Read Online Through Indigo's Eyes by Tara Taylor - Free Book Online

him on Saturday night. At the party. Remember? Or has the entire night escaped your memory?”
    Had he heard about me getting drunk? Perhaps he had been at the party all night. Up in a bedroom somewhere. “Of course I remember,” I replied. To change the subject, I started putting my books in my backpack.
    â€œIf you want to know more about him, I can lend you my book.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” I replied. “You need to finish it first.”
    Why was he talking to me about this? Did he know something about me?
    He leaned back in his chair, rocking it so he was balancing on the rear legs. “It’s kind of unbelievable how he did it.”
    â€œDid what?”
    He snapped the chair forward. Then he leaned toward me, his dark hair flipping across his forehead, his warm breath swirling in front of me. All I wanted to do was reach across the table and touch him. Feel his hair. Run my fingers through it. Touch his skin. Feel the stubble on his chin. Have it caress my fingertips. I wanted to be back on the porch with him when he stroked my hair, only this time, I wanted him to pull me close to his body. Or … I wanted him to lean across the table and kiss me. Right here in the library.
    But he continued talking. “Had visions that came true. He was able to heal people of illnesses by seeing what was wrong when he was miles away from them. All he needed was a name. Do you know how utterly amazing and unbelievable that is?”
    The heat in the room had risen to well over a hundred degrees, I was sure. I felt like I was sitting outside on a humid summer day. Sweat dripped under my shirt, and I could feel it running down my body. Was my face as red as it felt?
    I wished he would stop talking about this stuff. And just focus on me. Look me in the eyes, and put his finger on my cheek and keep it there.
    What he was talking about was too close to home. I felt like I should leave, get out of the library. But I couldn’t move. It was as if he’d sucked me into a circle of energy that surrounded him. I wanted him to forget about schoolwork and ask me if I would share his cigarette.
    â€œI would stick to doing your paper on Freud,” I muttered. “That Cayce guy is probably not legit.” I stammered when I talked.
    â€œHow do you know?” He stared at me, his eyes locking on mine. Stared. Without blinking. Just staring. His pupils were like deep, inky pools. I stared back, unable to look away from the wells of darkness.
    Then he whispered, his voice husky and low, “You just said you don’t know who he is.” His words came out slowly, direct and almost critical.
    I had to do something. Move. Shift. Anything. He was making me uncomfortable, but he had this hold on me. Then without thinking, without analyzing my words, I blurted out, “Well, he sounds like a flake.” Then I pushed my chair away from the table.
    And John moved his chair, too. Space hung between us. I’d ruined the moment.
    With extreme coolness, he leaned back again, crossed his arms, tilted his head, and said, “You’re judging the guy before you know anything about him? That’s a bit presumptuous, Indigo Russell.”
    The tone of his voice confused me. Was he simply teasing me or deriding me? I was reminded of his comment about me being innocent. Was that how he viewed me? I didn’t want him to think of me like that; I wanted to be his equal. Not a handmaid.
    â€œI’m not judging,” I said softly.
    â€œThen what are you doing?”
    I twirled my pen. “Expressing my opinion.”
    He nodded, slowly. Then one corner of his mouth lifted. “I like that.”
    Silence passed between us, the air still but the electricity hovering like a circling helicopter looking for something in the deep, dark woods. He broke the hush by tapping his pen on the table again.
    â€œCayce is an interesting study,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to