Ask Jake (Book One of the Whisper Series)

One: Dead of Winter

I search the room as far as my eyes can wander, hoping to discover where Death hides. He's here, I know he is. He's either in the cold cinder blocks covered with chipping gray paint or in the constant rumble of the subway above. Lingering around me, I feel him in the chill of the air that nips and bites at my exposed skin. My heart begs for his mercy.

Take me now, before I have to see him again, I scream loudly to myself, hoping Death can hear me and take me from this place.

The pain in my head is unbearable. My stomach threatens to choke me again with the bile that burns my throat. Faint murmurs of his psychotic voice are getting closer.

I'm so tired, too weak to fight anymore. No tears left to cry. No will left to live.

Months Earlier

What do you want?" he asks me while kissing my neck, one hand on my cheek.

"You," I breathe.

He smells like summer: suntan lotion and salty air. We are entwined in each other. His lips are soft, but his hands are rough. It's a combination that teases my body into wanting every part of him to touch every part of me...Bleep, bleep, bleep." Baby, you have to wake up..." bleep, bleep, bleep.

No.

My eyes open trying to find the annoying noise. Bleep, bleep, bleep, I snatch my phone from the side table and make it stop. Desperately, I try to go back to my dream. My dream, where he was with me, kissing me, loving me, and I loving him.

Concentrating with all I have, I try to remember what he was doing to me, but the memory and feelings have faded. Again, I am left yearning to feel his touch or just see his face. I miss his face.

Annoyed and unsatisfied, I pull myself out of bed. Burying myself under my covers is what I really want to do, but if I'm late for this meeting, I'll have to find another job.

The shower handle squeaks when I turn it on. I allow the water to warm up a bit as I snap to the kitchen. Vanilla protein powder ends up dusting my small counter when I miss the mark and only half goes into my glass.

Shaking my head at myself, I wonder why I am rushing so much. My New York apartment is tiny. The journey from the bathroom to the kitchen takes a total of five steps and it takes at least four minutes for the shower to start to get warm. The best thing about this apartment is the fact that I've lived here long enough for rent control to make it incredibly affordable. Plus, I've gone to great measures to find the perfect small pieces of furniture, making it look well decorated but not crowded.

While I blend the powder into something edible, I allow my mind to wander. Will I make it through this meeting? I'm only vaguely prepared. My thoughts are interrupted by something soft and warm on my leg.

"Oh, good morning Darwin. I suppose you'd like to have some breakfast too?" I say to the cat that a friend left in my care. She went to Europe, for what was supposed to be a week, and met some Italian man and fell in love. That was five years ago. I ended up with one less friend and an overweight black and white cat, with a name that does nothing for him.

Darwin is food obsessed which makes him round and jovial. I've read stories about people who die in their apartments and their pets start to eat them. He has that primal look in his eyes. He tries to fool me with his innocent meow, but I am positive that if I should ever pass out in my apartment, for a long enough time, he would eat me, or at least give it a try. He'd probably start with my ear because that's where he bites when he wants me to wake.

"Here you go, big boy. Don't eat me. Okay?" I chuckle to myself. He's adorable while he scarfs down his kibble and purring loud to let me know how much he loves me for feeding him. I have to make a consorted effort not to touch his fluffy head. My feline allergy means that one touch will make my eyes itch, turn red and puff out of their sockets. It's a really beautiful site.