have been in a convent. I think I’ve still kissed more girls than I have boys. I know I’ve had sex with more and I am most definitely not a lesbian.”
Rina and I exchange looks of horror. “How did we miss this?” I ask.
“No idea,” she says back. “How many men have you had sex with?” Rina asks, turning back to Margot.
“Five. And they were all awful. Especially the guy last night.” Ah. So now the shots make sense. “Tiny dicks that couldn’t last more than a couple of minutes. The women were actually better. Sort of made me wish I batted for the vagina squad.”
“That’s quite possibly the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Ditto.” We both stare down at our poor friend, Margot. In truth, we’ve only known her about a year and we’ve never talked much about college, so that’s probably how we missed it, but still. I feel like that’s something we should have known right off the bat. “Have you at least had an orgasm?” She nods, but her expression is grim. And then it hits me. “Holy shit. You’ve never had one by a member of the opposite sex.”
She shakes her head this time and I think I might pass out. That’s how distressing this news is. “But you’re…” Rina trails off. “How old?” We both realize we don’t actually know how old Margot is other than the fact that she’s at least twenty-one. It’s not exactly like we’ve asked to see her ID and we know she’s graduated college because she’s a nurse. So yeah, never paid much attention to that one. I think we really need to bump up our best friend knowledge here. This is just pathetic.
“Twenty-three,” she supplies. Okay, I guess that’s not terrible, right? I mean, I’m sure there are plenty of women out there who have been plagued by terrible sexual experiences. But still. I feel for my very drunk friend.
“Next time we go out, you’re staying sober and we’re getting you a guy. Someone hot. Someone who knows how to work their fingers, and mouth, and dick.” That’s Rina, and she’s clearly taking this situation as seriously as I am. “We did it for Halle and we can do it for you too.”
But Margot just shakes her head at us again. “I’m done with one-night stands.”
Okay. I guess I can understand that. I don’t ride that train myself. Then again, I was in a relationship up until six months ago for over a year and a half. It’s how I met these two lovely ladies and Halle who ditched early to go home to her hot man. And sex was not why we broke up.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be,” Rina snorts out and I slap her arm. She throws me a, what the hell, expression. I point to our nearly incapacitated friend, and she gives me a sheepish grin. “Fine then. We’ll find you a hot doc.” Rina looks to me for encouragement.
“Yes. Definitely.” And then something occurs to me. “You can have Drew.” I get raised eyebrows for that. Apparently, offering up your ex-boyfriend to your friend is a no-no. “Okay, maybe not Drew. But someone hot. Someone sexy. But in the meantime, you need to pull back on the shots. Switch to beer.”
“It’ll make me fat.”
“Light beer, then. Or wine. It has less calories than cocktails or even these shots if I had to guess, and you won’t end up face down on the goddamn bar.”
“Touché,” she mumbles. “Discussing my miserable excuse for a sex life has been awesome and all, but can someone take me home now. The room is starting to spin.”
Shit. Margot is a puker. “Um, yeah. Maybe we should take her to the bathroom first?”
Just as the words leave my mouth, Margot lurches, her shoulders jerking forward. Both Rina and I spring into action, hauling our petite friend off the stool and dragging her around the bar to the back where the bathrooms are. We shove her into a stall and she does her thing in spectacular fashion. At least she’s getting it out now instead of in Rina’s car.
Once she’s cleaned up and lacking any further alcohol in her stomach, Rina guides her out of the bar.
Which basically means I get stuck with the tab, but I don’t really mind. Money isn’t an issue for me and it was a fun night, despite Margot’s propensity for drunken oblivion. Signaling over the bartender, I ask to settle up before I make my way home. It burns my father’s ass that I live in this part of Boston and not some swankier area like Back Bay or Beacon Hill, but I like it here. The bartender hands me the slip; I check it over quickly and hand him my card.
I’m tired. Like freaking exhausted.
I sat, holed up in my house all day painting. It was productive but after a day of that, I needed to unwind so
My phone chimes in with a text and once I notice it’s from Drew, my ex, I ignore it. I don’t even pay attention to what he sent me. The last text was about how much he missed me. So not helpful for the whole getting over him thing. The previous text was about a cool-ass case he had in the emergency room that actually made my stomach turn. Before that, it was about a dream he had about me. It’s been going on over the last few months, and lately they’re coming in with more frequency than they used to. And really, he’s the one who ended it, so I don’t exactly feel the need to text him back. In fact, I never do. I just let those puppies float off into the void.
My feet carry me east for more blocks than I care to think about. I really should take the T or an Uber, but even though it’s frostbite weather and too late for it to be safe for a woman to walk alone, I’d rather walk. I bang a right onto Dartmouth and hop up the steps to the brownstone I own.
Boston is not the best city to live in and be an artist. But it’s where I ended up for one reason or another and it hasn’t been a bad place to live. I have friends here. I grew up not too far away. Overall, I like it enough. My plan was not to stay though. It was a respite in between other locations. I was here six months when I met Drew and two and a half years later, I’m still here.
Before I came back to Massachusetts, I found myself moving a lot. I hit up New York as well as London, Paris, Barcelona, Rome, Los Angeles, and a few other places. Truth be told, I like the travel, but my brother Brecken lives in New York and my parents are an hour away so Boston has officially become home.
