Paradise Forbidden
Natalie E. Wrye
Copyright © 2015 by Natalie E. Wrye.
This novel is an original work. It is a fictional writing, a work entirely derived from the author’s imagination. All characters and events are entirely fictional and not based in fact, nor based on any real person(s) living or deceased. Any resemblance or similarity to any real person(s), alive or dead, or event is purely and clearly coincidental. This book contains adult language and in some instances coarse language and, due to its content, should not be viewed by children.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form or by an means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without the written permission of the author (except for the use of brief quotations in a book review).
Cover Design:
Tree Branches Photo by Yasmeen Abdullah
Model: Sawsan Abdullah
Model Photo and Cover Designed by Najla Qamber Designs
(www.najlaqamberdesigns.com)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1: Climate Change
Chapter 2: It Never Rains But It Pours
Chapter 3: Like a Bolt from the Blue
Chapter 4: Tempest in a Teapot
Chapter 5: Hurricane Katarina
Chapter 6: Lightning Strikes
Chapter 7: Which Way the Wind Blows
Chapter 8: A Cold Front
Chapter 9: Red Sky at Night
Chapter 10: Atmospheric Pressure
Chapter 11: A Ray of Sunshine
Chapter 12: Heat Advisory
Chapter 13: Scorching Hot
Chapter 14: A Storm is Brewing
Chapter 15: Heat Wave
Chapter 16: Rainmaker
Chapter 17: Caught in a Downpour
Chapter 18: Partly Cloudy Skies
Chapter 19: Cloud Nine
Epilogue
Sneak Peek
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
More about the Author
Kat
This is it. This is the end of the line.
These are the final thoughts I have before trudging into the elaborately decorated corner office.
I walked through the long hallways past the glass executive offices, chanting my few go-to phrases for the past eleven months.
You are an extremely hard worker.
You graduated from a great school.
You have three degrees.
Three minutes ago, I got up from my depressingly small cubicle, reciting it. I reiterated it to myself on the two and a half minute trek to my “boss’s” office.
And even now, at this very moment… now that I’m sitting here… angrily seething in front of his desk… I am subconsciously repeating it so fast that my brain can’t even keep up. I’m keeping this mantra at the forefront of my mind like a shield to potential harm.
But alas… there are chinks in the armor.
The voice that now speaks to me: its buttery tones are deceivingly soothing, setting my mind at ease without my consent.
It is a slow poison. The longer the voice talks, the more pieces of me die.
I’ve been lulled into a trap.
And now I’m wilting like the Wicked Witch of the West in a torrential downpour.
The strange part? I’d actually always been a cocky little thing.
In my younger years, I’d go toe-to-toe with anyone. I was witty, street-wise… and confident to boot. Especially when it came to my writing.
That hasn’t been the case for a long time. My self-esteem has been on a downward spiral for longer than I will ever admit. But this is it. This is rock bottom.
When the voice stops speaking, I try to think of all types of retorts. I never really liked this job anyway. This company was lucky to even have me.
But I just feel numb.
It’s like I’ve taken a shot of Novocain to the brain, lost all meaningful sensation, and now I’m just going through the motions of walking back to my cubicle so that I can clear out my pathetic little desk.
The old me would have slammed a door or two on the way out: disrupted the entire fucking floor. But the new me?
“She” slips out quietly with no fanfare. Just a box full of cheap office supplies and a few handfuls of bad memories.
Good riddance.
***
Him
I threw my tie down on the floor when I walked out of the job. The very last time that I’ll ever walk out of that fucking place again.
And now I’m marching away from it like it’s going to catch on fire.
But my feet are heavy. I can’t help it. The anger is weighing them down like lead, and I probably look like a dumb ass stomping away from the scene.
But I don’t give a shit.
I lug my gorilla-footed ass all the way to my car. I’m a lucky fucker; I actually manage not to kill myself with all the heavy-footed driving I’m doing. I barely throw the gear in park before I’m taking off out of the car, stomping up my long driveway.
I open the front door to my house. I walk up the stairs. I’m not even walking; I’m jogging, damn near sprinting, by the time I hit the next level.
My suit feels tight as shit on my body. I don’t know why.
I take my jacket and pants off as soon as I hit the doorway of my bedroom. I sit down on the edge of my bed in my boxer shorts. I hang my head into my hands.
This is it. He’ll be pissed when he finds out what I’ve done.
I simply don’t care anymore. I really don’t. I won’t be here when he finds out, anyway.
I get up and turn on the light in my closet. This enormous and elaborate closet. It’s made of wall-to-wall shelves, containing endless racks of suits, ties, jackets, jeans. Every piece of clothing imaginable. It fits everything. It’s convenient. I could drive my car in here and park it with no problems.
It’s impressive. But I damn sure won’t miss it.
I grab the big green duffle bag from the top shelf. It’s huge: the largest duffle bag I own. I’m gonna need it. I need to fit as much shit in it as possible.
‘Cause I’m not coming back.
