Dream On

Chapter 1 Stevie

Stevie

It’s the blue I’ll remember. Not the screech of tires. Not the scent of rubber sliding across sunbaked asphalt. Not even the moment of impact when my hair defied gravity and my body molded into the airbag like a rag doll in a dog’s jaws.

I fist the steering wheel with both hands, breathing unsteadily. My gaze pans from the sheet of white smashed against my face to the side mirror, bringing into focus a crumpled mass of shiny electric blue behind me. Expensive blue.

“What…”

Slam.

“The…”

Stomp, stomp.

“Fuck?”

Furious words travel through the open window, though I’m not sure why.

All I was doing was minding my own business at an unassuming stoplight when the car behind me unleashed catastrophe on my ordinary day.

More than ordinary, really. Today is the day I was finally able to take my new car for a drive after my parents pinched pennies to purchase it for me.

Granted, the car was only new in 1996, but nearly three decades later, it’s new to me.

And now it’s been reduced to a misshapen mess, only suitable for a junkyard.

Indignation pokes holes in my shell shock as I try to shimmy my way out of the airbag vise.

Reaching for the handle, I shove the door open with my shoulder and stumble out of the vehicle, my eyes landing on a pair of posh black boots.

“I asked you a question.”

I blink down at the boots before swinging my gaze up and up and up until I’m met with more blue, disarming, oceanic blue to be precise. “Excuse me?”

The boy looks to be my age, seventeen or eighteen, his golden mop of hair making him look more angel than demon. But his eyes spew hellfire.

He narrows them at me. “What the fuck?” he says, repeating the “question.”

My head snaps back with disbelief as I pull to a stand. “What the fuck, me? What the fuck, you . You just rear-ended me.”

“The light was green.”

“The light was red .”

“It was a little green.”

I gape at him. “My car was in a stopped, unmoving position.”

Folding his arms over a crisp white button-down, the stranger assesses me from toes to hairline. A look of distaste glimmers in his perusal, making me feel itchy all over.

Then he deflates, raking a hand through his floppy gold mane. “My father is going to kill me.”

I glance between his car and mine. The Saturn is in worse condition, but the cerulean-blue sports car did not come out unscathed. The front end is now a twisted wreck, the once-pristine paint splintered and dented, and the front bumper hangs loosely, barely attached.

My father will not kill me, but he’ll certainly be heartbroken.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear about your impending death, but this was not my fault.”

The ice returns to his eyes. “Collisions take two.”

“This wasn’t a fifty-fifty collision. You ambushed me in the middle of the street.”

Car horns blare, vehicles slowing down to take in the scene. The air is hot today, the humidity stifling. August in the northwest suburbs of Chicago is akin to a relentless furnace, baking the town in an unyielding heat.

My cheeks burn, a meshing of sun flush and audacity. “Do you have insurance?”

“Of course I have insurance.” He gives me another judgmental once-over. “Do you?”

I shuffle from one grubby sandal to the other, ignoring the jab. “Yes. I just got this car. It was my first day on the road with it.”

His stare screams sorry, not sorry . The guy waves his hand at me, riddled with impatience. “Let’s get this over with. It’s hotter than my car’s fuckin’ engine out here.”

I peer over at his smoking engine. It’s hot, yes, but no hotter than the lava pumping through my veins.

I sink the heels of my palms into my eyelids, forcing back tears.

The gravity of the situation has overridden my wrath, and I realize I’m in big trouble.

Mom and Dad worked their butts off to buy me this car so I wouldn’t have to walk to school every day once senior year begins in two weeks.

I already feel their disappointment funneling through me.

It’s a bitter wave of devastation, infecting every pocket, every sapped inch.

Spinning on my heel, I swipe tangles of hair out of my tear-glazed eyes as I move around the car to access the glove box.

I return a moment later with the insurance card, my hands trembling in the aftermath of the adrenaline spike.

The other driver is already on the phone, the latest iPhone pressed between his ear and shoulder.

Hostile glances are exchanged as we both pace the side of the street.

Heaving in a breath, I dial 911 to report the accident.

The female dispatcher asks about my injuries.

Nothing appears too worrisome. As the buzz tapers off, I notice achy muscles and a stiff neck but nothing life threatening.

