Rachel Vaughn is being hunted by something... unexplainable. And she can't help but think it has something to do with Luc, the handsome but mysterious guy who lives next door.
{ Book I of The Psychic Curse }
After her boyfriend cheats on her, Ra...
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"Go aw—!"
I had barely uttered two words, but it was enough to jolt me awake. I could've sworn someone had just been beside me, whispering questions in my ear, demanding answers... But I was alone in my dark living room. Anyone who had been talking to me had been only a dream.
I sat up, the lack of light disorienting. What I'd intended to be an innocent catnap had gone long enough that night had fallen. I could feel the lines embedded in my cheek from where my face had pressed against the cushions of my new couch. My hair was matted to one side of my head. I smacked my lips, trying to rid my mouth of that awful, dry, cottony taste. I hated accidental coma-naps.
My stomach rumbled angrily—my breakfast was now a distant memory. I groaned and slid off the couch, fumbling around my dark apartment for the light switch. I smacked my shins against my new furniture as I went, cursing loudly with every impact.
When my hand finally found the switch, the light easily flickered to life... but only for a moment. One of the bulbs made a tinkling noise and then sputtered out.
I swore under my breath. I had no spare light bulbs. And no food, still. I would need to go out again, but I caught sight of myself in the wall mirror I had mounted next to the door. At the moment I looked like a zombie. My long, brown hair was a tangled mess, and I could definitely see the imprint of couch cushions on my face.
Not even a month ago, I'd rather be dead than seen like this in public, but my breakup had done something odd to my self-esteem. It fluctuated wildly, swinging between feeling awesome and feeling terrible about myself, but sometimes it would sway to a strange place where I didn't care at all.
That was where it had landed now, and at this particular moment, it felt good.
I painfully combed through my hair with my fingers and rubbed the side of my face in hopes of smoothing out the lines. It didn't really help, but it was enough to persuade me to leave the house in search of a convenience store. I had already conquered a mountain of Scandinavian furniture; I could do anything.
I shoved some money into my pocket and headed out. As I locked up my apartment, I happily noticed it already felt routine. I leapt up the steps to street level and spotted a large illuminated sign in the distance: a convenience store was close by. Another bonus for this apartment. With the promise of chips and pop beckoning me, I was about to jog down the street, but I stopped dead in my tracks.
After days of no signs of life in my neighbour's shop, it was finally open. Here it was, in the middle of the night, its neon sign flickering happily and a soft warm glow peeping through the gauzy curtains. I stared at the psychic shop in shock, bewildered that it would be open now, at this hour.
My stomach ceased growling, forgetting its need. My urgent errand of light bulbs was also dismissed. I didn't even stop to think that I looked like something that had crawled out of a dumpster. I just stepped forward, slinking down the steps towards the door.
