Awakening Alicia

By Kate Vivid

Jack can't quite shake the feeling that he's missed something. When his high-octane career as a war correspondent is brought to an explosive close, the feeling overwhelms him. He reluctantly plays wing-man for his best friend at their school reunion and encounters an old flame that it seems is still scorchingly hot.
Exerpt:
After he and Matt ate, Jack felt his body gradually relax. Then, while Matt made another foray to the increasingly crowded bar, Jack caught sight of Liss dancing with someone. God, his temper had never shot up and down like this in his life – it couldn't be good for him. She was trying to politely keep her distance, but the guy – Gary? – seemed determined to push the First XV advantage he'd barely had twenty years ago. Suddenly he saw Liss turn towards him as though he'd called her. She unmistakeably mouthed 'HELP' at him. Without thinking he bolted to his feet, sending his chair over and his crutch flying. She quickly moved to assist him, fetching the crutch, righting the chair, sitting down opposite him, and leaving 'Gary' alone on the floor.
"Thanks for that – I didn't mean you to hurt yourself trying to help me."
Jack ground his teeth, "I didn't hurt myself."
A flicker of pain crossed her face at the hard tone. He watched, fascinated, as she smoothed her features and smiled politely, "Glad to hear it, Jack." She could never do that when they were together – absolutely wore her heart on her sleeve, and had no guile, no deceit at all. It was how he'd known so surely that she was hiding something from him. She must've learned the trick of covering her feelings in the intervening years.
"Sorry – didn't mean to snap." He leaned forward, giving her a conspiratorial wink, feeling his heart pound at the way she leaned in, too and smiled warmly at him, "I did hurt myself, and I didn't mean to knock my chair over. I have suddenly become a klutz the last few months and I'm not used to it yet."
She waved a hand airily in teasing dismissal, "You can't fool me, Thoroughgood. You've been a klutz as long as I've known you – ", she gave him a provocative smile from beneath lowered lashes and squeezed his good knee, gently, "Didn't you knock me off the bed, once?"
He clenched his jaw, enraged by the surge of arousal that flooded him, hardening in his groin. "Why are you doing that?"
She pulled back, "Doing what?"
"Flirting with me? Acting like we could still be friends? Fucking lying and leading me on, again?"
She stood, "I never led you on, Jack. You abandoned me. You made out that you were my champion, my knight in shining armour, and then at the sight of the first dragon to snatch me away screaming, you just stood and waved me off. All that 'I'd do anything' crap didn't mean a thing when the darkness really threatened." She leaned closer, her face flushed and her eyes flashing, and hissed in his ear, "So don't try and push guilt at me, you piece of shit." Then she straightened again, her gaze cool and composed, "Excuse me for taking up your time. Thank you for your assistance with Gavin, earlier."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Vivid
• Release date: Feb 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465925190

Kate Vivid

Kate is an avid reader, herself and has just started making a foray into writing short stories and romances. Keep an eye on her Smashwords author page to read more, if you enjoyed Finding Jake.

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This ebook is published by Kate Vivid at Smashwords.

Copyright  2011 KATE VIVID

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AWAKENING ALICIA

CHAPTER 1

Jack could hear a man screaming. He could feel panic like a rain of hammer blows up and down his spine. Jesus, his throat hurt and he couldn't seem to make himself breathe in. Then there was a desperate moment of awareness crashing through him. He managed to stop screaming a moment later and simply lay on the narrow bed panting harshly. It was such a relief to draw oxygen into his lungs that he couldn't stop himself doing it. As his hyperventilation spiralled out of control his vision drew down to a tiny circle of whitewashed wall. He was dimly aware of the smell of antiseptic, two people in white uniforms rushing in and talking tensely over the bed as he slumped back onto the mattress and fell into the faint's dizzying embrace.

