Thank you lordofthebreakdance, grimgrin, XxAniketosxX, Verbally Insane, and Rebecca Jane Cullen for all your great reviews. Sorry, I didn't post sooner, I was trying to swing a beta for this fic. I'm still looking for a beta. I hope to post more frequently.

Anyway thank you all for reading and please review.

I slammed the front door closed and leaned my back against it, before slowly sliding down on my butt with a painful wince. My muscles sang the agonizing wails of pain; my breathing was short and frequent. My heartbeat pounded thickly through my veins, and played ping-pong between my eardrums.

I closed my eyes for a minute, trying to gather my jumbled thoughts and catch my breath. Little by little my body began to calm down; I slowly sat up and leaned over to look at the cut on the bottom of my left foot. Oh My God, this is so gross! I had people's chewed bubble gum, sticky soda residue, and little candy wrappers sticking on the bottom of my foot. The blood had dried and the cut was already forming a scab over it. I cringed in disgust and let out a long 'ew'. I don't even want to know how many bubonic plagues I have on my feet. I was lucky, though, for I didn't have to pull out any wooden slivers from the timber planks at the Boardwalk. Trying to pull them out would hurt a lot more than just putting alcohol on the cut.

I tried to stand up, but my wobbly legs gave out, landing on my back with a thud. I rolled onto my stomach and slowly crawled over to the couch and used its arm to lean against. I gasped at the pain and sound of my bones cracking and popping on my way to the stairs.

I walked up the stairs taking them one step a time; slowly make my way to the main bathroom. I shuffle in and closed the door, before sitting down on the edge of the beige colored tub. I turned the cold handle and warm water burst out of the faucet. Casually, I threw my small backpack on the floor and painfully striped out of my clothing.

As soon as I was done scrapping the gunk from the bottom of my feet, I finally relaxed in the water. My mind, however, started to drift into thinking of odd questions. Who was that dude? Who is Mr. Trench-coat? His features were handsome, in that roguish sort of way. He could be considered hot. I could see a lot of girls totally gushing over him. He is truly the bad boy type, all the way from the scruffy facial hair on his face, to his black biker books on his feet. His whole entire being screamed alpha male. If ever he stepped foot into the hall of my high school, he would probably scare the shit out of most of the students, and all of the teachers.

He was not the usual type I was attracted to. The guys I'm usually attracted to are big sweeties, giant goofballs that always have a brilliant smile on their face. I wonder what he would look like when he smiled. Would he brighten up an entire room with his smile? Does he even know how to smile? A smirk so does not count as a smile. I wonder if I will ever see him again, probably not. I have never seen him around town, and he definitely did not have that hippy look about him like most of the locals have. He is probably just passing through. I bet he is in a biker gang. He looked like the type to own a bike. That would explain the leather gloves. I mean, who wears leather glove and all black clothing in hot California beach weather? Well, yeah, it does cool off a little when the sun goes down, but not that much. Not at this time of the year, anyway.

I must have been totally out of reality, because I didn't hear Mom until she barged into the bathroom.

"MOM," I screeched, being shaken out of my thoughts. I crossed my arms trying to hide my breasts. "Can I have some privacy, please?"

"Honey, come on. We're both girls. Plus, you used to run around naked all the time," My mother said as she took in the state of the bathroom. She scooped up my dirty cloths the lay in a puddle on the floor, and laid them in the hamper near the towel rack.

"When I was like three." I said petulantly, sinking a little deeper in the tub.

"Oh, stop it. I'm just getting some Tylenol for my headache," My mother explained, as she opened the medicine cabinet over the sink. She rubbed her temples absently, with her well manicured hands. The 'sea-shell' pink polish had been chipped off on some of the nails.

"Those five year olds finally getting the best of you," I snickered, imagining my mother being tied down by little five year old brats like when Gulliver first meets the Lilliputians.

"No actually, after raising you and Jason, teaching a kindergarten class full of children is like a walk in the park," snorted my mother. She opened the Tylenol and shook it, letting two pills fall into her hand. She brought the two white pills toward her 'tempt-me' pink lips and swallowed them without any water. Taking a moment to relax her muscles, she then spoke again.

"That's much better. Now, how are you feeling?"

"What?" I was again shook out of my thoughts of Mr. Tall, dark, and handsome.

"I asked 'how are you feeling'. There's fresh wet blood on my welcome mat. Either it was you or the Santa Carla hills have a Friday the 13th killer on our hands again," My mother said as she finger-styled her hair in the mirror. She straightens out her shoulder-padded, white dress shirt trying to get the wrinkles out.

