Touch-Me-Not

Georgia Rose hides. She hides because she knows everything about people before they ever open their mouth and because grocery stores and movie theaters sound like excruciating rock concerts inside her head. She hides from the world, her friends, and any chance of love. Now she is being driven from her hiding place by someone who knows her secret. A menacing creature from her past, one with immense powers of his own, threatens to destroy her protected world and the trusted few who reside in it. As Georgia discovers, however, she is not alone. Others are watching and have a vested interest in her safety. As her current world unravels, a new world, filled with rare and exotic individuals, unfolds before her. Georgia races across the Rocky Mountains and into the Colorado flatlands. As she travels above ground and under water, through a brutal fight for survival and a desperate chance at love, her safety and future depends on her ability to do the most difficult of all-trust others.

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Touch-Me-NotBy Josh ThomasiUniverse, LLCCopyright © 2013 Josh ThomasAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4917-0603-9CHAPTER 1Georgia Rose stepped off her front porch, and her bare feetsank into the cool grass. She started every spring barefoot, gingerlywalking on tender feet but quickly gaining confidence as her callusesgrew thick by the time summer arrived. This morning the summersun had yet to make its way above the horizon of tree-coveredmountaintops to the east, but it was sending enough light ahead thatshe could see her surroundings quite well.Dressed in old cutoff jeans shorts and a waterproof, long-sleevepullover, she carried her tall mug of coffee, creamed and sugared toperfection, across her front lawn. Her long blonde hair was pulledback into a ponytail, and her crystal-green eyes picked their wayacross the many flowers planted within the confines of her small,intimate yard. The lawn was mowed to a short length, ticklingher feet, and the cool dew sitting atop the blades of grass made themorning seem just a little cooler. The flowerbeds curved their wayaround the yard in long, graceful arches, and here and there onecould find a birdbath or a bench hidden within the dark, dense flora.But she was careful not to add clutter to the landscape; it was theflowers that she most treasured.Tall, bold dahlias, with their dinner-plate sized blooms sittingatop four-foot stalks, boasted their deep colors of rosy purple andcanary yellow as she walked by. The long, leafy daylilies seemed tobe trying their best to honk their golden-pedaled horns to get herattention. And the full, soft beds of alyssum, with their thousandsof tiny snow-white flowers that completely covered the light greenleaves underneath looked liked a feather mattress, beckoning her tolie back down and get a few more minutes of morning sleep.She could lie here in the garden if she chose to; she had doneit many times before. No one would see, for behind the windingbeds of shrubs and flowers were towering trees of all kinds. Largeoaks and maples branched their way toward the sky before a deepbeautiful backdrop of evergreen pines and cedars. Small, floweringtrees, crabapples, redbuds, and pears, among others, dotted their waybelow the looming branches of their older cousins behind them.Georgia's home was a private retreat, blocked from the prying eyesof the world.She trailed her way through her yard, randomly stopping to pullan invading weed or help guide a wandering vine along a trellis, untilshe made her way to a tall magnolia, which seemed to be the endingpoint of this narrow avenue of lawn. Stopping briefly to snip an oldrose blossom from the trailing vines growing along a white trellis,she slipped around the massive evergreen, hugging close to the giant,glossy leaves and saucer-sized white blossoms, and let herself througha white wooden gate.Stepping through Georgia's front gate did not lead to a sidewalkor a street. It did not open her view to a tree-lined avenue or a busyurban intersection. Staring at Georgia, barely thirty feet away, werethree tall walls made of semiclear plastic, shaped in half-circles.Under her feet was a thick pad of gravel that covered all the groundshe could see. It wasn't the view most would want when leavingtheir home, but it was exactly as Georgia wanted it, further hidingher from the world.To her left was parked her Jeep Wagoneer, old but well taken careof. Burnt orange in color, with wood-paneling trim, the old Jeephad been purchased new by her father before SUVs were considereda legitimate family car. Tough and big by 1970s standards, its aurathrough the years had slowly morphed into being too big, then toooutdated, on to technologically archaic, and then surprisingly toosmall by recent SUV standards while simultaneously being frownedupon as a gas guzzler. But like many things in this world, its life wascoming full circle. Her father's Wagoneer was now widely regardedas cool and hip by young and old alike. Too often when leaving astore, she would have to pace herself, giving the people looking in herJeep's windows and touching her wood paneling time to investigate,and possibly to reminisce about years past when they or someone theyknew had had one. It being one of her father's favorite possessions,she wouldn't let herself get rid of it. It held too many memories ofwhen she was a girl, riding in the passenger seat while her fatherdrove through deep mud puddles and over big bumps."That's what these Jeeps are for." Her father had never lost thekid in him. "The army uses them to drive through fields, and nowwe have one to drive to the store--through fields, of course."He would then make a crazy sharp turn and barrel through somerandom pasture, both of them bouncing and laughing crazily. Shemissed her father deeply since his passing. He had been badly