The next time Jack woke, it was blissfully quiet. The small, white room was dimly lit by a fluorescent light in the corridor, shining in through the closed venetian blind. He groped around and found the control for the bed. Once he had the back raised, so that he was just about sitting up, he tried to take calm stock of his surroundings and himself. Definitely in hospital. Dark outside – proper dark – so, night time. He had a cast on his leg with several steel pins sticking out of his thigh. He shifted, gingerly on the bed. Shit. Catheter. He cautiously moved the white cellular blankets and sheet back, so he could examine a section of his belly which felt strange. A dressing with a deeply bloodstained line along it. Surgery. Had he been shot? Shrapnel maybe? He rearranged the blankets and studied his arms – lots of small deep cuts, a few stitched – they were most probably shrapnel. He scanned the room – no sign of his laptop bag, but his press ID was lying on the cabinet on the far side of the room. He gingerly ran his fingertips over his face – no apparent cuts or scary dressings. Heavy bruising down the right hand side, though. He winced and decided to leave the explorations for now. Finding the control unit again, he pressed the call button.

A dark-haired man in a nurse's uniform gently opened the door and spoke to him in thickly accented, but perfect English, Mr Thoroughgood? Looking much better, I see.

Jack was surprised at the strength of his voice when he spoke, Feeling it. Do you know if there's been any word from England?

The man came into the room, and closed the door firmly. He sat down beside the bed. Mr Thoroughgood – you are in England. This is King's College Hospital. You were flown in from the military base in Afganistan last week.

"Last week? When was I hit?"

The nurse stood and consulted the chart at the end of Jack's bed, Just let me be sure, Sir. Right. Yes – the 12th of February.

And it's now, the…?

28th.

Have I actually been unconscious all that time?

Much of it. Mostly sedated.

God. Right, so what's the damage, then?

The man hesitated, It's 5am, Mr Thoroughgood. Your consultant makes rounds at 7. Can you wait until then for the detail?

I'd like to know a couple of things, right now, if I may?

A smile. I'll try. Fire away.

The leg. Savable?

Yes. To some degree of mobility, certainly.

And my stomach?

It's your kidney. And you lost it, I'm afraid. The other is damaged, but we don't think it'll be a dialysis and donor hunt job.

"Fuck. Good to know. Right. Can I have a phone?"

Now, Mr Thoroughgood?

Yes. Jack swallowed, made an effort to temper his tone. Please, he ducked his head to catch sight of the name tag, Piotr - a phone, please. Thanks for answering my questions.

No trouble. I'll wheel the phone unit in, now. We can bill you on discharge.

Thanks. Jack collapsed back onto the pillows. He was going to hoick his editor out of his vi-sprung bed and away from his nubile young wife right now and get a full report on what the hell happened to him in Ghazni. 'Reasonably safe,' my arse. He seethed with irritation and anxiety.

***

Jack was angry about the crutch, and about the agonisingly painful weekly physio, and about the kindly pity he got from his erstwhile colleagues at ITN, and about the monthly round of tests for his kidney – he'd only endured two such appointments so far and it was more than enough for him. He was angry that he still couldn't drive.

But, it wasn't the rage that was tying his stomach in knots and making him sit up later and later on the sofa, getting all sweaty and stressed about turning in for the night. It was the dreams. He thought it was probably the combination of pain, pain killers and the all-round crisis pit that his professional life seemed to have been sucked into.

He stood in front of his bathroom mirror, propping his good hip against the sink, trying to muster the motivation to shave. He eyed himself warily. Always lean, he was now getting downright thin. Luckily the effort of keeping mobile with the leg was stopping his upper body getting too scrawny. He needed a haircut badly, his thick, dark, curly hair was falling in his eyes constantly. Another thing to piss him off. The scars on his arms were fading, so it was just the deep one on his abdomen, and an old scar on his face to ruin his looks, now…he shrugged, squeezing shaving foam out onto his wet hands and returning to his earlier train of thoughts.

The dreams weren't scary per se. It was waking up. It was waking with the sudden crushing awareness that more than 15 years had passed, that had him sweating. He could accept the present state of painful recuperation and the horrible truth that he wouldn't be working in the field again. It wasn't easy, but every war reporter knew the risks they took, and he knew that he was genuinely lucky to have made it back; luckier still, the soldiers he'd been with had preserved his laptop and couriered it back to the ITN offices. His report had gone out with the evening news, complete with his screams at the end of it, and he was a bit of an overnight hero. So, that aside, why was flashing back and forth between memories of his time at school and now so alarming? He couldn't put his finger on it, but every time he woke and realised that he was in his mid-thirties, he felt a desperate sense of failiure, a huge chasm of despair, opening up inside him. Could it be a mid-life crisis? He wasn't yet forty!

