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  Remember the Stars

  Natalie-Nicole Bates

  Remember the Stars

  A Books to Go Now Publication

  Copyright © Natalie-Nicole Bates 2013

  Books to Go Now

  For information on the cover illustration and design, contact [email protected]

  First eBook Edition –January 2013

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

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  Look for Other Stories by Natalie-Nicole

  Antique Charming

  Remember the Stars

  The stars were a spark that pierced the night sky.

  It was the first thought to enter Leah Rhodes’s mind when she woke up. The second thought was why the hell she was lying in a gutter.

  An acrid smell of smoke mingled with iron hung in the air. Pain blasted through every muscle, every bone, as she struggled into a sitting position. Blinking several times, shapes came into focus beneath the solitary street lamp that burned above her and she realized where she was. She was all alone on the street, across from her former high school. It had been well over a decade since she last stood on the steps at graduation.

  Something was terribly wrong. This was a place she would never return to. One moment she had been at her surprise birthday party, the next, she was alone in a gutter.

  An accident.

  It had to have been some sort of terrible accident, she realized as she rubbed circles over her aching temples. For a moment she took in how silent everything around her was.

  Turning her head to the right, she let out a laugh that echoed into the darkness. She was sitting in a gutter right in front of the Moreland Funeral Home. How ridiculous it would be to die on her birthday and somehow land in front of a funeral home in her old neighborhood.

  But the laughter died in her throat when she saw the glass-enclosed funeral notice illuminated with a tiny bulb and attached to the facade of the funeral home. There in letters was her name: Leah Rhodes. Beneath her name, were the words “Private Arrangements.”

  The laughter only a minute before was now replaced with a sob from deep in her throat. This had to be someone’s idea of a cruel joke. But whose ?

  Leah struggled to her knees, the asphalt digging painfully them which were bare beneath the mint-green bodice dress she wore. Her feet were mysteriously bare. It took a concerted effort to fight through the pain that enflamed every nerve of her body, to get to her feet. She wobbled unsteadily and shuffled her way to the glass front door. Just the few steps left her out of breath. She grabbed the handle and shook it with fury. But the locked door would not budge. She pounded with her fists, but to no avail. All remained dark and quiet.

  Finally, she turned and saw the remnants of a broken paving stone lying in the gutter. Lifting the jagged rock into her hands, she heaved it through the lit funeral notice, the glass shattering on impact. The shards rained down and landed at her feet.

  She reached again for the paving stone and was about to hurtle it through the front door when a light came on inside the funeral home and the door slowly opened.

  A man cautiously poked his head out the door. He looked vaguely familiar in the low light —maybe someone she had known in her past, but she couldn’t be certain as she stood trembling, but still armed with the paving stone.

  “You’re going to have to pay for that, you know,” he said.

  How absurd, she thought. Here she was alone and disoriented on a street she hadn’t set foot on for years, and she was being told she had to pay for a piece of glass.

  “Is this your idea of some kind of joke?” She gestured toward the funeral notice. Who the hell put you up to this, and how did I get here? I shouldn’t be here,” she babbled.

  “Put me up to what?”

  “You know!” she accused, “my name!” As she pointed to where her name had been only moments before, all that remained was an empty hollowed out shell in the facade of the building.

  He looked around the street left to right before motioning to her with his hand. “Come on, crazy girl.”

  Ignoring his invitation, she turned away and spotted a pay phone across the street. She had no money, but 911 calls were free, weren’t they? She took off running toward the phone. Each step was agony, and she was nothing short of surprised when she arrived at the pay phone beneath the street light. Lifting the receiver, she listened for a dial tone, but there was nothing but dead silence. She had to try anyway. It took a concerted effort to press the three digits, but to no avail. The phone was indeed dead. In a last ditch effort, she pressed the zero and prayed. Nothing. No one. She was bruised, battered, and alone. The receiver dropped from her trembling hand and hung suspended by its cable, like a twitching, newly executed prisoner.

  She looked around for any sign off life on the dark street, but nothing moved; not even a breeze stirred the night. Her eyes fixed on a dark building. Her high school friend Carrie had lived there with her aunt. The aunt owned a candy store that sold delicious handmade chocolates. But the store was now abandoned. She looked back at the funeral home. There was no other choice. She needed a telephone—quick.

  Inhaling deeply, the burning smell in the air filled her lungs and choked her, causing her to gag and dry heave into the night. Her knees seemed to cave in and she fell painfully to the hard sidewalk, bracing herself with her hands at the last second.

  If she could rest, even just for a minute, she could find her strength again, she thought, as she slid forward on the concrete and rested her face on her hands.

