Burdened (A Burdened Novel) Read online

  Burdened

  A Burdened Novel

  By Peiri Ann

  Copyright © 2013 by Peiri Ann

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior permission from the publisher, except as provided by the USA copyright law.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9913811-0-4

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9913811-2-8 (PB)

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental

  Cover Art by © 2013 Peiri Ann

  Copyediting by Christine Rice www.christinericepublishingservices.com

  Summary: In a life of hate, deceit, and dishonesty; Nathan finds there is an upside to life when he meets Tracey. A confident, beautiful, outgoing girl who immediately falls in love with him and has no regard for the danger that lies within his life. He decides that loving her may be worth risking his life to death… and hers.

  Dedication

  To the ones who stand behind everything life brings to you

  Never turn their backs and always keeps you close.

  Love life’s loves and LIFE LOVES YOU!

  Table of Contents

  Burdened A Burdened Novel By Peiri Ann

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1: Enraptured

  2: Touched

  3: Chosen

  4: Obsessed

  5: Accepted

  6: Revealed

  7: Denial

  8: Impatient

  9: Reappearance

  10: Introductions

  11: Perfection

  12: Astonished

  13: Relinquished

  14: Assurance

  15: Bound

  16: Deceived

  17: Veiled

  18: Vined

  19: Unforeseen

  20: Deception

  21: Revolution

  22: Uncertainty

  23: Relieved

  24: Cloaked

  25: Uninhibited

  26: Abhorrence

  27: Rejuvenate

  28: Infiltrated

  29: Dedicated

  30: Veracity

  31: Broken

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The love I have can last a lifetime alone, in the darkness waiting for the mate of love to return to the side of a lonely heart. But I cannot wait long past tomorrow to hold you, hear you, and see you in my arms. Without my arms wrapped around you, our bodies wound within one another. There is no darkness emptier then I at that exact moment. There is no depth lower than the empty feeling I have from longing for you. For this love is greater than any I have had the pleasure of feeling. For this love is you.

  Nathan-

  1: Enraptured

  The last week before a break, Mrs. Kimble’s class always lasts forever! I cannot wait for this week to be over. It’s almost spring break—the next best thing to look forward to, apart from summer. It’s the start of the warming days, when we can lose the coats and start letting some skin show. That earthy scent comes back, due to the freshly bloomed flowers and trees, and the newly grown grass.

  Oh yeah, and the preeminent point—lack of class. My impatience for graduation, in a few months, also grinds at the back of my head.

  Still three days to go, until I can enjoy our week of no school and not waking up early. Mrs. Kimble moves on to literary words that are meant to capture your feelings when you speak. Yeah, only three more days—if I can ever get out of this long-ass class!

  “So,” Glen pulls me from my thoughts, tapping my back, “what do you have planned for our lovely break that’s coming up?”

  I turn a quarter of the way to her, not wanting to draw attention to us. “Nothing much. I haven’t put too much thought into it. What about you?”

  “Well, you know, Andrew Stevens is planning the next break party, I think it is Friday at 9, or maybe 10.” She looks up to the ceiling, then nods. “I heard it from Robert, in the hall.”

  Break party, it’s what we call any party thrown the last day of school and the opening of a break. It seems lame, thinking of it now. I guess it serves its purpose though.

  Intriguing, I think, as I speak. “Andrew is not known for throwing parties, especially at his place—his mother would murder him if she found out.”

  “Well, he is apparently willing to risk it—that’s why everyone is planning to go. It so has to be worth it,” she chimes, in anticipation. “So yeah, very intriguing.”

  “Tracey and Glen, is the talk of Andrew’s party more important than the study going on in this English class?” Here she goes. Mrs. Kimble, on another role of trying to embarrass her students by using her bionic ears to ease-drop on their conversations.

  Today, Tracey Warren and Glen Richards are on her hit list.

  “Of course not, Mrs. Kimble!” Glen says with exaggeration. “Nothing is more important than what is going on within your exceptional English class.” Glen is the best smart-ass in existence. We have known each other since grade school. When her, her mom, and her older sister moved to Bennington, here in Vermont, she walked into my classroom and our third grade teacher assigned her the desk next to mine. I smiled at her and she offered me one of her princess erasers. We have been tied at the hip ever since.

  “Now Glen, with your equipped sarcasm, you should try directing your efforts more towards paying attention to your studies,” Mrs. Kimble states calmly, while giving her a piercing look over the bridge of her glasses, “rather than towards being a smart-aleck.”

  We have gotten each other into hell, and she has been the one to get us out;—in most cases. We are both eighteen, though she is a few months older than me; yet, I’m taller than she is. While I have dark-brown—almost black—hair, she has that pretty, sandy-brown hair that many girls color their heads to achieve. Freckles cover her cheeks, and I have a beauty mark resting aside my left eye. We both have curvy shapes that pull eyes as we walk, and Glen flaunts hers with an ‘I got it, girl’ attitude.

