Read Online The Girl With Aquamarine Eyes by Shelley Madden - Free Book Online
Authors: Shelley Madden
Ads: Link
still struggling to catch his breath as
spittle ran down his chin.
The same long honey-blonde curls, the same aquamarine eyes
stared back at him. The perfect skin, the porcelain perfect china doll face.
The same long thick lashes, the same cheekbones women would die for. He was
looking at Heaven.
The ringing of the phone near him jolted him back to
reality. He glared at it momentarily, and continued to gasp at the yellowed
photo.
His sister Rose looked exactly like the girl upstairs who
called herself Heaven. The girl with no past was staring at him. No, it was his
sister he was looking at.
He gazed at the ceiling in confusion, knowing Heaven was in
her suite above the study. Or was she Rose?
The blasted phone continued to ring. He’d throw it out the
window, as he’d done a motel room chair once or twice in the past. He’d watch
it spin madly out of control and wait for the horrific sound it’d make the
moment it hit the concrete below.
He’d make sure the blasted phone would never ring again. He’d
have them all ripped out from every room in the mansion and pile them in a
heap, light a match to that blasted bridal magazine, drop it into them and
watch in glee as they melted and hissed in the burning flames.
He studied the photo intently, gasping for air as a
smothering blackness began to press into his thoughts. The phone continued to
ring. Finally, he yanked the receiver from it.
“Hello?” He could only hear the faded hiss of air above the
dial tone.
Too late, he realized the phone had tricked him. It was
merely a decoy to distract him from the true meaning of the incessant, blasted
ringing. He slammed the receiver down. Before it was too late, he tore it from
the desk, held it high above his head and threw it across the study.
It spun wildly through the air, reminding him of the chairs
from motel rooms in years past. It hit the opposite wall and exploded.
Naturally, and as luck would have it, the phone was kind enough to take out his
one of a kind Tiffany lamp.
It crashed to the floor and burst into a million colorful
fragments. The sunlight cast rays into the shards as millions of colorful
prisms floated across the walls.
No matter. He’d call Heaven, she’d fix it. But wait, that
was impossible. He’d destroyed the damned phone, he couldn’t call her. He
stared at it in anger, as an all to familiar sweat began its march down his
backside.
The phone rang again.
His eyes bulged from their sockets as he gazed at its broken
remnants. The blasted, incessant ringing continued. He stared at the smashed
plastic, his mouth agape. The son-of-a-bitch was about to piss him off.
It continued to ring.
He yanked open the desk drawer, pulled out his revolver and
shot the phone three times. He smiled as a Cheshire cat might, blew the smoke
from the barrel and carefully laid the weapon back into the drawer.
The son of a bitch rang again.
He attempted to rise, determined to finish off the phone
once and for all. But his knees gave way. He crashed onto the chair, while the
horrid screeching rose octave after octave. He glanced at the study window,
waiting for it to relent to the pitch and shatter into a million pieces
alongside the fallen lamp.
But instead, the pane buckled into wave after wave. They
rippled across it, rising and falling as if the window were breathing. It
slowly turned to a watery liquid, and fell silently in silver droplets of
molten glass to the floor.
His head hit the desk before his eyes were fully closed, the
photo still clutched in his hand.
His elbow hit the nearby drink. It teetered momentarily, and
finally tumbled across his lyrics. Page after page was soaked. They drifted off
the slick desk, landing in a soggy heap on the floor.
He never noticed.
* * *
Bice followed Heaven as she slowly ascended the staircase and
entered her room. Her shoulders hung in resignation, as she settled into the
chair beside her bed.
“I’ll call Bonita up, she’ll draw you a bath.”
“Thanks.
spittle ran down his chin.
The same long honey-blonde curls, the same aquamarine eyes
stared back at him. The perfect skin, the porcelain perfect china doll face.
The same long thick lashes, the same cheekbones women would die for. He was
looking at Heaven.
The ringing of the phone near him jolted him back to
reality. He glared at it momentarily, and continued to gasp at the yellowed
photo.
His sister Rose looked exactly like the girl upstairs who
called herself Heaven. The girl with no past was staring at him. No, it was his
sister he was looking at.
He gazed at the ceiling in confusion, knowing Heaven was in
her suite above the study. Or was she Rose?
The blasted phone continued to ring. He’d throw it out the
window, as he’d done a motel room chair once or twice in the past. He’d watch
it spin madly out of control and wait for the horrific sound it’d make the
moment it hit the concrete below.
He’d make sure the blasted phone would never ring again. He’d
have them all ripped out from every room in the mansion and pile them in a
heap, light a match to that blasted bridal magazine, drop it into them and
watch in glee as they melted and hissed in the burning flames.
He studied the photo intently, gasping for air as a
smothering blackness began to press into his thoughts. The phone continued to
ring. Finally, he yanked the receiver from it.
“Hello?” He could only hear the faded hiss of air above the
dial tone.
Too late, he realized the phone had tricked him. It was
merely a decoy to distract him from the true meaning of the incessant, blasted
ringing. He slammed the receiver down. Before it was too late, he tore it from
the desk, held it high above his head and threw it across the study.
It spun wildly through the air, reminding him of the chairs
from motel rooms in years past. It hit the opposite wall and exploded.
Naturally, and as luck would have it, the phone was kind enough to take out his
one of a kind Tiffany lamp.
It crashed to the floor and burst into a million colorful
fragments. The sunlight cast rays into the shards as millions of colorful
prisms floated across the walls.
No matter. He’d call Heaven, she’d fix it. But wait, that
was impossible. He’d destroyed the damned phone, he couldn’t call her. He
stared at it in anger, as an all to familiar sweat began its march down his
backside.
The phone rang again.
His eyes bulged from their sockets as he gazed at its broken
remnants. The blasted, incessant ringing continued. He stared at the smashed
plastic, his mouth agape. The son-of-a-bitch was about to piss him off.
It continued to ring.
He yanked open the desk drawer, pulled out his revolver and
shot the phone three times. He smiled as a Cheshire cat might, blew the smoke
from the barrel and carefully laid the weapon back into the drawer.
The son of a bitch rang again.
He attempted to rise, determined to finish off the phone
once and for all. But his knees gave way. He crashed onto the chair, while the
horrid screeching rose octave after octave. He glanced at the study window,
waiting for it to relent to the pitch and shatter into a million pieces
alongside the fallen lamp.
But instead, the pane buckled into wave after wave. They
rippled across it, rising and falling as if the window were breathing. It
slowly turned to a watery liquid, and fell silently in silver droplets of
molten glass to the floor.
His head hit the desk before his eyes were fully closed, the
photo still clutched in his hand.
His elbow hit the nearby drink. It teetered momentarily, and
finally tumbled across his lyrics. Page after page was soaked. They drifted off
the slick desk, landing in a soggy heap on the floor.
He never noticed.
* * *
Bice followed Heaven as she slowly ascended the staircase and
entered her room. Her shoulders hung in resignation, as she settled into the
chair beside her bed.
“I’ll call Bonita up, she’ll draw you a bath.”
“Thanks.
Similar Books
