“Trace.”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey JT, what’s up?”

Staring down at his feet, Justin fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. “Just wanted to let you know I’m not gonna be home until late, if at all.”

“Hmm. If that was because you were going to have sex you’d sound happier about it. Something wrong?”

“No… I don’t think.”

“You don’t think? That was a yes or no question, is everything okay?”

“I bumped into Joe Dean.” He started as he meant to go on, with a lie. There was no way he was telling Trace the real story. “He started talking after party and I don’t really want to but I haven’t seen him in a while and I feel kind of obliged. He’s talking about a late one so if it’s too late I’ll crash at his place.”

“Cool. You know, you really have to learn to say no to shit.”

“Tell me about it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, probably.”

“Cool. Night bro.”

“Night.”

He flipped his phone shut and shoved it back in the pocket of his jeans, raising his eyes to stare at the prone figure on the bed. If she wasn’t still looking so green around the gills, Charmian would make an incredibly serene picture; asleep and still she looked like a porcelain doll. Charmian was an old fashioned name but it suited her, looking like something out of a bygone era as she did; it was almost as if she’d been born sixty years too late. He’d have to ask her where it came from when she finally woke up.

He was aware that it could be construed as extremely creepy to have a strange man watching over you while you slept on unawares, but Justin’s intentions were fully honourable. Out of nowhere both she and her companion had started to look extremely unwell, like either of them could have dropped in a dead faint at any given second. Now he wasn’t so deep in the worry of the moment it struck him as odd, that they should both succumb so suddenly and violently to whatever it was they’d seemingly caught, but at the time it had been secondary to getting Charmian home safely. He’d have tried to do the same for her friend but she had disappeared.

Charmian had managed to stay lucid only long enough to give him an address. His original plan had been to put her in a taxi but she’d become so groggy he hadn’t trusted her to even get through the door, let alone up the stairs and into the apartment. So he had come with her, practically carried her up the three floors and had put her to bed fully dressed, stopping only to take off her shoes for her. She had very small feet. He hadn’t been planning to stay, but she kept groaning in her slumber and she refused to stay in the recovery position no matter how many times he moved her into it. He was afraid of her choking on her own vomit, so he stayed to watch out for her.

It had occurred to him that this was way too much concern for a women he had the barest of acquaintances with, but he’d long since worked out that his crush had reached epic and pitiable proportions.

Groaning as he eased his stiff limbs out of the chair, Justin looked around the two room apartment in wonder. It was very well furnished and decorated, so he doubted she was living there out of financial necessity, yet one room housed her bed, kitchen and living area with a small en suite. Her tastes were clearly simple – everything was in neat neutral shades, all very functional – and yet over the walls were paintings ranging from the renaissance masters up until Dali. Dotted around the room was an eclectic mix of ornaments that looked like they’d come from everywhere imaginable. On the one hand there were obviously Chinese paper lanterns and what looked to be Greek pottery, but then dream catchers also hung by the bed. He wasn’t going to even comment on the two large samurai swords hanging over the fireplace. Normally a home gave him an impression of its owner – ostentatious, practical, welcoming – but Charmian’s apartment was a mass of contradictions.

Smirking, he thought of what Trace would say in such a situation – that a little bit of snooping was to be expected but you had to draw the line at bathroom cabinets and underwear drawers, for in the Gospel according to Trace that was where “women’s secret shit” was kept and disturbing it would “destroy the illusion.” Justin didn’t feel comfortable snooping in anything that wasn’t in plain sight, but the apartment held enough to keep him occupied. There were some very old looking books in a language he supposed to be Italian or something like it. His fingers traced over the covers, but just as his attention was drawn to the treasure box sitting next to them his phone rang.

Answering it in a hurry, praying it didn’t wake Charmian, he whispered “hello?”

“Hey loser, it’s me.”

“Hey Rach.”

“I was just calling to say my flight’s all booked and I’ll be with you Monday.”

“Awesome. If you text me the details I’ll make sure somebody picks you up.”

“Send Randy. He amuses me.”

“Done. Rach, can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, if you tell me why you’re whispering,” Rachael snorted derisively.

“I don’t want to wake somebody.”

“Girl?”

“Yes, but not in that tone of voice.”

“What tone of voice?”

“That tone of voice like you think I just screwed said girl. I didn’t,” he responded huffily.

“Oh. Well that’s boring; I thought I had gossip for a second. So what advice?”

“What do you do when you have a really dumb crush on somebody you barely know?”

“God, boys are so stupid. It’s not that hard, dude, you get to know ‘em and either your crush is justified or you find it’s not and it goes away. Big whoop. Is this the girl you didn’t screw this evening?”

“Yes,” he grumbled. The problem with Rachael was that she was so much one of the guys that she wasn’t always the best person to ask for advice about girls, but she was the only female he trusted enough with such issues and she still had more insight than any male could hope for. “I swear I’m not usually so stupid over one damn girl.”

“It happens to the best of us, JT. Don’t sweat it. So exactly how much junk is in the trunk that you’re so sprung?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

“Hey, it could be worse. I could tell Trace.”

He wasn’t even going to question how she’d know that he was keeping Trace in the dark. “Do it and I murder you painfully.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I have to jet but relax, Justin. It’s just a little crush; everybody gets ‘em. They are not life or death.”

“Bye.”

As he ended the call he blew out a puff of air, half sigh and half frustration. How did he explain that it felt like life and death to him? On the one hand, some part of his brain was aware of how insane that was. He barely knew the woman and on the basis of a few dreams he was being more melodramatic than he’d even been as a teenager (when it was excusable to be so histrionic over somebody you liked). Yet that portion of his brain was being well and truly drowned out by the much bigger and louder part screaming that this girl was Aphrodite, Venus and Halle Berry all rolled into one, only better.

It wasn’t just the dreams. It was something in the way she moved. When she walked or even gestured there was a fluid grace that he found mesmerising. Her eyes were dark inky pools that hid something he was desperate to figure out; even her standoffishness and obvious discomfort in his presence didn’t put him off the way it would have with any other girl. It made no rational sense and was totally out of character for him, but the girl in the black dress who was stretched out pathetically on her bed might as well have been a goddess; even as she whimpered and drooled open mouthed into her pillow. It was disquieting and he almost didn’t like how involved he already was – to be so unhealthily obsessed with someone was not his usual MO and for good reason.

His eyes coming back to the treasure box, he opened it up out of curiosity. There was a locket, a pendant, some faded pressed flowers and a number of old letters on thin paper. Even if he had been inclined to read them he couldn’t have – they were in too many different languages. Some he couldn’t even begin to guess at, didn’t so much as recognise the letters. Only one that he could see was in English, but the old fashioned script was hard for his modern eyes to decipher. The more he learned about this woman the less he understood. She lived in a tiny apartment, had wide and varied taste in art, apparently read a number of languages and had travelled extensively, hung on to random antique pieces of jewellery and every time he saw her something odd happened. According to the CD collection he’d spied, she listened to a lot of classical music - while owning samurai swords.

“So you’re an old soul, huh?” He whispered to an unresponsive Charmian, having no idea just how correct he was.

He sat silently and thoughtfully for a few more minutes, watching her. Eventually she began to stir a little, frowning in her sleep, her head tossing from side to side.

“Michael…” she muttered fretfully.

On hearing the name, Justin’s shoulders stiffened and his knuckles became involuntarily clenched. Michael? He had dreams about her where she called him Michael and was obviously involved with him, and now he heard her call the same name in her sleep?

That was both freaky and weird.