The life of an artist isn’t easy, but I’ve made a go of it and thus far, I’m successful. I’ve even entertained the idea of opening up a studio/gallery space. I might have done so already, except real estate in this city is a big bright penny and I’m a bit stingy when it comes to parting with my hard-earned dollars. Especially when I already own a home I can work in.
Unlocking my door, I toss my keys onto the entryway table, lock everything back up tight and then head immediately upstairs. My bedroom is on the second floor of my three-story home. There are two other bedrooms on this floor, which really is too much space for me. The reason I picked this place is because of the third floor and roof space. I had the walls of the third floor knocked down so it’s all open with a lot of light that loves to stream in. I use it as my studio. And the rooftop has an incredible view of the city and the sky, and in the summer, I grill up there even though I’m probably breaking a million fire codes by doing so.
I brush my teeth, strip down into my panties and then climb into my bed.
My eyes close and they stay that way until a blaringly loud noise startles me awake. I jolt upright, but I cannot figure out what that sound was. I’m foggy, disoriented, and for the briefest of moments, I have no idea where I am. My eyes zip around the interminable darkness, my muddled senses taking in the scent of snow when I spot the barely open window. I’m home, in my bed, and I left the window open. In January. Again. I can only imagine what my heating bill will look like.
The sound that woke me starts again, loud and unforgiving.
My head whips over, locating my ringing phone lighting up my nightstand. My limbs are awkward, heavy, as I scramble across the bed to answer it. Glancing at my alarm clock, I notice it’s 12:43. No one ever calls you at this hour with good news, and my mind immediately flickers to my parents as a mild dose of panic crawls up my spine. They’re not as young as they once were.
My thoughts are almost confirmed before I pick up the phone as I catch the Boston area code attached to a number I do not recognize. I swipe my finger across the phone. “Hello?” I ask hesitantly, praying that maybe it’s just a wrong number.
The gravelly sound of someone clearing their throat fills my ear. “Is this Miss Aria Davenport?” a very male voice says with the studious air of professionalism.
“Yes,” I answer reflexively, but my heart is exploding in my chest as I lean back against the fabric of my headboard, drawing my knees up to my chest like they’ll somehow protect from the bad news I know is yet to come.
He clears his throat again, like just having this conversation is making him uncomfortable. “Aria,” he starts, using my first name. “My name is Doctor Tim James.” He pauses, and my mind is swimming, trying to place a name I’m nearly positive I’ve never heard before. And then I realize what he led with, Doctor. “I’m a doctor at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston.” Drew works at MGH. So do Rina and Margot.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, unable to formulate anything coherent past that as my mind trips over itself with every possible horror imaginable. He’s also taking an obscenely long time to get to the fucking point.
“I’m sorry to call you, but you’re listed as Joshua Brown’s emergency contact and healthcare proxy.”
“What?” I practically shriek, my hand flying up to my mouth in utter incredulity. “Josh?” Disbelief and a fresh wave of terror fills me. “Is he…” I can’t even finish that thought or sentence. I just can’t.
“Mr. Brown is alive, Miss Davenport.” So now we’re back to formalities. Relief floods through me but just as quickly recedes, because I’m still getting this call, which means something is wrong. “He was brought into the emergency department, suffering from several injuries including a fractured fibula, three fractured ribs, as well as other internal injuries that we’re going to need to surgically explore. He also has a severe contusion to the right side of his head—”
“What the hell are you saying?” I snap, interrupting his medical rant. None of this means anything to me. This man might as well be speaking Russian for all the sense he’s making. “Is he okay? What happened?”
“He suffered a head trauma that resulted in pressure and swelling on his brain as well as the other injuries I mentioned.”
“Oh God, no. Josh.” My chin drops to my chest as my hand slides up to cover my eyes. Tears leak out despite my best attempts at reining them in.
“The surgical team is about to wheel him to the OR now to repair the internal injuries he sustained. His broken leg will not require surgery, just setting.”
I shake my head. I can’t handle this. I. Cannot. Handle. This. “What happened?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know the specifics. I just needed to make you aware. But if you’re able, you should come. He may need someone here to make medical decisions for him.”
“Uh. Okay.” I shake my head, wiping furiously at my eyes. “I’ll be there soon.”
Then he hangs up. That’s it. But I don’t really have the mental capacity at the moment to think too deeply on that. Flipping on the lights, I squint against the brightness before rifling through my drawers for something to wear. I dig out a black long sleeve thermal and a pair of jeans, put my hair up in a messy bun, grab my phone, and I’m out my door in less than ten minutes.
Without my coat.
Shit.
But it’s too late to go back as the Uber is pulling right up and I’m in too much of a hurry to get to the hospital or care all that much about freezing. Coats can wait. Once I get inside the enticingly warm car, I call Tyler, Josh’s boyfriend. I spoke to Josh two days ago, and he was most definitely still with Tyler. I want details and I want them now. The phone rings three times before his groggy, sleep-filled voice fills my ear.
“What the hell, Aria?”
“Tyler,” I clip out. “Have you talked to Josh?”
Silence. I’m greeted with freaking silence and I’m about to lose my mind.
“No. Not since last night.” He’s confused. “We had a late dinner and a drink and then we called it a night. I have an eight a.m. client I’m supposed to meet…” He trails off as silence once again ensues and I can’t find my voice to fill it. “What’s going on?”
