Often she had trouble falling asleep, and her dreams, when they finally came, had to do their work in a hurry. Thus they were as cold and abrupt as a drive-by shooting. Drive-by dreams—that was how she thought of them. They were black-hearted marauders who hardly paused long enough to do anything but spread panic, disorder, and dread. And then they were gone again. This dream, though, was wonderful. It was languid and golden; it was a dream that made her feel warm and safe. She sensed Clay Meckling stretched out there beside her. They’d been lovers for only a few months, but she missed him—God, she missed him—and missing him was a dull ache that she never acknowledged during daylight hours, and the pain went away only during dreams like this one, beautiful dreams, dreams that wrapped her up and— “Goddamn you to fucking hell.” Bell, jolted awake by the words, felt herself being dragged toward the side of the bed. The room was dark and someone was pulling at the sheets, pulling hard and fast, and she was skidding over the edge.
