Cayman summer, p.1
Cayman Summer, p.1Angela Morrison
Michael and Leesie’s Saga:
Taken by Storm
Unbroken Connection (Taken by Storm Book #2)
Cayman Summer (Taken by Storm Book #3)
Meet Beth, Scott and Derek—they’ll break your heart next!
Sing me to Sleep
Published by Angela Morrison
Mesa, Arizona, USA
Copyright 2011 Angela Morrison
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Please direct rights inquiries to Erzsi Deak, Hen & Ink Literary.
E-Book ISBN: 978-1-4392-8165-9
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To all my readers at http://caymansummer.blogspot.com!
Thank You …
About the Author
LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM #74, FLIGHT
Michael pushes the wheelchair
down the chilly jet-way.
no midnight escape flights
from the Spokane airport.
He drove all night to make this
6:00 AM AA flight to Chicago,
while I rode wrapped
in a hospital blanket,
a gift from my nurses—
who all had a crush on him—
my seat tipped back,
my broken hand elevated
on a pile of pillows
to reduce swelling,
more pillows to keep my feet up,
my right arm in a sling
with a complex web of bandages
doing figure eights around my body—
Pumped full of morphine,
I slept. First time
He greeted me with a yawn stifled
into a smile, when I
opened my eyes to discover
we’d roamed to the other side of the state—
bays and islands, seashells and tides,
gulls in the distance like the ones we fed
at Grand Coulee dam
the first time we talked
back when I was lonely but not alone.
“You okay?” He touched my arm.
“I’m fine,” I lied despite the
undrugged reality of pain,
as desolation lapped like waves
against my heart.
Alone. Lost. Forever fallen.
My eyes sought his.
At least, I won’t be lonely—
not with his ring glowing
on my finger. My glance
slid down his face and arms,
dropped to my hand, searching
for that reassuring gemstone.
My fingers purple, puffy,
He patted the pocket
of his saddle-brown leather
jacket that matches the coat
draped over me. “It fell
off. I’ve got it safe.”
He pulled over for gas,
slipped the ring on the chain
he used to wear,
fastened it around my neck,
and gave me a double
dose of pills.
“The nurses said not
to let the pain get out of hand.”
I wanted to protest.
I needed the hurt,
something real to suffer,
not like the ache in my spirit,
the divine hole that will never heal.
But I swallowed for him—
for his fingers touching my lips
as he placed capsules on my tongue,
for his hands holding up my water bottle,
for the kiss I demanded as reward.
Now, he lifts me from the wheelchair,
settles me in cushy first class,
front row, window seat.
He sinks beside me, lightly
touches my garish fingers sticking
out of my cast, closes
his eyes. “Just give me a minute.”
I stroke his hand with my fingertips.
“I love you.”
His mouth corners turn up
as he drifts away.
I analyze the minute contractions
of his nose when he inhales.
His chest lifts, fills, falls
as the air silently escapes.
I close my eyes and trace the vision—
jeans, jacket, his hair getting long again,
curling along his neck like it was that day
on the bus when he rescued me from Troy—
cementing it in my mind,
in case he evaporates
I catch my reflection
in the pre-dawn dark window
beside me, ignore the black eyes,
the scarf that doesn’t camouflage
my shaved, wounded scalp,
focus on the ugly white
gauze holding my nose in place,
wince when I try to use it,
force air in through my mouth,
slow and steady,
like Michael taught me.
“Max the 02,” I imagine he says.
“It’s good for your head.”
The surgeon said I’ll snore.
Poor, Michael. I’m such a freak.
The doc also told me to breathe deep.
Pneumonia attacks in hurt rib
territory. A sharp twinge, dulled
but perceptible, accompanies
every breath. In. Out.
Michael sleeps the whole flight.
An attendant reaches across him
to hand me a soda that I can’t hold.
“Wish I could snooze like that.”