  A few seconds—or maybe it was an hour—later, Leah struggled to open her eyes as she was awoken by hands under her shoulders pulling her to her feet.

  “It’s not safe out here. Let’s go,” the voice commanded. A male voice, deep and dark.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Just keep walking.”

  The voice vibrated through her foggy consciousness as she mechanically put one foot in front of the other. When she got to the front door of the Moreland Funeral Home, she halted. Just who was this man, and what were his intentions? If she could just get to a working phone, to a police station, anywhere but here.

  Suddenly, she was lifted off of her feet and carried through the doors before she was planted onto the carpeted foyer. The door closed behind her and the deadbolt snapped. She expected to be assailed with the cloying smell of funeral flowers, but there was no identifiable smell in the air, a welcome change from the acrid smell outside.

  Finally, her eyes fixed on the stranger’s back. Dressed in anonymous black, the man walked slowly down the dimly-lit hallway, with Leah following at a cautious distance, her fingertips gliding along the wall for support.

  Leah knew this funeral home.

  It had been the most highly regarded one in town. Moreland’s had been the funeral home
of choice for several of her own family members as well as the father of a high school friend, and a teacher who had passed away from Leukemia when Leah was a sophomore.

  She passed a dark viewing room to her left, and another to the right, but she forced her focus to remain straight ahead. If she could get to the phone, she could call Logan for help.

  A recent memory assailed her.

  Logan.

  Marriage-phobic Logan.

  He was the man who should have been her fiancé, but in reality was no more than a spineless wimp with mommy issues. Weeks before, she had issued him with an ultimatum—propose marriage by her birthday or they were through. She was sure when she arrived at the surprise birthday party at his home he was about to get down on one knee and propose before all of their friends and family. Instead of an engagement ring, he had presented her with diamond earrings. The pain she felt had been so strong it was palpable. She’s held her composure until the last guest went home , then she tossed the earrings at him and told him they were finished. It was the last thing she remembered before waking up in the gutter.

  “Come on.”

  The voice of the man sliced through her memory and she found herself standing in the middle of the funeral home’s front hallway. “I’m not well,” she mumbled as her vision swerved and she grabbed onto a wall for support.

  Wordlessly, he took a few quick strides toward her and looped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her along. He walked her into an office and deposited her onto a padded chair behind an expansive oak desk. A harsh light emanated from a desk lamp.

  I’m okay, it’s all okay, it’s a mistake, she silently told herself and would not make eye contact with her host. As a matter of fact, she wouldn’t look at him at all. She spotted the telephone and reached for the receiver. It was almost a comfort when the familiar sound of a dial tone buzzed in her ear.

  With shaking fingers, she attempted to punch in Logan’s phone number. But her fingers seemed to twist and slip from the buttons. Each time she thought she’d finally entered the number successfully, the phone would not connect. Depressing the receiver, she tried for her parents. To her growing frustration, again, the number wouldn’t connect. Disconnecting once more, she paused and looked up at her host.

  The man paced the length of the desk, his hands clasped behind his back. Leah wasn’t sure if the pensive look over his pale features was one of impatience, indecision, or something else.

  She looked down once again at the keypad on the telephone, the receiver still clutched in her hand. Suddenly, she dialed 9-1-1. The sound of actual ringing was the most beautiful noise she had ever heard in her life. It would be okay now. But her small sense of triumph soon faded as the phone rang on and on without connecting.

  She replaced the receiver back on the cradle and bowed her head. There would not be any help, she knew. The only person who could possibly help her now continued his pacing and mumbled under his breath.

  A chill rose on her bare arms and she rubbed them in an attempt to create warmth. What next?

  “I’m Leah,” she offered her name, but he didn’t respond.

  “You’re the red-haired one,” she blurted the next thought that came to mind.

  He stopped pacing and faced her. “Your powers of observation are astounding,” he quipped and tugged on his long red ponytail. He resumed his pacing.

  She blinked at his sardonic tone.

  “I…I just mean, your brothers, they’re blonds, aren’t they?”

  He shrugged his shoulders without answering.

  “I’m not trying to offend you—if that’s what your problem is. I’m trying to figure out how I got here.”

  Still no reply. A prickle of fear crept up her spine. Was he trying to figure out what to do with her? Maybe the key was to remain calm on the outside. Quake all she wanted inside, but don’t let him see her fear.

  “Which one are you?” she asked, attempting to provoke him into conversation while trying to glean some knowledge of her own situation.

  “Which what?” he asked.