"Ah… oh, that must have been me. I have a cut on my foot." I raised my left leg and showed her the bottom of my foot.

"Poor baby, that must hurt, do need help bandaging it," she asked leaning down, inspecting the laceration.

"No–– I can do it." I stated clearly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Alright, but I get to say I told you so when you get gangrene and your father has to get one of his doctor friends to chop it off your leg at the hospital," Mom said and with that she exited the bathroom.

My parents are normal. They are both native born Californians. My mother grew up in San Francisco, and my dad was born in LA. Why they decided to settle down and raise a family in the murder capital of the world is beyond me. Mom said when she and dad moved to Santa Carla that it was a peaceful seaside town with no crime and very charming locals. That's very hard to believe now. I don't really have big issues with them, like other people my age. Wait, that's a lie. I do have issues with my parents, but they are like very minor. My mom still treats me like I'm five when I'm now seventeen. That's practically an adult, right? Dad is really not around that much because of his job; he usually has the graveyard shift at the hospital. So he is up all night and sleeps all day. I only get to see him for a couple of hours in the late afternoon before he goes to work.

A good thirty minutes later, I pulled the plug, standing up in the tub. The now cold water dripped slowly down my naked body and ever so leisurely into the drain. I grabbed the towel off the rack and quickly dried myself off. My shoulder length red hair is now wild and frizzy, my semi freckled face is now clean of dirt. The little eye shadow that I put on this morning had washed away, and my small hands were now as wrinkly as my grandma's! The peach nail polish that had graced my nails is fading away, and I need to redo them.

I walked out of the main bathroom with only a towel wrapped around me and a brush in my hand. Mom and Jason were already in bed because all the lights were off except for the hall lamp. Treading down the darkened hallway, my mind wonders back to Mr. Trench-coat yet again. Why couldn't I stop thinking about him? He was nothing special, and I will probably never see him again.

Or so I thought.

It is eleven a.m. Friday morning, and I am bored out of my mind. I have been home all week, trying to keep my mind occupied by re-reading all my horror comics, watching "Murder, She Wrote", doing extra credit homework, and repainting my nails over and over again. I did all this to get Mr. Trench-coat out of my head, it is totally ridicules. Running into a random guy and thinking about him the next day is normal, but thinking about him for four straight days is nerve racking. I didn't know which I would do first, tear out my hair or go hunt down that son-of-a-bitch.

I lied on the floral living room couch, staring at nothing. Nothing was actually the ceiling. I was trying to think of nothing, keeping my mind clear of everything. There are no people, there is no world. There is just me and this floral couch. There is no stress. There is no one to disturb me. There is no sexual attraction to a frost-blue eyed stranger.

"Damn," I cursed under my breath, while sitting up.

I am so totally lying to myself. With a irritated huff, I ran hands through my hair lifting it off my neck. Grabbing a scrunchy from the coffee table, I twisted it around my hair, putting it into a side ponytail. A bowl full of change and a bunch of old Time magazines lay scattered on the coffee table. A sickly yellow flyer for the up-coming free concerts at the Boardwalk also sat on the coffee table. 'Friday night 9:30pm - main stage- Tim Capello' was circled in red. I had circled it. Personally, I didn't really care who was playing tonight. I had to get out of the house, and going to this concert was a good enough excuse. With a sigh I leaned back against the couch, and closed my eyes trying and wishing the world away.

The world did go away. I found myself in the land of dreams, a land of dreams where everything was the mirror image of the Boardwalk and the beach. In this dream, it's just me and him on the beach. The dark night sky hung above us. His blond hair gleams in the darkness. Noises and lights came from the Boardwalk, like distant echoes, but no one was there. I know no one is there. The waves crash on the shore and make no sound, but I could smell them. We stood on either side of one of the many fire barrels that lined the beach. His blue eyes ensnare mine from across the fire. He is talking to me and I can hear him speak, but he doesn't make sense. It's like he is speaking a different language. I could feel that he was asking me a very important question.

His eyes are steel and his features harden like he is bracing for the worse possible answer I could ever give him. I felt my quivering lips move and heard myself talk. I answer his question. Also like him, I don't understand what I am really saying. Am I giving him the right answer? His harsh features soften, but there is still a slight edge to them. He stares at me for a while, like he is rethinking his actions on what he is about to do. Then slowly, he moves closer to the fire barrel, and suddenly it looks like someone has poured gasoline on it. With a cry I take a couple steps back from the flames, shielding my eyes with my arm. My eyes tear up from the ash and heat, and I started to cough. Scorching heat radiated from the inferno. The bright orange and yellow flames made it impossible for me to see him from across the barrel.

