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Sixty-Five
I must be dreaming.
The strange man in Brooke Cavanaugh’s dream pierced her with his angry stare. Closing her eyes, she tried to make him disappear.
The uncomfortable lump resting against her hip roused her further out of her prescription-drug induced slumber. Awareness gradually surrounded her, sending a loud ring through her ears. She stretched the aches out of her limbs, and her arms bumped into an object above her head. Her fuzzy mind tried to recall what surface she’d rested upon. It certainly wasn’t a soft bed. Her stiff muscles were positioned on some type of cushion with a texture like leather. Groggily, she tried to remember why in heaven’s name she would sleep on leather.
Her memory returned in broken pieces – a wedding rehearsal she hadn’t wanted to attend, a reoccurring migraine, and two instead of one-prescription pills had caused her to slip from the boring proceedings of the rehearsal to seek refuge in her sister’s car.
Yawning, sh
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