The doorbell rang, interrupting his reverie. When he finally gained his feet and got to the bloody door handle, whoever was outside was leaning on it, remorselessly. He wrenched it open, angrily, What?

Hello mate – sorry about that – when I totalled my knee playing rugby last year, the painkillers they gave me made me sleep like I was dead. Thought I'd have to wake you up.

Jack grunted in reply, and Matt shoved past him, heading straight for the kitchen. Jack hobbled along the corridor, grabbing his crutch en route. He could hear Matt putting toast in the toaster and opening a packet of bacon.

No, no mate – go ahead, help yourself. No need to stand on ceremony!

Matt grinned at Jack's outraged tone, Well, there isn't, is there?

What do you want? Aren't you working today?

Not working. Came to see you. Bacon sarnie for Sir?

Jack sat down, heavily, at the table and nodded. He pulled a couple of different packs of pills out of his pocket and dry swallowed two of each. Matt dumped a carton of juice down in the front of him, and Jack took a long swig.

Once the food was eaten, and Matt had chattered away about his weekend cricket team (no more rugby for him), his job (security co-ordinator for a multinational biochem firm) and his latest toy (new motorbike – a vintage something or other); Jack held up a hand.

"Come on, Matt. What do you want to say? Spit it out."

God, you're a difficult shit at times. Matt looked hard at Jack. Jack winced a little. Matt was an all-round nice guy, one of his best mates since he was eleven, and he hated to piss him off. It was just a bit difficult to be treated as people's 'little project'. He wasn't actually a wounded veteran, and didn't really need all this extra coddling. Jack? The sharpness in Matt's tone jerked him out of his little self-pitying train of thought.

God, sorry mate – what were you saying? Start again – I'm listening this time. He shot his friend a sheepish smile and got another hard look in return.

I was saying, will you come on Saturday?

Go back further – what's Saturday?

Don't you open your post?

Only the bills and stuff from work.

Right, right. If it's not the gas board or ITN, then Thoroughgood simply doesn't want to know.

Let's say whatever it was got lost in the post, and you tell me what I've missed while I've been…while I have –

Been stuck up your arse for the last six weeks? Jack shrugged in reply, thinking it best not try and defend himself just now. It's a school reunion. Twenty years. I want to go. I want you to come, too. It'll be a laugh. You can switch to paracetamol for the night and we'll get wasted.

Jack hesitated, looking at his empty plate. When he looked up at Matt, he had thought he would say no, but Matt looked resigned and irritable, as though about to give up. Jack changed his mind. He didn't want to go, but he didn't want to make Matt feel any worse.

Ok.

Ok? Really? Brilliant. You're still off driving, yeah? Jack nodded, grimly. Right, so – I'll pick you up about five on Saturday avo. We'll be there in plenty of time. I'll book us a hotel. We can come back on Sunday once we've recovered.

Where's it being held?

At school – meal in the dining room, then dancing and stuff in a marquee, out near the cricket nets. There's going to be a band. They're sixth-formers I think, with 60s, 70s and 80s covers for school events. Probably won't be all that bad, to be fair.

Won't be all that good, Jack scoffed.

I don't think you go to a school reunion for the quality of the music on offer.

I haven't got a clue why you go to a school reunion. You'll have to tell me on the way there.

That night, nice and early, Jack decided to try and focus on his school days. He thought there might be something he was trying to remember, that was prompting his vivid, disturbing dreams. If this didn't sort it out, then the bloody reunion would. He was still dreading it. And when he found the damn thing, the invite had done little to soothe his agitation. The dress code was 'Hollywood Black Tie'. He'd Googled it. Pretentious piece of bullshit. The best he could come up with was that it meant "black tie with men free to make