I direct her to set the cup on my armrest
table thing that blocks my knee from
touching his. “Shhh. He deserves it.”
Three hours I watch.
It isn’t enough.
He wakes when we land.
I nod. “You?”
“I’m great.” He smiles,
but it’s thin.
How can I say I love him?<
I high-jacked his life.
Kidnapped his destiny.
He says all he wants is me.
What if he’s lying?
What if I’m not enough?
What if he gets sick of being
What if he can’t love me
I force a smile. “Where to next?”
He shakes his head. “Too easy.
That’s the first place they’ll look.”
“Didn’t know you were that into
this evil mastermind gig.”
He doesn’t laugh. “We can go
there if you want.
Gram would fly out—
stay with us awhile.”
My heart pounds.
“She’d tell my dad.”
“Yeah. He could come, too.”
He combs his fingers through what’s
left of my hair. “Just like old times.”
I close my eyes—thankful
that my face is masked—so
he can’t see what I
He sees anyway. “I can
take you home, babe”—
his whisper holds hope—
“just say the word.”
I inhale again and the pain
from my ribs
knifes to my heart.
He shakes his head.
“When you’re ready,
I’ll take you.” His lips
imprint the promise
on my mouth.
“I’m ready for you.”
My kiss says it better.
O’Hare is packed. He says
it’s always like this. But—
he’s got a shiny white cart
waiting that whisks us like
magic through the masses.
I get to board our plane first.
We don’t bother with a wheelchair.
I start to hobble through the gate,
but Michael sweeps me in his arms
“The doctor said I should walk.”
His breathe tickles my ear.
“Aren’t you tired of this?”
I let him into my eyes
where all my fears hide.
He cradles me close. “I’ll
never get tired
MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #10
Dive Buddy: Leesie
Dive #: first night
Location: Grand Cayman
Dive Site: Summer Breeze Resort
Weather Condition: clear skies, full moon
Water Condition: choppy
Depth: way, way, way over my head
Visibility: I can’t see anything but her
Water Temp: steamy out
Bottom Time: all night long
The hotel doesn’t have wheelchairs like the airport. I follow the porter to Leesie’s room carrying her in my arms. It’s steamy in Cayman so we stripped off our matching Bonnie and Clyde get-away jackets waiting in line at emigration. Leather and the tropics don’t mix. I stuffed them in one of Leesie’s duffel bags when we claimed them. All I’ve got is my backpack.
As I walk down the hall, my feet sinking into the plush carpet, I’m hyper-aware of Leesie’s wounded head pressed against my shoulder, her breath on my neck. Holding her turns me on, and there’s nothing I can do to stop that. Half her head is shaved, and there’s forty-two stitches running down into her forehead. The bruising around her eyes is less purple tonight. Her lip is gashed and swollen. She’s banged up, swollen, bruised, wrapped up and plastered, but she’s still Leesie. I still love her. Touching her still makes me want her. “Hang in there, babe,” I whisper into her ear. “We’re almost there.”
“Hurry.” She wouldn’t use the john at the airport. “I’m going to explode.”
Me, too, babe. Me, too.
The porter opens the door, and I follow him inside the hotel room. I take Leesie right into the bathroom and set her down. I whisper so the guy can’t hear us. “Can you manage?”
“Not the snap.” Her eyes find mine, and we step further into the new reality we find ourselves in.
I shake my head and drop my eyes. Careful not to touch anything but her pants, I unfasten her jeans and shut the door.
I get the porter to unlock the connecting door to my room, dump my backpack in there, press ten bucks in the guy’s hand, and usher him out. I pull Leesie’s pain pills from my pocket, shake four out and place them beside a bottle of water on the nightstand next to the bed closest to the bathroom.
Leesie hobbles out of the bathroom. “I’ve never had to go that bad in my life.” Her jeans are pulled up but undone.
