Something To Dream On Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  PROLOGUE

  ONE YEAR BEFORE DESTINY

  SIX MONTHS BEFORE DESTINY

  THREE MONTHS BEFORE DESTINY

  ACT ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ACT TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ACT THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  DiVINE INTERVENTION

  THE ULTIMATE FATE

  Scary Modsters … and Creepy Freaks

  Praise for the Forbidden Flower Series

  Love's Forbidden Flower

  Time's Forbidden Flower

  About the Author

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, essays, and reviews.

  Copyright (C) 2015 Diane Rinella

  Cover art copyright (C) 2015 Diane Rinella

  Cover art and design by Heidi “Azurylipfe” Darras

  http://azurylipfe.daportfolio.com/

  Cover model Janna Prosvirina

  For T-bird, who makes my words fly.

  Acknowledgements

  Something to Dream On was not only inspired by my childhood experiences, but also by a recent event that happened to a dear friend. How a grown man can claim to be mature and then go online and harass a sweet woman because of the gifts God gave her is beyond my comprehension. Worse, it was done in code, much like a child would do, yet it could not have been more obvious at whom the joke was aimed. Within a few days, work on this book began. Thus, I’d like to acknowledge those who inspired this story: The victims who stand strong.

  On a much happier note, thank you for allowing my words into your heart. Many of you are reading this because you enjoyed Scary Modsters … and Creepy Freaks, a story that is far more personal than anyone imagines. Maybe you dared to dive into controversy and read Love’s Forbidden Flower. That story means the world to me but not nearly as much as the people that it brought into my world. I love each and every one of you.

  A special thank you to my Modster Squad, a small but dedicated group who choose to tolerate me. Heaven help you! Seriously, your support means more than I can express.

  To my beta readers, N. Stevenson Jennette III, Brian Preston, and Dione Marks. Thank you for not sugar coating it. You are gold!

  The biggest thank you of all goes to Trenda Lundin who is an amazing critique partner and friend. This story could in no way be what it is without her honesty, love, and support. She helped me see what these characters needed to pop off of the page and land in your hearts.

  The cover is the creation of Heidi “Azurylipfe” Darras, who can be found at http://azurylipfe.daportfolio.com/. She is also the artist for The Mystic Dreamer Tarot. If you are looking for an artist to create a custom piece, I could not recommend her more. Not only is she a dream to work with, she took a description of the painting mentioned in this book and brought it to life as if she had waved a magic wand.

  Autumn Davis and Jessica Baker, thank you for taking a chance on me when so few were willing. Most of all, thank you for your friendships. You probably have no clue why I am saying this, but you two gave me the confidence I needed to push forward and keep going. Seriously. For reals.

  A special thank you to all of the bloggers who have supported me over the years. Bloggers bust their butts without personal gain and often without a word of thanks. Please know that all of the love you have shown this author is appreciated.

  Being an author is incredibly hard work. Some days you can’t help but wonder if it is worth the stress. That’s when you cherish the ones who support you on a daily basis more than ever. Jennifer Theriot, I will be your proud partner in crime any time and in any place. I look forward to years of us starting our conversations with the words, “I just had a great idea.” Those conversations always lead us down the craziest roads, and I am ready for more adventures. Darla Roybal, please don’t ever stop stalking me! However, I would really appreciate it if you would stop breaking the branches in my tree. Your life would be much easier if you would just use the key I left you.

  Last, and in no way least, my husband, Brian Preston, and our daughter, Trishalana Rinella Preston. Brian, how we constantly manage to love each other through all of our crazy projects bewilders me. Thank you for always understanding when I need the world to go away so I can let my creativity flow and embrace my madness. With you I can be a wife and mother while staying true to myself.

  “You have to give people something to dream on.”

  ~ Jimi Hendrix

  Sticks and stones may break my bones, but your words can forever scar me.

  ONE YEAR BEFORE DESTINY

  Tuesday, April 5

  If a psychic yanks you by the arm, forces you into a seat, and states that you “arrived just in time”—all without even looking at you—should you panic? That just happened to me, and I am a little weirded out.

  Griffin made this appointment so he could get advice on his stinky love life. Since I am just tagging along, the experience is now all kinds of freaky. Plus, the psychic looks like Angela Lansbury on Murder, She Wrote and calls herself The Amazing Zolta. This can’t possibly go well.

  Zolta clasps her hands together. The widening of her eyes complements the broadening of her smile. Does she always get this excited over roping people into readings? Just how much is this going to cost?

  “Take five cards from anywhere in the deck. Place them before you on the table, any way you want.” Her fingers dance above a red tablecloth, encouraging me to scatter the cards. Her liveliness reminds me of a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

  Griffin and I exchange smiles. Part of me has always felt psychics are full of malarkey. However, I do believe that there is more to the universe than what we see. That is why I am so weirded out over Zolta’s sense of urgency to get me in this chair and actually hope it is just a scam.

