Portal - BK 1 Read online

  Text and Cover copyright © 2009 by Imogen Rose

  First eBook Edition: January 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  First eBook Edition: January 2010

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Paperback Edition ISBN: 978-0-615-34507-9

  Website: http://www.imogenrose.com/

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I woke from a dream and, still in my pajamas, started writing this story. My eight-year-old daughter, Lauren, sat patiently by the printer and read the sheets as they appeared. Her insistence that I share them with her kept me writing. So, Lauren, a big hug–without you, this story would probably have remained in my imagination.

  I am indebted to my friend, Sue Bernstein, for editing this novel and for her patience with me. She is generous, upbeat and always encouraging. I’m very privileged to call her my friend.

  I am extremely grateful to Barbara Muller for copy editing my work so carefully and to Angela Laskoff and Joanne Restivo, for proofreading chapters and for their invaluable suggestions. I would like to thank Ted Risk for converting this novel into an eBook–thank you so much, you are amazing. I would also like to thank my friend Stacy Patterson’s daughter, MacKenzie, for reading the story and for her helpful insights.

  The warm, generous encouragement and support from my family and friends gave me the confidence I needed to pursue this and I would like to specially mention and thank my friends from THG.

  A dreamer must dream

  A storyteller must tell

  I dream to tell

  A STORY FOR LAUREN

  PROLOGUE

  LONDON, 17 Years Ago

  Olivia Stevens braced herself. The cold October breeze sent a shiver through her as she stood outside the Alexander Fleming pub in Paddington, impatiently waiting for her girlfriends to show up.

  She needed a drink. She had just completed her doctoral thesis, so a celebratory glass of Champagne would be perfect. A drink would also help dull the pain of her stagnant marriage to her philandering husband. However, to top it all, she’d just found out that she was a month pregnant.

  Yes, a drink is just what she wanted, but she would have to settle for a glass of sparkling water to celebrate her best friend Celia’s birthday, which was, after all, why she was waiting outside the pub on this cold night. She looked up to the sky and caught sight of a shooting star. It was the start of the Orionid meteor showers. Olivia made a wish.

  Celia and the others finally arrived, stumbling toward the pub. They had started their pub crawl hours earlier while Olivia was still finishing up in the laboratory. Celia planted a wet, alcoholic, kiss right on Olivia’s pink-glossed lips as they hugged, and then pulled her in the direction of the pub. The group of nine made a noisy entrance as they pushed their way to their regular table.

  Let the rounds begin! Olivia put her hand up to indicate that she would deal with the first one, and tried to remember the orders as they were shouted to her. She turned and headed for the bar.

  As Olivia made her way through the crush of bodies, she noticed an unfamiliar hand reaching for her. Ignoring it, she plowed on ahead, but the hand was still reaching for her as she got to the bar. Abruptly, however, the hand then moved down and picked up a wooden guitar. She looked up, curiously.

  Olivia was unprepared for the tremor that jolted through her when she looked into his deep blue eyes. The deep intensity was hypnotic, she felt like she was being drawn into his soul. Embarrassed, Olivia gave herself a shake and laughed, the laugh turning into nervous giggles. Guitar man suddenly joined in her laughter and started strumming his guitar.

  Olivia composed herself and turned to the barman, reciting her drinks order. Nine glasses were put on a tray. Before she turned to lift it, guitar man picked it up and looked at her for direction. She pointed to the table in the corner and smiled gratefully as he threw the guitar over his back and deftly maneuvered the tray through the crowds.

  “Ladies, your refreshments!”

  “My! Where did you find him, Ollie? He’s adorable!” Celia grinned, looking him up and down.

  Olivia examined him carefully. She had been so enthralled by his eyes that she hadn’t noticed how irresistibly attractive he was.

  “I’m the birthday girl, so I get the first kiss!” Celia giggled, as she stood up and puckered her lips. Olivia felt a strong wave of resentment, but couldn’t understand where it was coming from. She looked up at guitar man who must have noticed her obvious irritation. He smiled back at her reassuringly before heading over to Celia and kissing her gently on her head.

  “Is that all I get?” Celia teased. “How about a tune on your guitar at the very least? It’s my birthday after all!”

  Olivia was relieved when he walked back over to her and sat down on the arm of her chair. He strummed his guitar as Celia got up and sang along.

  Olivia tried to analyze her erratic reaction to this stranger. Why was she feeling so utterly possessive of him? It didn’t make any sense. She was even envious of Celia singing along to his music. How absurd!

  He turned to face her as he made a move to leave their raucous party. She felt a shot of pain tear through her body. He gently pulled her hair away from her ears and came up so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath. He softly whispered, “Ollie, I’m your Rupert.”

  Then, just before he left, he whispered the words that changed her life forever.

  “Come find me two years ago.”

  I’m going to take him out! I clenched down on my mouth guard so hard that I could feel the salty drops of blood on my tongue. Then I took a firm grip of my stick and zoomed over to number 4 in less than a heartbeat. Snarling under my breath, I lifted my stick and brought the end down hard on to his thigh and pounded my shoulders into his chest. He was down. Mission accomplished. The whistle sounded. Typical! The two minutes in the penalty box was so worth it. Seeing the look in his eyes as he realized that the girl had brought him down….