SIX DAYS LATER: Daybreak
Him
“Yo –YO! HEY! Wait up!”
The bus is starting to turn, trying to make its way around the roundabout. Soon, it’ll be on its way to the main street. I can’t let that happen. I need this bus.
I bought this ticket five days ago. If I miss this bus, there won’t be another one heading out on this route for six weeks.
I run as fast as possible. This big green bag is a pain in my ass. Right now, it’s weighing down on me like a shit-ton of bricks.
The driver keeps pulling off. Fucker doesn’t even see me. But I’m closing in, though. Almost there.
I reach the door, banging my palm against the glass. Open up. Let me in. I’m here.
Just when I think that the driver’s going to keep going, he stops the bus, taking a two-second pause before he opens the door.
I climb onto the bus, pulling tighter onto my duffle’s straps. I try my best to look grateful as I walk past the driver’s seat.
He’s a big guy. He waves briefly at me as I make my way down the aisle of the bus. I chuckle at the goofy grin on his chubby face.
My grey hoodie is really too warm for this sunny weather. I should be sweating bullets through it. But I’m not. Surprisingly, I still feel cool.
That run was no sweat. My workouts are paying off. Good. That’ll come in handy when I arrive.
I push the hood off of my head as I swagger towards the back of the bus. I’m heading steadily down the aisle when I notice her.
&nb
sp; A girl already seated on the bus. A beautiful girl.
I see that her head is leaning against the window as I walk closer to where she is sitting. I catch only a glimpse of her immaculate profile as she lays her face in the sun.
She’s lying on her own hair. And there’s tons of it. Big brown waves running all the way down her back.
It looks soft. I’d lie on it, too.
She looks up as if she’s somehow aware of my staring.
It startles me: how one second she’s almost sun bathing and the next minute she’s looking directly up at me. Right into my eyes.
I kind of pause in my step, not knowing what to do next. I smile.
I can’t stop it from breaking across my face. It’s her face that’s inciting this reaction within me. And it’s one gorgeous ass face.
Her eyes are piercing: pale blue. They’re icy. Not just in color, but also in temperament. They’re defensive, suspicious.
I’m immediately taken aback. Her eyes went wide for a second when she first looked at me. She looked momentarily shocked: caught off guard.
But not now. It’s only a split second later, but now she’s frowning. She sort of scowls at me for a second and then turns back to the window. I instantly feel dismissed. Was that an eye-roll?
I blink rapidly at her unwarranted hostility. What the hell is this girl’s problem?
I don’t know. I decide that I don’t want to know. I keep walking to the back, past the dozens of other passengers talking or sleeping.
I slam down into a seat with my bag. Damn. I wish I had arrived with enough time to place it beneath the bus with the rest of the riders’ stuff.
Fuck it. I’ll just lean on it if I have to and go to sleep. It’s going to be a long ass ride anyway.
I place the bag against the window and lean my back against it. I didn’t get any sleep last night. I’m going to need some type of shut-eye.
I think about the icy girl in the front of the bus before I close my eyes.
***
This ride from Tampa all the way to Atlanta is bullshit.
I could have booked a flight, gotten a rental car and been at my destination in this amount of time. A small part of me still wants to.
But an even bigger piece knows better. I needed this. Needed the time, the space to think. Just think. What do I want out of life? What’s my next move?
Time. Space. I haven’t had much of those in a while. Not that this bus provides much of the “space” part. It’s still pretty crowded on here.
Some passengers hit the pavement in Gainesville. A few more travelers got on and off in Tallahassee.
And all the while, I’m keeping an eye on the icy girl sitting further up front. In between my thoughts and half-hour naps, I look over at her seat, watching her.
I notice her interactions with the other riders. If someone sits behind her, she changes her position, turning herself to sit sideways in the seat.
I know why she does it immediately. She wants to keep an eye on the person. Make sure that she can keep them in her periphery.
She’s distrustful. Her earlier reaction wasn’t about me.
And yet… somehow it was. I don’t think that she’s looking at the other passengers the way that she looked at me.
I sense… other things on their faces when they look at her. And they do look. Almost every one of them. Men, women. Everyone.
Like me, they couldn’t help themselves. I watch each and every rider fall into her trap. It’s almost sick the way that I wait for their reactions to her bitter bite.
But nobody reacts the way that I do.
I see many things reflected in their faces when they catch her eye. Geniality, curiosity… even pity. But not shock. Not amazement at the sudden and blatant wrath that her eyes wrought. No obvious discomfort from the glower that she threw in my direction.
I watch her interaction with each and every one as they ogle her and keep going. I know what I feel; I just can’t figure out why.
I glare harder at the back of her full head of hair. And then it makes sense.
I envy them.
***
Kat
I overreact when the blond Zeus looks in my direction.
You are so mean, Kat. You are so fucking mean. What the hell is your problem? You are so…
I chastise myself as I hear his retreating footsteps. I intentionally sneered at him. Sneered. Ugh. I’m trying so adamantly to be a hard-ass.