  From the one-third mark, I cut the deck and grab a stack of cards off the top. I set three of them like the points of a triangle. That seems off, so I use the two left in my hand to turn it into an arrow. Griffin tilts his head. He’s right; it still feels wrong. I slide the two cards on the side down to form a diamond with one card in the center.

  “Why did you make the change?” Zolta asks.

  “I don't know. Instinct, maybe?”

  “Good, good, good.” She studies the
spread with raised brows.

  The card at the top of the diamond is called The Star. A cluster of little stars, along with a blinding, yellow one, hover above a woman pouring water. It’s a peaceful scene, and I know this interpretation is totally wrong, but I can’t help but feel sorry for the poor woman who is being hit in the head and is seeing sparks.

  On the sides of my diamond are two other women. One of them is upside down and has a bird on her wrist while the other sits on a throne. Am I the one with the bird? That would make sense since I’m a vet tech and live in a farmhouse where I am Mom to a pen of chickens, two dogs, and a pig. The one on the throne has a rabbit at her feet though.

  A hand holding a coin dominates the bottom card, but I am more drawn to the garden in its background. It reminds me of that recurring dream.

  Oh, no way.

  In the center of it all, lightning strikes a building, causing people to plummet to their deaths. Once I absorb the power the card depicts, my stomach drops with the victims.

  “Fascinating …” Zolta utters. She reminds me of how concerned my mother sounded when my scrawny brother announced he wanted to join the football team. Where did all of Zolta’s excitement go? ”Something is going to happen that will shake up your world. This Star,” she taps on the top card, “it is a card of hope, but …” Her attention turns to The Tower. She raises a finger to her pursed lips and taps. “Sometimes glory can only come through loss. Some kind of battle is going to happen. These two women on the sides hold the key to the outcome. The reversed Nine of Pentacles shows someone who is lacking, while the Queen of Pentacles represents a person of true compassion.” Her eyes meet mine, and I am certain that I look like a cartoon ghost—sheet white with black voids for eyes. Zolta pats my arm. Why do I sense she is offering comfort? “Fear not, dear girl. This Ace of Pentacles at the bottom is the best card in the deck.”

  The two women, the grass, and the star above—I know this picture all too well. “My dream,” I utter.

  Her curiosity sparks. “Dream? You’ve had a dream about this? Tell me about it.”

  “It ends with me flying into the stars.”

  “Hmm …” Zolta muses. The tightening of her brow concerns me. “Grab another card and set it off to the side.”

  With that Tower wildly freaking me out, I pray for a better card. My nerves make me sloppy, and the top few cards in the deck fall aside. I go to the ones that stayed behind.

  Ice creeps down my neck and into my arms when I see the word Death. I drop the card like it’s about to bite. It lands next to The Tower, and my lungs forget how to work. I can’t die! I’m only twenty-four. What will happen to my babies at home? My brother can’t care for himself let alone a pen of chickens. What if they—

  Zolta again pats my arm. The rapidness of her thunks shows she can’t hide how uncomfortable she is. “Don't be scared. The Death card means change. While it can mean physical death, it rarely ever does.”

  She can say what she wants, but those Death and Tower cards are freaking the sugar out of me. Maybe it’s a warning about my weight. The doctor did say that I should dump a ton. Unlike some people with true medical issues, this weight is all me. I need to stop making excuses.

  Zolta sweeps up the cards in haste while avoiding eye contact. Does she not want me to ask questions, or is something turning her blood into a Slurpee, too? “Some type of … incident is going to happen. Something will shake your world, like lightning has struck you in the head. In the end, it will bring you the ultimate joy.”

  The ultimate joy? Isn’t that what they call Heaven? Unless someone changed the rules, you only get there by dying. “When will this happen?”

  She scoffs. “The cards do not know any more than the universe does. Time only matters to us because we limit our minds so that our days here are all that exist.”

  That’s it. I hear the exit calling. “Thank you for your time.” I grab my purse and start to head out. My fluttering nerves turn both of my feet into left ones and my hip smacks into the table, causing a stack of cards to slide off and spill onto the ground. The card that falls dead into the middle of the heap has a giant wheel on it. It spins to the left so that it lands with the top numbers pointing down. My mind reels along with it.

  Griffin rubs my shoulder. “It’s okay, Baby Cakes. Catch your breath. Remember, she’s saying you will get the prize.” I shudder as he says it, and then grab a swift inhale. No wonder why I am dizzy. My freak out has stolen my ability to breathe. “Whatever happens, it’s finally going to explain everything.”

