Pivot (The Jack Harper Trilogy Book 1)



  PIVOT

  By L.C. Barlow

  Copyright 2013 L.C. Barlow

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, places, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Adult Reading Material

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 - PREPARE

  Chapter 2 - WHEN A BODY EAT A BODY

  Chapter 3 - ATEMPORAL HIGH

  Chapter 4 - WAKE UP

  Chapter 5 - ROLAND

  Chapter 6 - PERFECTION

  Chapter 7 - INHALE

  Chapter 8 - ONE, FOR THE MONEY

  Chapter 9 - ECONOMICS

  Chapter 10 - EQUILIBRIUM

  Chapter 11 - MEND

  Chapter 12 - DESIRE

  Chapter 13 - DÉJÀ VU

  Chapter 14 - THE MAN WITH STARS IN HIS BODY

  Chapter 15 - SEX

  Chapter 16 - PANIC

  Chapter 17 - LOVE

  Chapter 18 - SCREAM

  Chapter 19 - RELAX

  Chapter 20 - THE DESTRUCTION OF FAITH

  Chapter 21 - A DIFFERENT BREED

  Chapter 22 - RUPTURE

  Chapter 23 - THE SHARKS THAT DON'T BITE

  Chapter 24 - EVERYTHING WILL BE ALRIGHT

  Chapter 25 - SUBLIME

  Chapter 26 - GONE

  Chapter 27 - MARGARET

  Chapter 28 - THE BRIM

  Chapter 29 - THE MASTER

  Chapter 30 - WELCOME

  Chapter 31 - TRUTH

  For all those who hope, laugh, love, dream, and cling to these things, no matter the peril.

  Chapter 1

  PREPARE

  My roommate leaves me notes on rose petals.

  Tonight, they read:

  "I'll be"

  "Back"

  "Very"

  "Late"

  It was a black pen on red petals. Her flowers must be dying again.

  It's 12:00 in the evening, and I'm still electrifyingly awake. But I'm not waiting up for her. I'm waiting up for me.

  For Patrick.

  I think I'm going to tell him tonight. Should I say it to him, or write it to him? How many rose petals would that take? Trillions.

  And then some.

  Actually, there are probably enough petals. Just never enough words.

  But I will confide in him. I will. I will. I will. Will I?

  I am waiting for the knock. Then we will go to his loft, as we always do. It makes me happy. It keeps us sane. This is a college town, with college students everywhere. They can hardly drive straight. Boys and girls and money and toys. Thank God we have each other.

  The text Patrick sent me today reads... It doesn't matter what it reads. It was hilarious. He always is. In a good, numb way.

  Tonight is the night before Halloween. Or, I suppose it is now the thirty-first. Hooray.

  Do you know what our plan is? Two Xanax each plus two beers. That'll get us to the summit of that haunted house. We'll get our hundred dollars back. Sure, the zombies, the vampires, the ghosts, the psychopaths, always the psychopaths, will terrify us, maybe even grab us, maybe even choke us (exciting!), but we are professional concocters of eau de numb. Our trek to the top will be beautifully automatic. Is that cheating? I suppose we cheat.

  That is, if Patrick will speak to me after tonight.

  But I should let him know. I should. Everything.

  When I do, I hope this trap that binds my neck will let loose. I hope my throat will be uncorked once again. I hope, I hope, that someone good will accept what I have to tell him.

  But is tonight really the night?

  Is my story wholly true?

  Is Patrick not at least a little bad?

  I want the release. Does it exist?

  I do not think so. This whole idea is a lunatic's.

  But there is the knock! Like the lowest, deadest bell in the world. Now to turn the petals around for my roommate and add a few.

  "I'll be"

  "Back"

  "Even"

  "Later"

  When Patrick comes in, he writes, "You're lovely," on all the other petals littered about her pink vase, and he thrusts them over her desk and chair, singing that there's no earthly way of knowing where we're going or where we're rowing. He adds there's no knowing which direction our river is flowing, and it does not seem as though he questions the current of water, but the current of life.

  He grabs my hands, clasps them together so that I clap, pulls them wide so that I'm spread, and then dances me in circles. He croons the dark lines from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory's "Wondrous Boat Ride," twisting the already devious words deliciously, coating them in his magical whiskey breath. I laugh as we jump to my bed, our dirty shoes marking the pillows.

  His eyes explode to their widest as he sings of raining and snowing and hurricanes blowing, and as if on cue, in the distance I hear the thunder of a storm on the rise. He pulls me to him, and I grin. I've heard him sing this song so many times when he is high or drunk or happy or sad. I say it with him, picturing my eyes like a child's, my cheeks rosy. We tell each other that the danger must be growing, for those that row us keep on rowing, never stopping, never slowing.

  As he begins the song again, louder, faster, his hot breath grazes my lips, and his maniacal eyes take me in hard to ensure he has captured me. I remark that there is a speck of white glitter on his brow, and I know. It would be wrong to wipe all that dazzles away.

  Tonight is not the night.