The Messenger: Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #1 Read Online Free
Author: Pamela DuMond
my heart sunk as I realized I was never in Brett’s heart the way I wanted to be. And frankly—that sucked—’cause I had liked him for a very long time.
“Uh, great. Thanks,” Brett said and walked away with that gorgeous girl glancing up at me while she whispered into his ear.
I felt my heart twist and sink into my stomach. I stared at the ground below me. It looked about a hundred feet down—not fifteen. The room spun. I clung to the ladder’s railing, plunked my butt down onto a ladder stair, and tucked my head under my arm.
“Hold onto this thing!” Aaron said to someone, way off in a fog somewhere. “Hang on, Madeline. I’m coming to get you.”
Chapter 3
I don’t know how , exactly, but Aaron got me down off that ladder and somehow dragged me to the school cafeteria.
Chaka had rolled out her yoga mat, and I lay in Child’s Pose on it for I-have-no-idea how long, before I was able to lift my head off the ground.
“Take this.” Aaron shoved a tiny, white pill at me.
I swallowed it.
“Drink this.” Chaka thrust a water bottle at me.
My hands shook as I struggled to unscrew the top.
Aaron grabbed the bottle, yanked the top off and handed it back. “You’ll feel better in no time.”
I chugged the water and dropped the bottle. “I’ll feel better when I talk to my mama.”
----
I was six-years-old and strapped into a booster seat in the back of Mama’s dinged hatchback while she drove to an important appointment after my horseback-riding lesson. I didn’t know what the important appointment was about—didn’t care—’cause I was hanging with Mama, which was always a good thing.
We were driving in one of those tall parking garages, the kind that was round like a soup can, where the ramp spiraled up—which felt like we were going in circles. The last thing I remembered was our car accelerating like crazy, me getting dizzy and asking Mama to slow down. Then there was a loud BANG! That’s it.
Now, I sat on the concrete ground on the tenth floor of the same circular, open-aired parking garage that featured moderately priced apartments above it. They were moderate, because while the building overlooked water, it wasn’t a postcard view of Lake Michigan but a grimy, skinny branch of the Chicago River that trickled past in the near distance.
I leaned back against a cold, concrete, support pillar about twelve feet from the sturdy, coiled, metallic rope that connected more columns in front of me. A chilly wind sliced through my hair, and I shivered. The rope separated this solid structure from the open air surrounding it. The thickness and metal design of the rope were intended to keep vehicles from catapulting off the edges of the garage. That worked most of the time.
My butt was numb from the cold concrete, and I hoped my jeans and T-shirt didn’t absorb the garage floor’s oil stains, discarded cigarettes, or the spray-painted, gang graffiti tags on the pillar that I leaned against. I shivered again, and hugged myself.
I’d bolted from Preston Academy withoutmy coat and was wearing only a paper-thin, long-sleeved T-shirt in fifty-degree weather. My cheeks were undoubtedly stained with mascara rings, and I probably looked awful. But really, who cared?
I craned my neck forward, and checked out the vacant lot below the parking structure. It was a sad sight: a large patch of weeds littered with trash and junk that had been dumped in the river had found their home here—most likely after a storm got wild enough to toss them onto the riverbanks.
Aside from the newer makes and models of the neatly parked cars, ten years after the accident, this whole scene still looked pretty much the same. Except this time I wasn’t strapped into the back seat of a car, hanging by its rear tires caught on the safety wire, ten stories off this ledge, suspended between sky and ground, life and death. And, according to the police report and descriptions from several witnesses who raced to the scene,
“Uh, great. Thanks,” Brett said and walked away with that gorgeous girl glancing up at me while she whispered into his ear.
I felt my heart twist and sink into my stomach. I stared at the ground below me. It looked about a hundred feet down—not fifteen. The room spun. I clung to the ladder’s railing, plunked my butt down onto a ladder stair, and tucked my head under my arm.
“Hold onto this thing!” Aaron said to someone, way off in a fog somewhere. “Hang on, Madeline. I’m coming to get you.”
Chapter 3
I don’t know how , exactly, but Aaron got me down off that ladder and somehow dragged me to the school cafeteria.
Chaka had rolled out her yoga mat, and I lay in Child’s Pose on it for I-have-no-idea how long, before I was able to lift my head off the ground.
“Take this.” Aaron shoved a tiny, white pill at me.
I swallowed it.
“Drink this.” Chaka thrust a water bottle at me.
My hands shook as I struggled to unscrew the top.
Aaron grabbed the bottle, yanked the top off and handed it back. “You’ll feel better in no time.”
I chugged the water and dropped the bottle. “I’ll feel better when I talk to my mama.”
----
I was six-years-old and strapped into a booster seat in the back of Mama’s dinged hatchback while she drove to an important appointment after my horseback-riding lesson. I didn’t know what the important appointment was about—didn’t care—’cause I was hanging with Mama, which was always a good thing.
We were driving in one of those tall parking garages, the kind that was round like a soup can, where the ramp spiraled up—which felt like we were going in circles. The last thing I remembered was our car accelerating like crazy, me getting dizzy and asking Mama to slow down. Then there was a loud BANG! That’s it.
Now, I sat on the concrete ground on the tenth floor of the same circular, open-aired parking garage that featured moderately priced apartments above it. They were moderate, because while the building overlooked water, it wasn’t a postcard view of Lake Michigan but a grimy, skinny branch of the Chicago River that trickled past in the near distance.
I leaned back against a cold, concrete, support pillar about twelve feet from the sturdy, coiled, metallic rope that connected more columns in front of me. A chilly wind sliced through my hair, and I shivered. The rope separated this solid structure from the open air surrounding it. The thickness and metal design of the rope were intended to keep vehicles from catapulting off the edges of the garage. That worked most of the time.
My butt was numb from the cold concrete, and I hoped my jeans and T-shirt didn’t absorb the garage floor’s oil stains, discarded cigarettes, or the spray-painted, gang graffiti tags on the pillar that I leaned against. I shivered again, and hugged myself.
I’d bolted from Preston Academy withoutmy coat and was wearing only a paper-thin, long-sleeved T-shirt in fifty-degree weather. My cheeks were undoubtedly stained with mascara rings, and I probably looked awful. But really, who cared?
I craned my neck forward, and checked out the vacant lot below the parking structure. It was a sad sight: a large patch of weeds littered with trash and junk that had been dumped in the river had found their home here—most likely after a storm got wild enough to toss them onto the riverbanks.
Aside from the newer makes and models of the neatly parked cars, ten years after the accident, this whole scene still looked pretty much the same. Except this time I wasn’t strapped into the back seat of a car, hanging by its rear tires caught on the safety wire, ten stories off this ledge, suspended between sky and ground, life and death. And, according to the police report and descriptions from several witnesses who raced to the scene,
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