  I inhaled. Slowly. What was that smell? The sweetness was interfering with my game replay. I tried to open my eyes, without any success; my eyelids felt like they had been glued down. I rubbed them with my fingers and the smell got stronger. Was it coming from my hand? Perhaps it was coming from my sleeve? I took another deep breath – the aroma wafted up my nose.

  It was perhaps technically not a smell, more of a scent. I don’t have a good nose like my sister Ella, who’s like a sniffer dog. The only perfume I can recognize is my mother’s. She uses a very heavy French perfume. This was different, much more delicate, almost pleasant with a hint of cinnamon.

  I thought about trying to open my eyes again but it was too much of an effort. My whole body ached. I tried to recapture the feeling of thrill from my hockey dream but drew a blank. So, I concentrated on the sound of the heavy rain clatter instead, a perfect lullaby. I started drifting, thinking back to the SAT’s I had taken that morning.

  The sound of Lily Allen’s whiny singing rudely interrupted my thoughts. When will Mom ever move on to some new tunes? What was I doing in Mom’s car anyway? I clearly remembered Dad picking me up at school after my SAT’s.

  Mom lives in California and was not supposed to be back in Princeton until next week. I’ve been living with my dad in New Jersey for the past eight months while I finish high school. My sister lives with my mom on the other side of the country.

  Well, whatever the explanation was, I had plans for tonight. The new Star Trek movie is playing at the Imax, a
nd I needed to be ready to head out with my friends shortly. I better get up and deal with life. I forced my eyes open.

  It was dark! My SAT’s had finished at 1 PM, it should still be daytime. This was strange. The rain was coming down hard. I went to switch on the DVD player to drown out the Lily Allen noise so I could concentrate.

  I scrambled about looking for the control knob. It was missing! How could it have disappeared? It was one of those built-in entertainment systems that could be accessed from the back seat. Ella and I had insisted on two being installed into this Hummer so we didn’t have to deal with each other. I looked over to my left. She was fast asleep in her booster seat, her mouth slightly open.

  Ella, my sister, is eight. She’s a fairly typical eight year old, and by that I mean totally annoying. The best times were like this when she was completely out of it. There was something different about her. I looked closer.

  It was her hair. It seemed to have blonde highlights! My eyes had now fully adjusted to the dark, but I was still feeling groggy. I reached over and touched her blonde tipped strands. She stirred, ever so slightly, but did not wake up. As I pulled my arm back from Ella, I felt a warm, rough, tongue run across my palm.

  I looked down at Gertrude who lay between us. I had disturbed her sleep. She stretched out lazily on the back seat next to me and rolled onto her back waiting for me to rub her belly, and then yawned and closed her eyes again. Gertrude is the love of my life. She is my five-year-old Chihuahua. She looks more like a Jack Russell terrier, though. She is supremely lazy, but friendly and incredibly cute. She stretched out on her back with her tongue hanging out the side of her open mouth, fast asleep. I absentmindedly stroked her tummy as my eyes moved over the driver’s seat.

  I first noticed the glimmer from the seat, which looked like leather. Strange, Mom’s Hummer has fabric seating. Leather or fabric had been the source of one of many arguments when we were buying the Hummer.

  A set of perfectly manicured nails grasped the steering wheel. Black nail polish–Chanel, no doubt. I am embarrassed to admit that I even know that. Long, straight, brown hair… no wait… it looked lighter than my mom’s. An uneasy feeling came over me. However, I caught a reassuring whiff of my mother’s perfume. What was I was doing in her car, her new car?

  She turned her head around, she must have heard my shuffling.

  “Arizona, are you up?” Mom asked in her annoying British accent. “Could you hand me a Starbucks from the cooler?”

  If I absolutely have to, I thought to myself as I rummaged through the cooler at my feet and extracted two glass bottles, one for her and one for myself. I handed it to her, carefully making sure not to touch her. I avoid any physical contact with her.

  “Thank you, baby.”

  Baby? Had she completely lost her mind! We have a complicated relationship. In short, I can’t stand her. I find myself boiling up with rage whenever I have to deal with her, which is one of the reasons we live apart. Our confrontations have landed me in serious trouble, so I really have to watch myself around her. However, Ella needed to be dealt with.

  “Mom, Ella sprayed perfume on me when I was sleeping….” Not that I expected her to do anything about it; she never did.

  “Arizona, she did play with your perfume bottle, but I asked her to put it back in your bag. It does smell lovely. What is it?”

  My perfume? It was certainly not mine, but decided to let that slide for now. I needed to know what I was doing here and where we were going.

  “Mom, where are we? Where are we going? Where’s Dad?”

  “Home, of course,” she said, as she turned up the music.

  Good, she must have come back to Princeton early to pick me up from school. It was a bit odd though. I clearly remember Dad picking me up. My eyes felt unbearably heavy again, so I closed them and allowed the sedative sounds of the raindrops lull me off to sleep.