Looking up, I saw an outstretched leather gloved hand in the fire. The brilliant flames licked at it. I instinctually knew that he wanted me to place my hand in his. He wanted to feel the shape of my small hand betwixt in his own. He wanted to feel my small finger laced with his large ones, and wrap his fingers around my wrist and pull me across the fire to him. Without a doubt, I knew that I… I wanted him to.

Stop!

I shouldn't. Wouldn't I get burned? Wouldn't I get hurt? If the fire was already too hot from where I was standing, then would it not be even hotter if I touched it. Aren't there old sayings that "if you don't want to get burned, then don't play with fire"? But I wanted to play with this. My entire body yearns for something I do not understand, and I can feel my pupils dilate in desire. A minute goes by, then another and another. He is still standing there. I can feel him watching me, studying me, waiting for me. The flames have already burned off some of the leather of his glove and parts of the sleeve off his jacket. Can I handle this fire? I hesitated, and then slowly moved my trembling hand through the fire. The flames surround and lick at my hand, until finally reaching his. He closes his fingers around my hand. The fire does not burn; it is as cold as ice. The only warmth I feel comes from his hand, it is like molten lava on my skin.

Jamie.

Jamie…

"––amie. Jamie. JAMIE," my mom blurts out suddenly.

"Wha…What," I exclaimed loudly, shaken out of my dream.

Looking up I saw that her light brown brows were knitted together in worry, and her frown lines are more prominent. Her light brown hair looked like she had just taken it out of her usual bun.

"Welcome back to the real world. My, you have been spacing out lately. Every time I look at you, have this look on your face like you're not really all there. You're in some fantasy world," my mother says.

Suddenly a look of shock hits her face, like she has been struck by lightning, and she quickly straightens up. The look of shock slowly, but surely, turned into a sly smile. Crap. I knew what she was thinking, because I had that same type of smile on my face whenever I thought of what she was thinking of now.

"No, it is so totally not that," I said with force.

"You don't even know what I'm going to say," she says as she crosses her arms below her bust.

The smile only got wider.

"Bull crap!"

"Language." my mom scolds.

"Sorry," I mumble out, while sitting up and looking around me.

It is already dark outside the window. How long was I asleep?

"What time is it?"

"About 7:45," she tells me, looking at the underside of her wrist at her watch's face. That sly smile reappeared from her lips. "I'm going to the hospital to have dinner with your father. Are you doing anything tonight?"

"Yeah––Yes I do. I'm just going to a concert at the Boardwalk. There totally isn't any guy," I said, watching the sly smile reappear on her face.

"Honey, you need to start dating again," my mother pleaded, as she sat beside me on the couch. "It's been more than a year since––"

"Yeah," I cut her off.

"I know it still hurts, but you need to get on with your life. Maybe you feel like I'm pushing you, but I just want to see you happy. I want you to have a happy, normal life," she says as she hugs me around my shoulders. I tensed and the hug didn't last long before she let go and looked up at me. "Jamie."

"Yes, mom."

"Why do you smell like smoke?"

"Huh?"

It was about 9:25 when a mass of people and I piled out of the route seven bus. The Boardwalk was in full swing. The pre-show band was being blasted over the speakers placed above the little shops behind Neptune's Kingdom. It was more crowded tonight then it was on Monday. I kept to the edges of the crowds not really wanting to deal with being trapped behind slow moving people. Isn't it weird that people's faces become ugly when you're alone? Isn't it weirder still, that a person can be alone in a crowd of people? That totally does not make sense.

A mess of people were in front of and around the stage. The pre-show band was alright, a little too pop for my taste. They sounded too electronic, too filtered. They had three people on keyboards, one on bass, and a lead singer. There was no drummer or guitarist, and the crowd did not like it. They hissed and booed, threw beer bottles, popcorn, and soda cans. I sat down near the top of the stairs, buttoning up my loose, light blue jean jacket before stuffing my hands in my pockets. It was getting cold. Fog was slowly coming off the ocean and creeping up the dark beach. Crossing my legs, I leaned back on the step above mine, trying to get comfortable.

The pre-show band finally left the stage much to my and the crowds relief, and a big muscled man with no shirt and a saxophone in his hand took their place. Tim Capello and his band were about to play their first song, when suddenly my world became a whole lot colder. Freezing ice water with crushed ice cubes was dumped onto my lap.

"Hey," I shrieked, shooting up in surprise.

Looking down at myself, I saw the legs of my losses, rolled up pants, were dripping wet!

"Whoops," came the insincere completely male voice from behind me.

I whirled around and came face to face with a chest covered in a muscle shirt, trench coat and leather.