The only thing broken is my spirit. She tells me an officer and an ambulance are on the way, and I disconnect the call, tipping my chin to the pearly-white clouds.

They skate across my vision like they’re racing to the other side of the world.

A marathon in the sky. When my head dips back down, I wince, rubbing at the kink in my neck.

That’s when a hand whips out, swiping the insurance card from my grip. The guy shoves his phone into a khaki pocket and skims over the details. “Stevie St. James.”

I straighten to full height, which puts me at eye level with his chest. “Yes, that’s the name of the girl you nearly pulverized.”

He sniffs. “You look fine to me.”

“You have no idea what you just did.” Emotion bubbles to the surface, causing my words to hitch and crack. “To someone like you, this is nothing but an inconvenience, but this is going to—”

“Someone like me?” He flicks the insurance card my way, and it lands in my cleavage. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fishing it out, I stuff it into the back pocket of my faded denim shorts. “It means you can afford the inconvenience. I can’t.”

“That’s quite the assumption, Stevie St. James.” His head slants, ice-tipped eyes gliding over my messy hair, hand-me-down tank top, and moth-eaten sandals. “Where were you headed off to?”

“Doesn’t matter now, thanks to you.” Crossing my arms, I take a step back from his towering frame and high-end cologne that smells like sandalwood and musk and a hint of citrus. “Choir practice at the church.”

“The goody-goody type. Figures.”

“No. I just like to sing.”

He pins his bottom lip between abnormally white teeth and makes a hissing sound. “Stevie,” he drawls. “Stevie who sings.”

“So?”

“Maybe I’ll call you Nicks.”

I huff, looking away.

“What’s your dad’s name? Lennon? Elvis?”

Now is not the time to tell him my siblings’ names are Joplin and Morrison. “The police are on the way,” I deadpan, ignoring his interrogation.

A smirk flickers on his lips. “I’m Lex. Lexington Hall.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were wondering.” He hands over his insurance card. “You’ve probably seen me before. In that TV show years back.”

He’s an actor? I try not to let my curiosity show as I pluck the card from his fingers and glance down. “Nope.”

His hand lifts, flitting back and forth as a sunbeam glimmers off a silver thumb ring. “The show about the kid who talked to animals. It was a big deal.”

“Sorry.”

Lex lowers his hand and shoves it into the pocket of his tapered pants. The other one follows, and he rocks front to back on both boots. “Right. You probably don’t own a TV.”

What an asshole.

The rumbling of traffic beside us does little to overpower the sound of my pulse thrumming in my ears.

I inhale a shaky breath, and my traitorous eyes water again.

“I didn’t even get to drink my coffee,” I mutter, misery lacing the words and making me sound foolish.

My car is in shambles, and I’m about to burst into tears over an overpriced macchiato.

Lex’s tawny eyebrows furrow with rightful confusion. “What?”

“My coffee.” I shrug dejectedly. “I never buy coffee, but I splurged today. It was supposed to be a good day.”

He scoffs at that. “Eventually, you’ll realize there are no good days. There are just days, nights, and all the monotonous bullshit in between.”

I glance up at him, blinking away the mist. I’m not sure what to make of that. But I don’t have time to overthink a response because my attention shifts to the blood spatter dappling the collar of his shirt. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.” I point at the evidence, a pang of worry carving its way through my bevy of addled emotions. “Your collar.”

He follows my finger, pulling the fabric away from his chest and eyeing the stain. Then he looks over at the blue car. The windshield is partially smashed. “Huh” is all he says.

Sirens sound in the distance. We say nothing else as we stand an arm’s length apart and wait for the officers and medics to arrive.

With a drawn-out sigh, Lex finally saunters away and collapses onto the curb, the sun lighting up his hair like a misplaced halo.

I remain a few feet away, idling near the rear of my Saturn, my eyes dancing around the disjointed scene: two wrecked cars, a suburban road littered with metal and glass shards, and a white-collared shirt speckled with blood.

When my gaze skates from Lex’s shirt to his face, a metallic knot forms in the back of my throat. He looks at me. His glacial eyes lift, locking on mine as he leans back on his palms.

And I know one thing to be true.

It’s the blue I’ll remember.