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substance. My back stiffened and the muscles tightened painfully, causing a bubbling in my stomach. My throat closed up as I tried in vain to keep my dinner down.
    The greasy sludge rotting my gut shot me upstairs, down the hallway, and to the welcoming embrace of the commode. Between vomit sessions, the cool tiled floor became my new best friend, my confessional. I wished I could blame it on food or some physical illness, but it had to be psychological. Mom wasn’t the only one with issues—I was just better at hiding them.
    Gripping the edge of the sink, I pulled myself up and stared at the stranger in the mirror—perhaps a close cousin or a long-lost twin. The features looked familiar, same chubby cheeks, stubborn chin, caramel-brown skin, and the Sideshow Bob mop top that reached my shoulders. The only thing that didn’t belong to me were those green eyes—another souvenir from Nadine.
    Three antacid tablets didn’t ease my stomach, four glasses of water couldn’t quench my thirst, stripping down to my underwear didn’t cool my fevered skin. The air tasted thick, rusty, and too humid for my lungs to absorb. Too much activity crowded inside my skull, too many voices between my ears spoke out of turn. I needed oxygen and an open space where the walls didn’t move.
    I went to my room, opened the window, and welcomed the crisp night air, not caring that I stood in my skivvies, giving the neighbors a free show. I had never experienced anxiety attacks before, and considering what had brought it on in the first place, I doubted it would be a one-hit wonder.
    As if an answer to my unspoken prayer, my cell phone rang. I didn’t need to see the name on the caller ID, or hear the sappy ring tone I’d picked out for him; I just knew.
    â€œSam, you okay? What’s wrong?” Caleb asked as soon as I placed the phone to my ear.
    â€œI’m glad you called. I just ...” I paused, unsure how to verbalize hysteria.
    â€œYou just what?” His voice hitched and his anxiety shot through the line to reach me. Police radios and chatter mingled in the background, so I knew he was still with his car.
    â€œNothing. I just—I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I dismissed. It was best to keep quiet. Caleb had his own problems. “I’m not feeling good.”
    â€œI can tell. Why don’t you lie down? I’ll stay on the line until you feel better.”
    â€œI thought you weren’t gonna call me until morning,” I nagged.
    â€œThat was before I started getting nauseous and scared out of nowhere. Go to bed. I’m right here.” His soothing tone melted the knots in my shoulders and liquefied the bones in my legs. Underneath his hard outer layer came a wash of peace that purified me.
    I crawled into bed and let his voice cradle me to rest. “Thank you, but you don’t have to do this.”
    â€œIt’s not just for you, Sam. I need you nearby for a while. Don’t think I can sleep otherwise. Is that okay?”
    â€œAlways,” I whispered and tucked a pillow under my head. I couldn’t blame him, for I felt the exact same way. It came with the package of having a Cambion boyfriend, to share emotions. All. The. Time. Some would consider it intrusive, or even a curse to experience this kind of connection, this empathic intimacy, but it had its perks, especially tonight.
    His sigh dragged through the phone, a weary gesture that mirrored mine completely. “Talk to me. Anything you want.”
    I brooded for a moment before asking, “How would you feel about mixing at a party on Halloween?” I told him about Courtney B.’s proposal and the free press that would come with it.
    He sucked in a sharp breath. “Yeah, I heard. Some redhead approached me earlier today about doing a gig. The pay is good and all, but ... high school girls? I can’t deal with all that whiny—”
    â€œHey, grandpa, in case you