My Heart to Find, page 1
My Heart To Find
Aces in Love
Elin Annalise
Table of Contents
Title Page
My Heart To Find: An Aces in Love Romantic Mystery
CHAPTER ONE | Cara
CHAPTER TWO | Damien
CHAPTER THREE | Jana
CHAPTER FOUR | Cara
CHAPTER FIVE | Damien
CHAPTER SIX | Cara
CHAPTER SEVEN | Cara
CHAPTER EIGHT | Jana
CHAPTER NINE | Cara
CHAPTER TEN | Cara
CHAPTER ELEVEN | Damien
CHAPTER TWELVE | Damien
CHAPTER THIRTEEN | Cara
CHAPTER FOURTEEN | Cara
CHAPTER FIFTEEN | Jana
CHAPTER SIXTEEN | Cara
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | Cara
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN | Damien
CHAPTER NINETEEN | Cara
CHAPTER TWENTY | Damien
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | Cara
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO | Cara
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | Jana
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | Cara
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE | Jana
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX | Damien
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN | Cara
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT | Cara
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE | Cara
CHAPTER THIRTY | Jana | Help my friend get the life-saving treatment she needs – organized by Jana Hargreaves.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE | Cara
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO | Cara
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE | Cara
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR | Jana
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE | Damien
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX | Jana
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN | Cara
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT | Damien
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE | Cara
CHAPTER FORTY | Cara
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE | Cara | Three Years Later
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: LIVING WITH CHRONIC LYME DISEASE
RESOURCES ON LYME DISEASE
RESOURCES ON ASEXUALITY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
INEJA PRESS
THIS BOOK IS A WORK of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
My Heart To Find
Copyright © 2020 Elin Annalise
All rights reserved.
Elin Annalise asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition published in November 2020
This edition published in March 2021 by Ineja Press
Cover Design by Elin Annalise and Sarah Anderson
Interior Formatting by Sarah Anderson
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-912369-30-0
eBook ISBN: 978-1-912369-29-4
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval systems, in any forms or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express written permission of the author, except for the purpose of a review which may quote brief passages.
The author can be contacted via email at ElinAnnalise@outlook.com
Second edition, March 2021
CHAPTER ONE
Cara
IF THERE’S ONE PLACE I never want to be again, it’s in this club with the too-loud music and the too-hot artificial glares.
My head pounds, and my vision blurs. A grating sensation—the usual one—fills my head. It feels like a miniscule drill is digging into my skull. I wince as the pain comes. Three flashes of it. The pain is like a volcano, hot and bubbling and consuming, leaving me panting and breathless. Dark spots hover in front of my eyes for a moment. My chest shudders, but it shudders out of sync with the rest of my body, creating a jarring sensation.
I grunt. Well they can’t say I’m boring now. And I try to focus on that—my triumph at proving River and everyone else who wrote mean stuff about me online wrong. Because boring people don’t go to clubs. Boring people don’t try to dance under bright lights—even if I didn’t quite manage it because I couldn’t go too near other people. But boring people are tucked up in bed at this ungodly hour, not dancing the night away.
Not that I’m dancing. My body’s too broken for that.
Not that I’m boring either—I’m chronically ill. There’s a world of difference. I shouldn’t have let the nasty comments get to me. Jana told me not to. She said I’ve got nothing to prove by coming out here.
But she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t live a life where she’s referred to as the sick girl or the psycho or the boring, ill one or the faker. And maybe forcing myself to come out to this club with Jana was a bad idea because it could fuel the ‘faker’ rumors, making it seem that I’m actually well enough to be here.
And I’m not.
I’m so not.
“Do you want to go outside?”
I look up. A man’s staring at me from a few feet away—concerned? I mean, no wonder; I have sweat pouring off me. His face is also shiny with perspiration, albeit not as much as I can feel on mine . The flashing lights make his skin look an eerie green, but they also emphasize the strong, heavy features of his face. A slightly hooked nose. Thick eyebrows. He’d be great to draw a caricature of. Could easily be a villain in my cartoon strip.
I breathe deeply. Yes. I need fresh air.
I need to get out of here.
“Definitely,” I shout back, but I can’t even hear my own voice over the pounding music.
I look around. I lost sight of Jana at least half an hour ago. Well, she’s probably outside too. Clubs aren’t really her scene. We’re only here because it’s her cousin’s birthday. And Anastacia is one of those people that you don’t say no to.
The man reaches for my hand—
No!
I flinch as he makes contact. I pull my hand back quickly, and my breathing quickens. He gives me an odd look, then gestures for me to walk ahead of him in the direction of an exit.
I do, the whole time trying to still my racing mind. My fingers feel burnt where he touched them. I want to wipe them on something. Hell, even wash them. But the bathroom here is full of vomiting teenagers, and I can’t go in there, no matter how strong the urge to wash my hands—or to empty my bladder—gets. And I can’t wipe my hands on my dress. I just can’t. Getting outside—into the fresh air—sounds good, even though most of the time I’m scared of the outdoors, of all the dangers it holds. But being outdoors is now preferable to being stuck in here, with sweat particles in the air, and the heavy breaths of clubbers sticking to me....
