Amidst the explosive grunge scene in 1993 Seattle, Riley Brooks finds herself broken after an abusive relationship with her first love comes to an end. Struggling to put the pieces back together, she has a chance encounter with the friendly, but eni...
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"Stop. You're hurting me."
"Stop!"
My eyes flew open to a pitch black room, my choked gasp piercing the quiet air. Adrenaline possessed my body, making it jerk and tense and go through the motions. An old dance yanking at me like marionette strings.
My fingers clawed at my constricted throat, the heels of my feet digging into the slippery sheets, kicking at nothing.
Gradually, the red dots cleared from my vision, allowing me to take in my surroundings, forcing the panic to loosen its grip.
You're in your hotel room. You're in Arizona with your father.
Panting, I managed to pull myself up, the ligature marks on my throat pulsing red hot and angry. My hands fluttered around the bed, groped under the covers and slipped beneath my thighs. In my hurry to get to the hotel room, I'd left my Walkman in my father's car.
Shit.
I was sure he was still awake so I could ask him for the keys, but I was still worn out from hanging out with him.
Maybe some fresh air would do me some good anyway.
Rubbing at the center of my chest, I willed my pounding heartbeat to slow as I slipped out of the bed, into my converse and out of the room. Cheerful shades of orange and yellow were splashed all over the hotel's interior, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat outside.
After exiting through the large glass doors of the entrance, I decided I'd do a few laps around the building to burn off any lingering adrenaline. Then maybe I could get some sleep for once.
Hah, yeah right.
The air was uncomfortably warm, but dry. Drops of sweat formed on my skin and evaporated in an instant, leaving behind a fleeting coolness that made it just bearable. The days were merciless, as if every drop of moisture was being sucked out of my body through a straw. And the effects of dehydration hit so much faster than the sensation of thirst. A few people needed medical attention at tonight's concert. They were dropping like flies.
I steered clear of the parking lot, where steam sizzled from the asphalt like a hot pan on a stove. The siren sound of cicadas droned in my ears as I walked alongside the edge of the building. Maybe at some point, it would drown out all of my brain's other noise.
My plan changed when I recognized a tall figure leaning against the building, wisps of smoke swirling around him like a ghostly haze. My pace slowed, torn between my body's instinct to leave and the rational voice in my head telling me I was being ridiculous.