I’m just tired. I’m tired of giving people chances, tired of being used, tired of being let down. I don’t trust people anymore. Now, when they smile at me, I immediately start thinking of their ulterior motives.
Why are you smiling at me? What do you want? You don’t even know me.
Maybe I’m lashing out too indiscriminately. Only time will tell. He just… I don’t know… took me by surprise, is all.
I saw him run to catch the bus earlier. I watched him from my window: watched blond strands of hair go bouncing up and down from underneath his hood. I watched his giant bag sway as he sprinted.
I didn’t call out to the bus driver to stop. I knew Zeus would make it.
He was fast. Really fast. I had the urge to yell, “Way to go, Zeus!” but I tampered it down. (No use in getting all worked up. I don’t do that anymore.)
I kept staring out of that same window as he boarded the bus. I could hear him strolling down the aisle between the seats. I finally looked up at him.
It was like a hammer between the eyes.
His hood was off, and he was looking in my direction. His hair is pretty long. It reaches past his brow in the front and is shaggy and lengthy down his neck. His eyes are brown. Silky brown. The color of milk chocolate. Yum.
He smiles at me. I almost smile back. And then I get immediately enraged.
Don’t do that. Don’t make me smile. I don’t want to smile. There’s nothing to smile about.
I’m angry with him for making me react this way. For making me feel momentarily light. For disarming me so quickly. With just a smile.
One beautiful, white, gleaming smile.
I’ve been duped by pretty smiles before: one, in particular. That smile is the reason that I’m stuck in the position that I’m currently in.
The blond Zeus responds as if I’ve slapped him. He’s confused. I would be, too. In all actuality, my behavior is unacceptable.
And if I wasn’t sure before, I am completely sure, now. I’m a flipping nutcase.
How’s the saying go? “A hard head makes for a soft ass?” Well, in that case, I’ll take a “soft head” (or whatever it takes) in order to get a hard ass.
I’m ashamed of myself. Embarrassed. I just walked out of the most prestigious job I may ever have the fortune of possessing without as much as a squeak. I scurried out like a scared little mouse.
Afterward, I beat myself over the head, wondering: Where’s the fire in me? The spark?
I had it as a child, perfected it as a teenager, and lost it somewhere en route to my mid-twenties. At twenty-five, I’m quiet, unsure of myself, and jaded.
Until a week ago, I kept my mouth mute while my brain ran at a million miles per second. Corporate culture had sucked me dry, doused my flame so that even the embers no longer smoldered.
For the past three long years, I’ve been a yes-woman. I deviated once, just once, and everything was lost. And in return for my dogmatic compliance over the years, I’ve lost the most important thing in the world: myself.
I’ve gotta find her again.
***
Him
We take a rest-stop break an hour south of Atlanta. The icy girl is the last one back on the bus from the stop. I think I know why.
Some creep in a cheap maroon tracksuit started making advances toward her on our way off the bus. And now that we are all back, he sits one row in front of her, seemingly determined to disturb his neighboring passengers (most of all, her).
His laugh is loud. His tone: obnoxious… and it is taking every bi
t of my restraint not to give this worm a piece of my mind.
Icy girl is casually ignoring him, despite his annoying behavior, but somehow her impassive silence only appears to egg him further. Now he has resorted to “Psst’ing” at her.
Is this guy serious? I swear this guy is an embarrassment to all things male.
I don’t want to explode, even though my past would suggest that that’d be the first thing I’d do. I once beat the hell out of a teacher at sixteen.
He was an insulting, surly bully of a man. He had it coming (twice over, actually) but still… Maybe there were better recourses, in spite of how good it felt.
So, in this instance, I’ve decided that I’m going to ignore my initial instincts. Don’t get involved with this scene. Don’t get involved with this girl.
I turn back to the window, catching the signs for I-75 North. We’re close.
***
A detour takes us through slower pedestrian roads heading north, and all the while, Mr. Track Suit tries to get the beautiful girl’s attention. She’s already dismissed him a time or two, but against all logic and reasonable sense, he continues to make appeals.
Even other passengers have made attempts to dissuade this guy. At every stoplight or sign, he turns around, offering up borderline-inappropriate jokes. No one finds them funny. I’m willing to bet this girl doesn’t even crack a smile.
Ten miles further, he reaches out, flicking her hair without her noticing.
I nearly lose it.
Don’t you do it, asshole. Don’t you fucking do it.
I sit up straight, clenching my fists against the seat in front of me as I watch the scene before me play out.
Funny thing is… I can’t tell if I’m talking to him… or myself. I’m a barely contained maelstrom, ready to strike with bolts of fury.
I realize I’m way too invested in the on-goings of this little interaction. This guy’s a jerk-off. I don’t like to see women harassed… which is all true, by the way, but that’s not why I’m furious… and I know it.
I try to settle more comfortably into my seat, and I actually manage to, until he extends a hand again. This time, she takes notice.