  “Smart-Aleck!” Glen gasps. “Mrs. Kimble,” she says, slowly and with emphasis, “now, with your high expectations of me, you know I wouldn’t dare. I love being one of the students you go home thinking of, how you can make me into a better person before I leave this school.” She flashes her pearly whites and winks at Mrs. Kimble.

  The other students in the class snicker and shake their heads. Mrs. Kimble—for a moment—only glares at Glen. The bell rings loudly, jarring her attention.

  That bell may take forever to ring, but it is always right–on–time! Gathering my things, all I hear is giggling, rambles, and shuffling from the other students trying to rush from the classroom. Looking at each other, Glen and I attempt to make a run for it.

  The last thing I need is for Mrs. Kimble to desire to keep me in this classroom any longer than the hour I already had to suffer through.

  Hallway in sight.

  “Harrumph, ladies.” Mrs. Kimble clears her throat, noticing me and Glen fulfilling our escape plan.

  Damn, I think to myself, too late. We turn, facing her. Arms folded across her chest, she glares at us with one eyebrow raised. The left side of her mouth turns up as if to say ‘don’t even think about it.’

  I hurry to speak, being the more reasonable one of the two of us. “Mrs. Kimble, yes, what is going on in your class is more important than any party thrown by anyone. But you hav
e to excuse us, because we have something extremely important we need to have completed for my mother before she gets home.” Yes, it’s a lie, but hopefully a believable lie.

  Her one eyebrow lowers so that it is even with the other as she contemplates my story, trying to decide whether it was the truth or my escape route. “Lad—” The phone rings the moment she begins to speak. She steps to it, eyes still on us.

  Once the person on the other end starts to ramble loudly and too quickly, she shoos us away. Her expression shows worry as she listens. I care—but not that much. Immediately, Glen and I make a run for it, hitting the hallway in record time, before she can hang up.

  I am a little interested in this party. Andrew is never allowed to have company, which restricts any party-throwing. His mother is extremely strict and for him to risk it…

  “Hey Glen, hey Tracey,” Eric cuts us off from our walk to the parking lot. “You ladies coming to Andrew’s party on Friday?” I now know, around every corner, someone will be talking about the party. “Y’all know, everybody from our school and our sister schools are supposed to be there.”

  Mt. Francis Senior High School contains most of the students in town. “I didn’t think Andrew’s house was that big, to pack all those hormone-driven teenagers.” I’m curious to know exactly how big Andrew’s house is. We have never been in it, just in the area.

  “It’s pretty big, not to mention he has the lake in his backyard. So it is party central. We can all ride over there together, if you all want.”

  “Thanks, we were just on our way to see if the rest of the girls were interested in going. Once we know for sure, we’ll decide how we will get there. See you later, Eric.” Glen waves him off, pulling me to continue our walk to the parking lot.

  “So you really want to go, Friday?” I ask as we approach our group of friends.

  “Of course,” she says, as if I asked a ridiculous question. “You don’t?”

  “Yes, I mean, especially if it’s as big as everyone is making it seem. But we can check with the others, see if they are thinking about going.” I am always good at including the other girls of our group in our decisions.

  The parking lot is where the juniors and seniors meet after class. We could hang out there for hours, but the school will not allow for our time to exceed two hours after the last class lets out.

  The girls and I always meet up so we can plan what we are doing later or anything else that holds importance, which is usually nothing; however, anything can entertain a bunch of teenage girls.

  “Hey Rachel, have you heard about Andrew’s party? You’re going, right?” Glen always jumps right into whatever the juicy stuff is.

  “Hi Glen, how was class? Maybe we could start off our conversations with a greeting.” Rachel was always there to check her. “Yes,” she answers, “we were just talking about it. We all want to go. What about you two? Tracey, I know you’re not going to miss this party, right?”

  “No, you know better. I’m going,” I state, lacking enthusiasm. Realizing it, I perk up. “Eric stopped Glen and me in the hallway to offer us a ride. You know he tries to get in good with Glen and all.”

  Eric has had the hots for Glen for as long as I can remember and she keeps shutting him down. It’s funny to watch her get mad when we all talk about it.

  “Ha! Yeah, Glen can ride to the party with Eric, and the rest of us will figure out how we are going to get there. No biggie, right Glen?” Stephanie, another of our group, taunts or instigates a situation.

  “I think you all can just go straight to hell and take Eric and his ride with you,” Glen calmly states, looking around the parking lot.

  We laugh at her nonchalant sarcasm.

  “Okay, all jokes aside, we have a few more days to figure out how we are going to get there.” Joy lowers our excited mood with her ‘poop on the party’ personality; yet, we love her.

  “True,” we all agree. “What are you guys getting ready to do? Want to go to the mall?” Rachel never wants to go home after class. She is always trying to find something do.

  The girls and I all kind of favor. Rachel is the tallest of us. We all stand five-foot-three to five-foot-five, with long hair and golden skin, because we spend so much time in the sun whenever it is out. We don’t just hang out and do nothing—our days together are spent shopping, eating, and partying.

