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Amber Blake is having dreams, and they just might be the key to saving her best friend, Mark.
Unfortunately, she's too preoccupied pretending to hate the boy next door, Carter Hayes. Secretly hoping to rekindle what once was, Amber atte...
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Even before I open my eyes, I feel the empty space in bed beside me.
The sheets are too cold without his heat. My body is already in withdrawals from not having his arms around me. Squeezing my eyes shut against hot tears, I bite down on my lip to help muffle my cries. I have no idea who else is in the house, and the last thing I want is to draw attention to myself. There's not a person on earth I want to see right now.
The only thing helping is the smell of my own room. As awful as this feels, waking up in his bed would've been ten times worse. I say a silent thank you to whoever put me here instead; if I had to guess, a certain lesbian was involved.
At the sound of the doorbell, I throw the comforter over my head, wrapping it around myself like a cacoon. I haven't even begun to process what happened, so the idea of explaining it to everyone — to his parents — makes me physically ill.
I silently count the seconds, waiting for another ring, but the house stays quiet minus the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They come to a stop just outside my door, followed by a light knock.
"Amber, honey, you doing ok?"
Dad's deep baritone penetrates through my armor, asking the stupidest question I've ever heard. I wouldn't be surprised if Ben's here too, both of them standing by in case I need them.
I don't respond.
Reality starts to crash its way in, and I push my face into the pillows to try and drown it out. I'm desperate to slip back into unconsciousness, just for another shot at a vision with Carter, but something nudges my shoulder through the covers. Going still, I wait a second longer until it happens again, this time more persistent. When I peek my head out, I'm expecting maybe Brynn, but instead come face to face with a pair of yellow eyes — surrounded by a mask of black fur.
There's a delay in comprehension as I stare at the cat before it hits me like a subway train.
"Vendetta?" I whisper in disbelief.
"It's almost six and you've been in here all day." Dad's still talking, completely oblivious. "Mom's almost done making dinner."
Vendetta nuzzles against my cheek, cancelling out questions of if she's real or not. I jolt upright and scan my room critically, taking in the clutter that wasn't here before: dirty clothes, discarded trash — school textbooks. Under the covers, my fingers skim the hem of my favorite denim shorts, the ones that landed me in detention in the first place.