It’s okay, I tell myself. It’s okay.
I’ll shower when I get home, of course I will. No matter how sick I’m feeling, no matter how much my head is pounding and my stomach’s churning. No matter how much my swollen, aching knees and lower back are begging me to just sit down for a moment, I won’t because I will shower first.
But you won’t be able to get your phone from your bag without washing your hands first.
I ignore that thought. The OCD. It’s controlling, as always. Even out here. Even when I know I’m going to shower and thoroughly decontaminate myself.
I squeeze through dancing bodies, wincing with every accidental contact I make, and then I’m outside.
We’re outside. The man grins at me, leans against the wall, tells me his name is Rob.
Well, I think his name is Rob. My ears are still ringing and there’s a low roaring filling my head. Could’ve been Bob. Bob—nah, that sounds too old for a man this young. I take a deep breath. We’re the only ones out here. Jana’s not here. My gaze goes back to the door of the club. She must still be in there.
“So,” Rob says. “Nice evening.”
“Y-y-y...yes,” I say, cringing at my usual speech problems. The sounds just get stuck in my mouth. Or sometimes they don’t even get to my mouth; I often can’t seem to translate what I’m thinking into words. But, at least here, I’ll just sound like I’m drunk. This man won’t know I’ve got a severe chronic illness. He’s just Rob. Rob the... I try to work out what his character would be in my cartoon. Rob the Robber? Nah, that’s silly. Rob the... But I don’t know what he’s like, whether he’s a good guy or not, and that’s important in my characters’ names.
Unless I do run with that name. Rob the Robber. Make him a bad guy.
My eyes fall on a puddle of vomit near his feet. Revulsion pulls through me, and my skin starts to crawl. The OCD tries to tell me that the vomit’s on me, that somehow particles of it are in the air and now are clinging to me. I try to ignore the voice as best as I can.
Rob the Robber must see me staring at the vomit, because he grunts and steps away. “It’s those kids nowadays, they don’t know how to hold their drink.”
I look back at his face. Out here, in the near dark with one flickering streetlight, he looks more human, but older too. Late thirties? My stomach does a little flutter at that.
I hold onto my bag tighter—the little clutch bag I only ever use for this sort of stuff. Parties. Clubs. The things that aren’t me at all. Inside my clutch bag is a jiffy bag with my phone, keys, ID, meds, and debit card in it. Couldn’t put them straight in my bag. The OCD told me that’d be too dangerous.
Rob steps closer.
“What are you doing?” Alarm fills my voi
ce.
He gives me a strange look. “Uh, how are we going to hookup if we stay ten feet apart?”
I step back. The back of my arm catches the rough brick wall, and I flinch. My sudden movement sends a serpent of pain down my left leg. “I’m not having sex with you.” Or doing anything with him! Is...is that what he thinks is going to happen?
He looks around. “Yeah, s’pose it’s not the nicest. We can go back to mine. Come on.”
“Uh... no.” I swallow hard. My eyes feel strange. This can’t be happening. It can’t be.
Rob’s eyes narrow. “You’ve been leading me on?”
Leading him on? What the hell? I hadn’t even danced with him—or even met him five minutes ago.
But you did agree to come out here with him.
I look back to the club. I need to get back inside there. Need to find Jana and Anastacia and her friends. Not be out here alone with this man. And it’s not like we’re at the front of the club, on the road with easy getaway access. We’re at the back. A secluded vomit-splattered patio. “I don’t go back to people’s houses,” I say.
“People’s houses.” He snorts. His tone becomes slightly menacing. “I’m not people.”
“I don’t do this sort of stuff though.” My fingers are ice-cold. I take a step toward the door.
“Ah, you can have a bit of fun,” he says. “Come on, we’re both attracted to each other. You wouldn’t have come out here with me otherwise.”
I am not attracted to him—not at all, and especially not sexually. But there’s no way I’m telling him that—or that I’m ace. He could flip out on me; it’s happened before. I’ve got to put my safety first.
This was a bad idea. How stupid was I to think all going to a club was a good idea? Not just with my OCD but with being on the asexual spectrum too?
“Clubs aren’t just for finding hookups,” Jana had said earlier when I’d expressed doubt. “They’re for having fun.” And she’s always saying I need to have more fun. My stomach tightens. I wonder if she agrees with those comments left on my profile—that I’m boring.
And maybe I do need to have more fun, because my life is just one hospital appointment after another, one episode of OCD after another, one crying session after another.
But looking at Rob now, with that glint in his eye, makes me wonder what exactly I’ve let myself into by coming out to “have fun.”
My throat feels too thick and my mouth too dry, and suddenly I’m thinking about the woman who went missing two weeks ago. Marnie Wathem, a nineteen-year-old disappeared when walking some dogs. She’s the talk of the town, and most people are saying she’s just a runaway. That’s the stance the cops have taken too; it’s easier to believe nothing bad happens in Brackerwood, and also gives the police less work. But Marnie’s brother has been adamant the whole time that she was abducted—or worse. He tried to get media attention on his views to prompt the police to do something, but that didn’t work.