hurtin a construction accident two months after she graduated from highschool. For two weeks she had sat by his side in the hospital beforehis normally strong body finally gave out. She would never get ridof her Wagoneer. Her dad's Wagoneer.Crunching across the gravel, she made her way to a door inthe center wall. Taking a key from her pocket, she let herself inand breathed in the familiar odors: dirt, water, heat, and a lightminty fragrance tying it all together. Walking down the center aisle,inspecting the tables that lined either side, she arrived at anotherdoor at the other end of the building. Before going through, shepunched a button on the wall and ducked out just before millions oftiny water droplets rained down on the hundreds of new, sproutingplants bursting from their small, one-inch square morsels of earth.She quickly made the same trip through the other two greenhouseson either side before entering the back door of her small store.Flicking on the lights and making her way to the office behindthe counter, she checked the answering machine and turned on thecomputer for the day. Adding coffee grounds to the coffee maker andchecking to make sure it was set to come on for Terri and Coach, sheheaded out the front door to continue her morning ritual.Outside the small store was an outdoor market of plants. Shrubs,trees, vines, groundcovers, and especially flowers, annuals andperennials, were all featured in Georgia's nursery. Since she was alittle girl she had been fascinated by flowers, and as she grew older,she began to see the wonder of the entire plant world. While brightlycolored flowers were pretty and smelled fresh, the plant kingdomcould be quite fragile at times and downright vicious at others.But plants didn't run away; they didn't change their mind andbecome something else. And if you neglected them, many were soforgiving as to perk right back up and smile with just the smallest ofgestures from their owner. Georgia understood these things aboutpeople and plants, and she would be fooling herself if they didn'tapply to her as well, to a certain degree. But her connection to plantsand flowers ran much deeper than it did for most. For her, it was alifeline to this world because she had all but severed her connectionsto people, save for a trusted few.She made her way to the racks of full sun annuals and crankedon the hose. The nozzle sprayer fragmented the water stream intoa wide misting plume of rain, settling down on the deep-greenfoliage and bright-colored petals, making them glisten. Many ofthese small plants had been raised from seed inside her greenhouses,and to see them stretch for the sun and rain every morning wasextremely gratifying. As the sun showed its face over the tree line,it painted a rainbow on the sweeping clouds of water floating downon the plants.She moved to the farther racks of perennials, soaking themany varieties of daylilies, cannas, hostas, and numerous otherbulbs, tubers, and roots. She replaced the hose and walked to herimprovised farmer's market, where instead of fruits and vegetables,she offered fruit and vegetable plants. Once again she fired a heavycloud of water over sprouting corn stalks, twisting bean plants,perky strawberry leaves, and trailing watermelon and cantaloupevines. This section of her nursery was enclosed by a ranch-stylefence, and in the back corner she had constructed a small red barn.On especially hot days, this is where Terri would sit and cut wideslices of watermelon and cantaloupe for the kids to eat as theirparents shopped.Further back on the property were the larger, bucketed shrubs,and behind those were balled and burlap-wrapped trees. These weresufficiently watered with an automated drip system, but she stillcouldn't help herself from giving them a good spraying as well.As she finished the last of the racks, she heard the front gateopening and saw Terri getting back into her new Dodge Charger,pulling it into the nursery parking lot. The sleek, black muscle carand its driver were exact opposites in looks and attitude. While thecar was short and fast, Terri Newberry was anything but.Terri was tall at six-and-a-half feet and still a bit gangly at twenty-sixyears old. Georgia had rarely seen her wear her dark brown hair inany fashion other than a ponytail. She had a quiet, even disposition,yet when you could make her laugh or slightly embarrass her, a wide,beautiful smile would crack her usual somber face and a pleasant,pretty face would appear. The two had known each other nearlytheir entire lives and had grown especially close while sharing classesthroughout their junior- and senior-high school years.Terri had played basketball under the direction of Coach Grace,and because of her size and decent athleticism, she possessed a skillnot many high school girls had when it came to basketball. Coachhad been patient when others hadn't and gently pushed her into atough role that she soon thrived in. While walking the school halls,she had the tendency to hunch, embarrassed of her height comparedto the other girls and most of the guys. But on the court, Terrilearned she could stand up. She had an advantage over her peersthat she could exploit, sometimes even to cheers from people whonormally would not give her the time of day.Georgia had been taught by Coach in an altogether differentenvironment. He had been the school's art teacher for as many yearsas she could remember, and art had been one of the few outlets forGeorgia in her teenage years. The mental shield she had so stronglybuilt around herself could temporarily come down while she drewor painted. In fact, through her paintings of people as she saw them,with swirling waves of colored skin and misty wisps of iridescentsmoke, she had secretly revealed her world to her entire class duringCoach's abstract art lessons. It was during this time of their lives thatGeorgia and Terri