  “Which brother are you? Aren’t there three of you that worked alongside your father here at the funeral home? All of your first names start with an R?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Do you know me?” he asked.

  “You and your family have made a lot of money off the deaths of my friends and loved ones. I used to see you and your brothers around the corner in the garage washing your Porsches every day.”

  A half-smile creased his lips. “You’re one of those private school girls who purposely walked past the garage with your prim uniform blouse unbuttoned to expose your non-existent cleavage while your skirt was up around your cooch. You graduate, take a soft-touch job while you wait for your soul mate slash millionaire to show up.”

  “Oh please, you and your distorted view of my life,” she snickered. “I was a proper young lady whose skirt was the requisite one inch above her knee.”

  “Yeah right. And you walked past the garage every day because it was on your way home.”

  “I only walked past your garage because I spent every afternoon with my grandma…and I loved my grandma very much. Besides, you never saw me,” she said surely.

  He placed both hands on the desk and leaned in close to her. His eyes connected with hers. “And how do you know that?”

  His eyes were blue, and Leah noticed he had the kind of face that became more handsome the longer she looked at him. “Because you would have remembered me.”

  He let out a chuckle. “Perhaps you are right. I would have remembered you.”

  Keep him talking, she thought. It was the only way she was going to make any sense of her situation. “So which one of the R brothers are you?”

  “Oh. My brothers are Rory and Ryan. I’m Remy.”

  “Remy,” she said his name. Where did she know that name from? It wasn’t common. Think, Leah, think. Then it hit her—hard.

  She remembered exactly who Remy Moreland was.

  He was in the newspaper years earlier. Her mother had shown her a copy. Remy Moreland was involved in a fatal street race. His Porsche had been split in two, killing him and a young woman in another car.

  Remy Moreland was dead.

  But if he was dead, what was he doing here, alive, and with her?

  Sweat broke out on the back of her neck and her vision clouded. This was someone’s idea of an evil, evil joke. She had to get out. She had to find her way home.

  Standing, she grabbed the edge of the deck for support. “I have to get out of here,” she mumbled and stumbled her way around the desk.

  He grabbed her around the waist. “You can’t go back out there. It’s dangerous.”

  She sunk her open palms against his chest and struggled to get out of his grip. “Get off of me, you malevolent freak! You’re dead! You’ve been dead for years!” she blurted.

  Immediately, he let go and jumped back from her as if he had been stung.

  “What are you talking about? He demanded.

  She backed away, ready to make a run for the front door. But the confused mix of anger and disbelief in his contorted expression stopped her.

  How could he not know he was dead?

  “It was years ago, Remy. You had an accident. It was in the newspaper.”

  He tilted his head, his blue eyes huge. “Do I look dead to you?”

  Well, he was pale, his blue eyes ethereal. She hesitated, and then spoke. “Now that you mention it…”

  “You bitch!” he snapped.

  The force of his voice caused her to flinch and she raised her fingers to her throbbing temples. All she wanted at that moment was to get out of this man’s sight and find her way home.

  “I’m not dead,” he stated ominou
sly.

  “Okay, you’re not dead,” she conceded as she rubbed circles on her temples.

  He took a step closer. “As a matter of fact, right now I am languishing across town in a nursing home. I eat through a tube in my belly and piss into a catheter bag. I remain nothing but an emaciated, contorted version of the man I once was.”

  She closed her eyes. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening. None of this was real.

  When she opened her eyes, he was in front of her, a macabre grin creasing his handsome features. He lifted a brow. “So, what did you do?”

  “Do? What are you talking about?”

  “To get here. You know my situation, so what’s yours?”

  He wasn’t making any sense. She turned away from him, left the office and began to walk the long hallway to the front door, but he followed her closely.

  “Let me guess,” he provoked. “You look like a murder-suicide kind of girl. You’re not wearing a wedding ring, so I’m assuming you shot your boyfriend in the head and then offed yourself in some spectacular way—like jumping off a balcony and splattering on the ground. How could you have known you would wind up here?” he chuckled unpleasantly.

  She stopped cold. How could he say such a horrible thing? She turned back to him only to find him mere inches from her. “You’re horrible. You don’t even know me, but you’ve resorted to participating in some sort of evil joke on me. I just want to go home…or wake up.”

  “Your life as you know it is over, Leah.”

  “What are saying, Remy? That I’m dead?”

  “You’re not dead…not quite. This is limbo…purgatory…the first circle of Hell. The most wretched place on earth where you are sent to atone for your sins.”

  “Sins? I committed no sins. I went to my birthday party and woke up in the gutter.”