  But today I am in no mood to go to the mall. I really just want to go home and lay around the house with no company.

  “No, I’m all set. I’m going to head home. Call me when you all get back.”

  “Okay, see you later, Tracey.” They chime behind me as I walk away.

  Getting in my Mazda 6, there is a flyer on my window. They are really planning on advertising this party everywhere. Really, flyers? And on my car of all places. I hate shit on my car. Throwing the flyer to the backseat, I turn up the radio. There are little-to-no cars left, and I am so ready to be at home, on a couch, watching something not relevant to life.

  Maybe there will be something on MTV, no, E, no… Maybe there will be a good movie on HBO, no, maybe on FX. Yeah, FX always has a good movie on. I’ll sit back in the family room and wa—

  There’s a loud screech and a hard bang. I jolt forward and back—my body slams against the seat. Blinking, trying to get my eyes to focus, I’m dazed; my vision fades out then back in. I think—I think I just got hit waiting at a stop sign. Panic kicks in as I look myself over. Am I okay? Oh my goodness, am I hurt?

  What the hell! Somebody just hit my damn car! I grab my head, feeling it starting to throb. I think I hit my head on the—

  A tap pulls me from my self-examination.

  No, the idiot who just hit me is not tapping on my damn window!

  I open the door, pissed. “What? What the hell? You just hit me!” I yell, still trying to get my eyesight to focus.

  “Um, yeah, I know.” I look at him. “I am so sorry.” The apologetic voice comes from a perfectly chiseled face that responds to my anger subtly.

  He looks at me with slanted, brown, prominent eyes. When he turns a little away from the sun, they turn a slight hazel. His strong nose ends in a rounded point, and his hair—maybe black or brown, depending on how the sun hits it. Very attractive lips that say ‘Hey, I am here, kiss me.’ He is tall-enough to block the sun and that adds to his presence in a way that is equally hypnotizing. And his shoulders are broad-enough to block a tackle from a football player.

  “I know this is probably the worst thing that could happen right before your break. I am truly sorry. I can get the car fixed for you.” His exposed arms show off his tanned skin tone, which somewhat glistens from the rays of the sun, and it’s as if I’m watching it soak up every ray.

  I swing my legs from the car and step out. The world seems to shift. I grab my head, feeling dizzy. The earth feels like it’s moving beneath my feet, and I lose my balance.

  He catches me with a quick grab of my arm and cuff of my waist. There is a tingle, slight burning feeling, where his hand touches my bare arm.

  He makes sure I’m standing on my own, then quickly pulls his hand away. The earth shakes again and I become a little wobbly. He touches my shoulder, holding me in place, and makes sure not to let his hand touch my bare skin.

  “Um, are you okay? You look a little out of it.” His voice is lyrical and smooth, with a base sound that adds a manly tone. Faultless. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

  Damn, he’s talking to me. Remember words, Tracey, say something. “Um.” Better words. “Yeah, I think so. How did you hit me?” My voice sounds distant to me, and too calm.

  “Completely not paying attention. I came here to pick up my cousin from school and didn’t see him. While searching the parking lot and texting him, I kind of lost focus on the important part of driving.”

  “You do know you are not supposed to text and drive, right?” Holding my head, I walk around to the back of my car, checking for damages.

  He follows. “Again, I apologize for an
y damages. I will get everything fixed.” His voice, now factual, has lost the apologetic tone.

  Examining the back of my car, there are no real damages, besides some scratches and a ding by my license plate. But as my mom would say, ‘the damages can be under the car and not noticeable, honey.’ “Well, looks like the only real damage was to my head.” I lightly let my palm touch my head, feeling a knot start to protrude from the side of my forehead.

  “Can I take you to the hospital? You do seem a little dazed.” He moves to look at the car. “And after we leave the hospital, we can take your car to the body shop, because even though it doesn’t seem like there are any damages, doesn’t mean there aren’t any under the car.” Really, Mom?

  “That’s true, but I don’t think I need to go to the hospital. My head just hurts. I think I will be okay once I get something to eat and a Tylenol.” Each of my words comes out slowly. “I am just going to head home and maybe go to the body shop later.” I scrunch my nose, feeling disoriented. “I think I need a nap.” My thought process is off. I put my hands out to my sides when the earth starts shaking again.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says in a concerning tone. “You may have a concussion and it’s never good to go to sleep. You could slip into a coma.”

  “Humph, maybe.” A striking pain shoots through my head. I reach up to touch it, seeing him do the same. His thumb grazes my hairline next to my temple, and that’s it. Everything goes black, and my body hits something hard. Maybe the car or…the ground.

  I have never felt anything like this. I have been touched by many guys. Well, not touched but touched—brushed by them in the hall, held hands, given a hug. I have kissed a few guys, and not even with my first. Yes, that first. None of them ever had that type of effect on me, where I was knocked unconscious. This cannot be good. My dad is so going to kill me.

  2: Touched