connected and formed a friendship that neverabandoned them. She was the only person Georgia had ever learnedto trust, along with her father and Coach Grace, and now Coach waspulling his little Ford Ranger through the gate.Terri climbed out of her black alter ego, yawning as she waved,and entered the small store, heading directly for the coffee maker.Coach stopped halfway through the gate, like he did everymorning. From the bed of his pickup, he pulled out a large OPENsign, painted with bright flowers and vines. The sign was made oftwo boards, hinged at the top, which he spread apart at the bottomto make stand up. Two months after he had started working at thenursery, he had shown up one morning with it. At the top of the signhe had painted simply "Rose's Roses."That had been a little more than five years ago, after Coachhad been retired for just a year so he could take care of his wife,Sandy, as she fought a losing battle with cancer. After her passing,he visited the nursery nearly every day. Georgia knew he had seenat the nursery what he had seen when she was in school: the flickersof pain or anger, sometimes even perhaps fear as she met people andspoke to them. He never outright asked what her difficulties were,never pushed to understand the root of what might be wrong. Aftera few months of visiting the nursery and seeing the difficulty shehad handling the customers, he announced that he would be joiningher, pay or no pay. Georgia accepted his proposal, paying him asmall salary against his objections. Three weeks later, and withoutasking, Coach hired Terri and gave her his salary. He had cast astern eye before she could object, so she welcomed her old friend tothe business. Neither had ever mentioned leaving, and she knew shecould never run the little nursery without him.Coach placing the sign and pulling his truck alongside Terri'sCharger was Georgia's cue to move indoors to the safety of hergreenhouses. The spring rush was in full swing, and with thegate open and the sign out, people would be showing up almostimmediately.Coach got out of his truck and waved. "Morning, Georgia." Hewas short and stocky, more like a football coach. He was balding ontop, bulging in the middle, and his reading glasses were perpetuallyperched above his eyebrows. He was one of those rare people whocould simply raise his eyebrows to make the glasses drop down on hisnose when he needed them. His pruning sheers were in their usualholster riding his hip."Morning, Coach."As he walked past Terri's car, he shook his head and Georgiaheard him muttering. "A black car. Why would anyone want a blackcar?"He hitched his pants up at the top of the store's steps and headedinside for the coffee maker and, Georgia was quite sure, to wonderaloud as to the merits of buying such an expensive vehicle, especiallyone that you couldn't possibly keep clean or afford to put gas in. Plus,with just the slightest peep of sunshine, the interior would turn intoa cauldron of fire.Georgia looked once more at her store front and the racks ofshining wet plants and flowers. The trees were standing tall, hopingto be seen at the back of the lot. Now the sun had fully risen, andthe light brought out the full colors of the rainbow.It was time to head inside. Winding up the last of the hose, sheretreated to a smaller greenhouse hidden behind the rows of trees atthe back of the lot.Inside were her personal projects. Georgia had a strong interestin rare and interesting plants, and this was where she grew them,or at least made an attempt to grow them. By making connectionsthrough the Internet, she had begun collecting and trading seeds fromdifferent growers all around the world. Inside this small greenhousewas a true botanical wonder garden.Some of the specimens were not all that rare, like the VenusFlytrap, which can eat live insects by literally biting down on themwith what looks like a mouth lined with pointy teeth. Others, likethe Purple Pitcher Plant, have a turned-up funnel filled with a sticky,sweet goo that insects crawl into and then cannot escape, only to beslowly dissolved and ingested by the plant.Sitting on a table by a window was what appeared to be a driedup, dead weed. Its leaves and stems were shriveled and grayish silver,completely lacking the green color of chlorophyll, which plants needto turn sunlight into energy. But Georgia knew the resurrection fernhad an unbelievable ability. When left completely without water, itappeared to do what most all plants do: die. But no matter how longit had to wait, possibly even years, when moisture finally arrived,the plant resurrected itself, turning its gray leaves to bright green,opening itself wide to accept the sunlight once again. It continued togrow and spread as long as water was available, but once the moisturewas gone its leaves and stems withered into a compact, brittle balland waited once more.These plants were Georgia's passion. They were individual andunique. She walked around the small room with its tables and racksaround the outside walls and a large island worktable in the center,along with a computer station, phone and small desk. Because of theuniqueness of these plants, a broad misting system would not work.These were hand watered according to their individual needs, andsome, like the resurrection plant, needed no water at all.But one in here did need water every day. Sitting in a small potbeside her workspace was mimosa pudica. It was small, with slenderstems lined on each side with fifteen to twenty small, oval leaves.Two ball-shaped blooms made of pink spikes emanating from a redcenter sat atop the delicate foliage.Georgia sat and peered at the little plant. "How do you feel today,little one?" (Continues...)Excerpted from Touch-Me-Not by Josh Thomas. Copyright © 2013 Josh Thomas. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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