  Griffin is right. My dream is going to come true, whatever the bejesus it means.

  This bitch has lost it. Seriously, who the fuck does she think she is?

  “Jensen, what has happened to you? You used to be such a wonderful person and now …” She sobs while mumbling something to herself. I guess it’s to herself. Shit. I don’t know. Women are weird. They only seem to be good for one thing, so why am I bothering with this one?

  I take another swig from my friend, Mr. Jack Daniels. The crazy woman drops her head into her hands and the waterworks come on stronger. It’s a hell of a show. Let’s see what happens when I chug.

  They must be making this stuff weaker, because the three shots worth go down like water.

  The bitch screams at me. Like she lets loose as if she wants fucking China to hear. Then she has the balls to try to steal my buddy. She pulls at the bottle, and I laugh at her feebleness. She yanks and fails to get it, so she yanks again, and again. I have to give her a little credit for effort.

  Finally, I’ve had enough, so I let her have it; not the bottle, but a lesson in the form of a body check against the wall. “Baby, please stop,” she begs.

  She’s right. I should back off and give the old broad a break. I step back and laugh before taking another swig. She actually has the nerve to go for the bottle again. Fine, if she wants it so badly, she can have it. I toss the thing at her. Actually, it’s more of a calculated throw that is intended to scare her. Instead, I graze her enough for it to give a little bounce off of her temple. The thing reminds me of rubber, like I am in a cartoon. It’s the funniest fucking thing in the world, and I can’t stop laughing as she pulls her hand away from the spot I hit, checking for blood. It’s too bad there isn’t any. It would make a great pattern on the floor with the way she’s shaking her head.

  “Get out!” she yells, again like she wants to be heard on Mars. “Get out, and don’t come back!”

  Yeah, right. We’ve been through this before.

  “Get out!” I’m shoved, hard, towards the door once, then twice. On the third time I’m done and rid myself of the control freak. I’ve got better places to be. “I mean it, Jensen. Don’t come back!”

  I wave her off and head to my car. Whatever. She’ll be sweet as punch in the morning.

  Dawn is cracking open as I return home. With my guitar strapped onto my back, I lug an amp up the walk and step on something soft. A T-shirt? Then I almost trip over a shoe. “The hell?”

  The walkway is littered with clothes—my clothes! “That whore!” My feet hit the ground like thunder as I make for the door and fumble for the right key. I try to jam the thing into the lock, but I’m so fuming I have to try slamming it in three times before finding it won’t turn.

  “Son of a bitch!” I yank the key out and stare, then draw the thing closer to bring it into focus so I can be certain. Yeah, that’s the right one. This time I brace on the door with my free hand and get the key in on the first shot. I try to turn it with so much force that my fingers hurt from the pressure when the lock refuses to budge.

  “Shit!” I rattle the fuck out of the door. There is no way she’d have the balls to lock me out, so I start pounding. That’s when I notice the note taped above the bell.

  Jensen,

  If you want your stuff, you can come for it on Thursday. Uncle Rob will be here to help you. Do not contact me again until you are clean for at least ninety days. I know you can do it. Un
til then, we are done.

  Mom

  The fuck!

  The thing gets ripped down and then crumbled into a tight wad. How fucking dare she? My own mother! Moms are supposed to always have faith in you and thus put up with your shit. What kind of lame ass mom turns her back on her fucked-up kid? Doesn’t she know she’s the only real family that I have left?

  The paper gets slammed down onto the porch. In a flash I’m driving off without looking back. Screw picking up my stuff on Thursday, and screw grabbing my stuff that she threw on the lawn like it’s crap. I don’t want to bother to even look at the mess she made because—

  Because looking at it will be too much like looking at myself.

  SIX MONTHS BEFORE DESTINY

  Saturday, October 13

  Griffin and I sit in our usual corner booth at Daddy Bear's Lair. I'm not a drinker, but I am a fan of the atmosphere—despite the fact that the music is always a little on the disco side. Then again, isn’t there a law that states gay bars must play dance music; else their license to be fabulous is revoked?

  It’s still early, so even though I am tucked in the shadows, where I can see everyone who flashes in, the only things worth watching are the three male damsels on the dance floor. Griffin and I toast to the sparkling trio who are whooping it up and playing ride ‘em cowboy without a care. People should live every moment like that.

  Across the room, a group of college bro-types sit at a table. The way they shift in their seats while watching the boys dance clues me in that they are likely looky loos with no desire to “make friends.” One of them catches my eye. His short, sandy hair and hazel eyes are attractive, but he's a little … shall we say, military looking, for my taste. That’s cool though. All that matters is a guy’s heart, and I’ll never find what I am looking for if I’m not open to whatever package it may come in.