  I began thinking about the SAT’s. What a disaster! It was my fourth time taking them, after having done both the Kaplan and the Princeton Review classes. Not that I had paid any attention, both courses had been totally boring. I guess I could kiss the Ivy League colleges goodbye.

  I decided to cast off those negative thoughts for happier ones – my last hockey game. Now there’s something I’m really good at.

  When asked to describe myself (like I was for the local newspaper last year), I always reply, “I’m Arizona Stevens, ice hockey player at Princeton High School.” Ice hockey defines me, and I’m very proud to be the only girl who has ever played for Princeton High varsity hockey team. My pride and joy is my hard-earned varsity jacket, it’s got my name and number: I’m number 11 and I play defense.

  I’m sixteen and petite for my age. The promised (by Mom) growth spurt I was looking forward hasn’t happened yet. I’m about half the size of my team members who are fairly big guys. However, despite being small, I have strong shoulders and arms, and can pack a serious punch. And I’m not exaggerating when I say that I can look after myself. No one messes with me.

  I wouldn’t describe myself as “pretty” even though my mom sometimes does, but I think that’s just to annoy me. I do like my hazel eyes, but hate my full, wide lips. I always wear my straight, brown hair in a ponytail and have worked hard at perfecting a mean, snarly look. Although I do sometimes forget myself and smile, and that’s when my very irritating mom says that I am so pretty! Pretty is not going to help me when I am surrounded by enormous hockey players all coming at me…. My snarl wins!

  My parents have been separated for a while, which suits me just fine. Life was pretty rotten living in their war zone, although I must admit I did my very best to contribute to the battles. Now I live with my dad, Dillard. He is totally hopeless at getting anything done, which works for me, as I am not that into getting things done either.

  My mom is a perfectionist. Neither Dad nor I could stand it, and we now live together in a house that we haven’t bothered to straighten up for eight months. How cool is that! Mom and Ella moved to California a while ago, so I really only have to put up with them during vacations when they always move to my mother’s Princeton apartment. She’s been dangling that apartment as a carrot to get me to study. There is no chance of me getting into Princeton University though, based on today’s SAT performance and my rather embarrassing GPA. It’s a pity really, as they do have a great ice hockey team, ah well!

  Although I look and feel like an all-American teenager, I’m actually British. I was born and raised in Wimbledon, London, until we moved to New Jersey nine years ago when Dad was relocated. My parents’ marriage was over by then, but Mom decided to stay with Dad, as she was pregnant with Ella at the time.

  It was hard. New school, new accent. I made sure to promptly get rid of my posh British accent to fit in better. But I wasn’t really happy until I got to high school. I love high school, well parts of it anyway. The work is annoying. After all, I just want to play hockey. What’s the point of calculus?

  My school is not cliquey like the ones described in movies and books. There are no separate tables for the football team, geeks, and losers. I hang with the hockey team when I want things easy and uncomplicated, but try to hang with the girls as much as possible. After all, I don’t want people thinking that I’m weird in any way.

  It’s hard work being friends with girls, though. There are so many complicated issues and all that talk about shopping! Honestly, who cares? My best girl pals, or BFFs, are Monica, Ariele and Simla. Monica and Ariele are not talking at the moment (something about Monica buying a dress that Ariele spotted first), which is annoying. Simla seems pretty issueless. She is super smart and seems to spend her entire life studying.

  I consider myself a fairly normal teen, although I do have anger management issues when my mother is around. Perhaps issues is putting it mildly. It’s been a huge problem, one that landed me in behavioral therapy, and almost on meds, after a huge overreaction by Mom to some minor structural damage to the house. Big deal. What are a few broken
doors and bashed in walls in the grand scheme of life? I have to be able to deal with the hatred I feel for her some way, right? Many have tried (and failed) to get to the bottom of this conflict with my mother. I can’t put a finger on it. I guess, simply put, I don’t like anything about her. She’s a pain. The worst thing is that now, any signs of inappropriate behavior and she’s quick to call my therapist. My biggest fear is in-house treatment. That would really mess up my hockey schedule. So, I really watch myself, I never react to anything around her.

  It’s a huge relief having her out of my everyday life. So, life is good. I am well respected at school. I get along just fine with Dad. The only thing missing in my life is a car. I really, really want one. I will be seventeen in July and will need a car… not a lame car, but a super cool car. I’m thinking a Dodge Charger. Another upside of my parents being separated is that it’s easier to get what I want out of them, so I am thinking that the Charger is as good as mine.

  The next step in my life, as my mother endlessly reminds me, will be trying to get into college. I really want to play college ice hockey. However, it seems like colleges want you to have good grades. Here is where I’m really screwed. I blew off my classes and my grades are worse than poor, just good enough to be allowed to play on the varsity team. I guess I’ll be retaking the SAT’s again.

  My head suddenly lunged forward and then back again hard on to the seat. What seriously bad driving! The car must be on a rough road. Mom was having a hard time keeping the car in control. I held on to the seat in front of me with one hand and protected Gertrude with the other. Ella did not wake up, despite being thrown around in her seat. The car came to a sudden stop and my mother turned the engine off.

  “Girls, wake up, we’re home!”