And I think he could be onto something. I mean, I read a lot of crime fiction, and so many of those books start with a similar situation where the town doesn’t even realize a crime has taken place until it’s too late. So many nights recently, I’ve thought about Marnie, let my half-dreaming brain conjure up all sorts of scenarios where, somehow, I’m the one who saves her.
But now, with Rob in front of me, I know I wouldn’t be brave enough to save Marnie. I’m shaking so much, and I’m freezing up.
“I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” I say, trying to keep my voice as unconfrontational as possible. Because bad things can happen anywhere. Was Marnie really abducted? And my head is spinning and suddenly I’m convinced that the man in front of me is responsible.
I’m going to be his second victim.
But then Rob nods. “Okay.”
He kicks at the gravel to the side of the patio, watches the stones cascade across the concrete slabs beyond, and then heads back to the club.
I breathe out a huge sigh of relief and follow. My heart pounds—did I really just avoid a dangerous situation or was that just my imagination? Hot air blasts back over me, and the music seems even louder than before. Rob’s gone, disappeared into a mass of bodies, and I hold my bag close, my fingers shaking as I search for my friend.
“Jana!” I find her by the DJ, where the music’s the loudest and most deafening. She looks bored as she stares at a couple who are making out.
With a jolt, I realize that the guy in the embrace is Jana’s ex, Max. And the girl is Anastacia, her cousin. Wow. Anastacia the Awful.
“You ready to go?” Jana asks me, her eyes brightening. She twists the black ring on her finger.
“I nod. Let’s get out of here,” I say, looking around again in case Rob’s watching. I can’t see him. My stomach feels empty and slimy, and it’s making me feel sicker now—both because of my illness, my medications, and the situation I narrowly avoided—but I also know I haven’t eaten in a while. “We can get takeaway.”
I know Jana’s always up for chips, especially when she’s had a drink or few. And I need to take my night-time meds, I should’ve already had them by this hour, and they have to be taken with food.
We say goodbye to Anastacia—not that she unlocks herself from Max’s lips long enough to speak—and head out.
“I can’t believe her,” Jana says as we exit the club and step out into the high street. “She just launched herself at him...”
I make sympathetic noises—or, at least, I think I do. But I can tell my reactions are slow, and maybe they’re so slow they don’t leave my mouth at all. Because my mind is still on Rob.
What if he hadn’t accepted no for an answer?
No, don’t think of that. You’re safe. Nothing happened.
“And he didn’t exactly put up much of a fight, did he?” Jana huffs. “God, he can’t even keep it in his pants. I was stupid to think he was ever okay with me being ace.”
“Because that’s what he told you,” I say, and I have to concentrate on each word. I think I sound very drunk. “But don’t think about that now.”
She exhales sharply, digging a cigarette and lighter out of her bag. She checks which way the wind’s blowing before lighting it—so the smoke won’t blow over me, she’s always very particular about that—and then swears loudly. About Max.
I do my best to pacify her, but the heaviness is taking over my body again. That and the OCD is picking up. Even though the smoke isn’t directly going over me, I imagine it as a dusty blanket settling on my skin and dress and bag and hair.
You’ll never get it out, the OCD whispers.
I try to ignore it. Focus on my surroundings—the streetlights, the red taillights of cars, the crisp, night air. On how even if there is smoke on me, it won’t do me any harm. That’s what my therapist says. And the psychiatrist too. And, anyway, I’m showering as soon as I get home. And then I can grab my graphics tablet and work some more on my cartoon strip to calm me before I sleep. I could draw some new caricatures. Maybe Jana. She features regularly in my art. Jana the Jewel, one of the main characters of my story. But she could be Jana the...Jazzy, too?
We pass a streetlight with one of the missing posters for Marnie Wathem tacked onto it. Her pale blue eyes set in her pale face seem to latch onto me as we walk past, and even once we’re a block away from that poster, I still feel like the missing woman’s watching me. It makes me shudder.
The chip shop is in sight now, and there’s a man coming out of it, hands in his pockets, looking all casual and nonchalant. But there’s something familiar about him, about the way his blond hair flops over his face. How he walks with confidence, but he also manages to look casual too.
“Is that...?” I stop, squinting ahead.
“What?” Jana asks with a grunt.
It’s Damien. I inhale sharply. Damien Noelle. My eyes widen.
He hasn’t seen me, and my heart’s pounding, and I’m glad he hasn’t seen me. So glad. My knees weaken, and I’m nervous—of course I’m nervous.
It’s him.
My palms are sweating, and suddenly, it’s like I’m back there, three years ago in Mallorca, on the retreat for those on the asexual spectrum, watching Damien Noelle make eye contact with me across the room. Eye contact that makes me giddy. Because he’s hot.
Flashes of the rest of the two weeks and the time afterward fill my mind: Damien and me talking; Damien and me lounging in the games room; Damien telling me we’d have to meet up again back in England; Damien writing his number on the inside page of the book I was reading; me being too shy to call at first, and then realizing I’d lost the book when I was finally about to pick up my phone.
