incinerated her suit and her skin turned black and bloody. “No. No!”
Evie sat up in bed, almost toppling over the side. Hardly able to catch her breath, she tugged at her soaked T-shirt. She fumbled for the switch for the bedside lamp, gasping for air. The soft light helped her figure out where she was. Her Branford condo. Her bed.
Trembling, she yanked her sweaty T-shirt off. Then she hurried into her ensuite bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped inside, keeping it as cold as possible and trying to eradicate the haunting memories of the flames licking her body. The water usually helped, but nothing shut out the noise and the voices crying out in pain.
Out of the shower, Evie wrapped herself in an enormous bath towel and returned to the bedroom. She looked indecisively at her bed and then the alarm clock next to it. Four in the morning. After padding over to the La-Z-Boy rocking chair by the window, she curled up and tried to drown out the echoes of the ones in the nightmare. This happened almost every night, unless she’d worked out so strenuously she was more unconscious than asleep. She’d even tried alcohol before bedtime, but it exacerbated the horrifying dream-sequences.
She couldn’t stop trembling. The cold shower hadn’t helped much, but the thought of going back in for a hot one was worse yet. She knew, or could guess, why her nights were worse than usual. Tomorrow, she, Blythe, and her team would start training on Darlington Raceway. She’d put in enough training sessions to move farther south. At least she could stay at her beloved beach house, her true sanctuary where she was far enough away from her family and less reminded of how she’d failed to live up to their expectations. Something about the view from Pawleys Island, and the privacy her own house gave her, carried her through difficult times. This would be her first time back after the crash, and perhaps she was dreading that it could have lost its allure.
Evie glanced over at her cell phone. It was too early to call someone on a Sunday morning. Two weeks had passed since the award ceremony where she and Blythe had danced. They’d spent time together twice since then, but rather briefly and with a camera as a shield between them. Now she hadn’t talked to Blythe in five days, and she couldn’t think about anything but dialing her number. Why it was so important to talk to Blythe right now she didn’t know, only that it was. She just knew that if anyone would understand, it was Blythe.
“To hell with it.” She grabbed her cell phone and pressed the speed dial for Blythe’s number. Three rings went through before a sleepy, but concerned, voice answered.
“Evie? Something wrong?” Blythe cleared her throat. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you up.” Clinging to the phone with both hands, Evie could hear the slight tone of hysteria in her own voice.
“Of course you should. I’m awake now. Sitting up in bed. Talk to me.” Blythe still sounded husky, but indeed instantly wide-awake. Perhaps a journalist trait.
“I’m having a bit of a rough night. I can’t get the noise to stop.” Not sure how she could possibly be honest with Blythe, she pulled the damp towel closer around her and curled up in the chair.
“What noise?”
“I can hear the other guys. Burning. Crying out and then the flames…the flames.” She sighed and rubbed at her forehead. She nearly always got a headache after the worst of these nightmares. “And then the voices stop. That’s the worst part.”
“Why is that?” Blythe’s voice sounded matter-of-fact, but also impossibly soft.
“That’s when I know it’s too late for them. They’re gone. They burned to death, and I lived.”
“The survivor guilt really does a number on you.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Hot tears ran down her cheeks. “I’m so scared this will haunt me forever. I just don’t sleep well. Ever. I can’t complain about it either since
Evie sat up in bed, almost toppling over the side. Hardly able to catch her breath, she tugged at her soaked T-shirt. She fumbled for the switch for the bedside lamp, gasping for air. The soft light helped her figure out where she was. Her Branford condo. Her bed.
Trembling, she yanked her sweaty T-shirt off. Then she hurried into her ensuite bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped inside, keeping it as cold as possible and trying to eradicate the haunting memories of the flames licking her body. The water usually helped, but nothing shut out the noise and the voices crying out in pain.
Out of the shower, Evie wrapped herself in an enormous bath towel and returned to the bedroom. She looked indecisively at her bed and then the alarm clock next to it. Four in the morning. After padding over to the La-Z-Boy rocking chair by the window, she curled up and tried to drown out the echoes of the ones in the nightmare. This happened almost every night, unless she’d worked out so strenuously she was more unconscious than asleep. She’d even tried alcohol before bedtime, but it exacerbated the horrifying dream-sequences.
She couldn’t stop trembling. The cold shower hadn’t helped much, but the thought of going back in for a hot one was worse yet. She knew, or could guess, why her nights were worse than usual. Tomorrow, she, Blythe, and her team would start training on Darlington Raceway. She’d put in enough training sessions to move farther south. At least she could stay at her beloved beach house, her true sanctuary where she was far enough away from her family and less reminded of how she’d failed to live up to their expectations. Something about the view from Pawleys Island, and the privacy her own house gave her, carried her through difficult times. This would be her first time back after the crash, and perhaps she was dreading that it could have lost its allure.
Evie glanced over at her cell phone. It was too early to call someone on a Sunday morning. Two weeks had passed since the award ceremony where she and Blythe had danced. They’d spent time together twice since then, but rather briefly and with a camera as a shield between them. Now she hadn’t talked to Blythe in five days, and she couldn’t think about anything but dialing her number. Why it was so important to talk to Blythe right now she didn’t know, only that it was. She just knew that if anyone would understand, it was Blythe.
“To hell with it.” She grabbed her cell phone and pressed the speed dial for Blythe’s number. Three rings went through before a sleepy, but concerned, voice answered.
“Evie? Something wrong?” Blythe cleared her throat. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you up.” Clinging to the phone with both hands, Evie could hear the slight tone of hysteria in her own voice.
“Of course you should. I’m awake now. Sitting up in bed. Talk to me.” Blythe still sounded husky, but indeed instantly wide-awake. Perhaps a journalist trait.
“I’m having a bit of a rough night. I can’t get the noise to stop.” Not sure how she could possibly be honest with Blythe, she pulled the damp towel closer around her and curled up in the chair.
“What noise?”
“I can hear the other guys. Burning. Crying out and then the flames…the flames.” She sighed and rubbed at her forehead. She nearly always got a headache after the worst of these nightmares. “And then the voices stop. That’s the worst part.”
“Why is that?” Blythe’s voice sounded matter-of-fact, but also impossibly soft.
“That’s when I know it’s too late for them. They’re gone. They burned to death, and I lived.”
“The survivor guilt really does a number on you.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Hot tears ran down her cheeks. “I’m so scared this will haunt me forever. I just don’t sleep well. Ever. I can’t complain about it either since
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