I force myself not to stare at the white underwear triangle between the open zipper teeth. “Let me help.” I steer clear of her zipper, but scoop her up for the thousandth time since we signed her out of that hospital room in Kellogg, Idaho. I push the pillows off so she can lie flat and lay her down on the bed—have to stop myself from kissing her neck.
I haven’t slept for more than an hour or two at a time for the past five days. We’re alone in a hotel room for the first time. I’ve got zero self-control left. I move to the bottom of the bed and go to work relieving her of the ugly blue Velcroed boots that cover her wrapped up sprained ankles.
Leesie yawns and stretches her legs. “Are you sure we want this bed? You can’t see the TV very well from here.”
I pull off the first boot. “I’ll move you. Just let me finish.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She swallows. The bottom half of her cheeks and her pale, lovely neck turn pink. “If this is where you want to sleep—”
“Leese.” It kills me to say this. “My bed is in the room next door.”
The heightened color drains out of her face. “I need you here.” Her eyes fill with terror. “You’re not going to leave me?”
I slip off the other boot. “This isn’t the hospital with nurses and aids coming in and out all night. That door is locked. We’re alone.” I stare down at her bandaged ankles and can’t stop myself touching both her feet, caressing them. “I don’t trust myself.” I bend down and kiss her big toe.
“I’m yours now, Michael.” Her broken left hand reaches for me. “Whatever you want.”
I take her hand and kneel down by the bed. “I’m not going to hurt you more.”
“I’ll be okay.” Her grip on my hand gets tight. I know she’s lying. Scared. Of me. “Just,” her voice drops so low I barely hear, “don’t put any pressure on my upper body.”
My mind instinctively flies to solving that problem. Freak. What a creep. It takes all the self-control I thought I didn’t have to let go of her hand, stand up, and back away from her bed. “I promised your dad—”
“You called my dad?” She scowls, but I hear longing in her voice.
My eyes shift to the phone on the nightstand. “Let me, Leesie. Please.”
“No—that’s over.” She sets her jaw and struggles to keep the tears at bay. “They don’t exist. Anything you said to him doesn’t matter.” She takes a deep breath. Her eyes lift to mine. “You’re all I am now.”
I’m hearing what I thought I always wanted her to say, and it’s torture. “Don’t be crazy like this.” Her whole life has been about being a Mormon. There’s no way I can replace that—ruin it. “It does matter.”
No sex unless we’re married, Leese. Those are your rules. I remember my conversation at Thanksgiving with her dad. Almost isn’t good enough for him. Isn’t good enough for my Leesie. “I’m keeping that promise.”
Tears flow down her face. She says God won’t forgive her for what happened to Phil. Thinks
Her tears weaken me. I soften my voice. “You lost Phil. That’s awful, but everything else is still there.”
She wipes her face with her broken left hand. “I disgust you now.” Her hand comes to rest on her chest where her engagement ring hangs from my old chain.
“I want you so badly, babe, that I got to get out of here.” I take another step back. “Take your pills. Sleep.”
“You can’t go.” She needs help getting undressed, help taking her pills, help getting under the covers.
“I wish I could stay and take care of you.” My eyes sting, and I have to swallow hard. “But I’m a guy, and I love you.” A sob chokes me a moment. “If I touch you one more time tonight—”
I bolt through the door, slam it shut, lock it. Press my ear to the wood.
“Michael.” She calls me. “Michael, Michael, Michael.”
LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM # 75, REBELLION
I wear out my voice calling
him to come back, wear out
my heart, wear out
“Take your pills, Leese.”
His voice through the door triggers
rebellion. Those stupid pills—
his solution for everything.
Drug her up so I won’t
have to deal with her,
hear her, touch her, kiss her,
“Take your pills, babe. The nurses
I sweep them off the nightstand.
The capsules mock me
from the carpet, glowing
in the light he left on
Cayman Summer by Angela Morrison / Romance & Love / Young Adult have rating 3.6 out of 5 / Based on25 votes