In the morning I wake from one of those intense morning dreams, heart racing. The dream involved something about golden eyes and priceless stained-glass windows in a mountaintop palace.

The hazy clouds of memory part, and I remember.

I was being chased by a predator, up up up thousands of stone steps, struggling with layers of fabric in a heavy medieval gown that smelled like old sweat. Though my pursuer was still a way off, I could practically feel his breath as a torrent of heat at my neck.

I burst into a circular room at the top of the tower, head whipping back and forth as I searched for an escape route, but the entire room was surrounded by elaborate twenty-foot stained-glass windows. The light streaking through created a garden of color on the white marble floors.

There was nowhere to go.

I was trapped.

The footsteps in the stairwell grew closer and more frenzied.

For a moment I left my body and became an observer.

Damn! I looked hot in that medieval gown. And my hair was amazing in a tiara. I totally rocked the damsel in distress look.

Maybe I need to buy a crown when I wake up. And not one of those cheap Halloween jobs. I'm talking emeralds, diamonds, rubies, maybe a nice ermine trim. Wonder what they cost on eBay?

I dropped back into my body just as a golden-eyed wolf leaped into the room. I smiled at him before pulling up my skirts and throwing myself at the windows. The glass splintered into a million shards and fell in an iridescent cascade toward the snow; my body followed, the wind whooshing at my skirts, whipping them above my head like a parachute, slowing my fall. I woke before crashing into the glass-littered snow.

What an imagination!

Not only did I have this random dream, but there's also a mysterious wet spot on the bed.

I hate mysteries AND wet spots AND having rando dreams with absolutely no metaphorical significance.

There's a knock at the door. "Ani, you alive in there?"

"Of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?" I rasp. My voice sounds like I've been screaming out a lover's name or something. Yet another conundrum.

The door bangs open, and Clarry barges in. She's smirking. It really isn't a good look for her in those SpongeBob pajamas. She looks deranged. "Don't you remember?"

"Remember what?" I say, my stomach twisting. Had I forgotten something? With all the mysteries, it is possible.

"Last night. Your ... outcry?"

That's when the whole sex dream memory crashes down on me like a shower with over-enthusiastic water pressure.

Did I really beg Crispin to finish me with his long skilled fingers?

Did I really try to finish myself with my ordinary-length fingers?

Did I really call him 'sir?'

I blush. I flush.

I have a reputation to maintain.

Or lose.

Vowing never to eat day-old oysters again, I pull the covers up to my chin. My internal goddess has skulked off to wherever internal goddesses go after a realistic sex dream. Probably to buy cigarettes or take a cold shower. Honestly, I don't want to show myself in public again. I am an innocent college graduate, not a sex-crazed harridan.

I never touch myself ... like that.

And I most certainly do not have random sex with nocturnal visitors. I have normal dreams that involve giant wolves, smelly costumes, and expensive tiaras.

Thank goodness none of it really happened. Even so, it would be hard to face Crispin again after he had a starring role in my intense dream sex. It wasn't real, I remind myself again. Never happened.

But that dream was way more realistic than the one about the tower, I point out to myself.

I'm really good at arguing with yours truly. It's a skill.

Get ahold of yourself, Anesthesia! Dreams. Are. Not. Reality.

Sentences. Should. Have. More. Than. One. Word. Anesthesia!

It's for emphasis, dammit. EM PHA SIS.

See?

Clary plops down on the bed beside me and pokes my shoulder, interrupting my internal squabble. "Hello? You going to answer me?"

I swipe her hand away. "Uh, of course, I remember. I was having a nightmare about using someone else's toothbrush. It was disgusting."

More smirking. "Dude, you were having a major sex dream."

"What? Were you in my head? You saw?" I gulp. Did she?

"No, but I know a sex dream when I'm woken up by one."

I need time to think all of this over without SpongeBob and the judgy smirk. "Why are you here? I need to perform my morning ritual."

She glances at my mirror and rolls her eyes. "I don't know why you do that when there are so many other ways to start out the day."

"Not all of us like to juggle chainsaws, Clary."

"For the ten-millionth time, they're not chainsaws. They're machetes."

"You say machetes; I say chainsaws. It's all the same when you're in the emergency room trying to find a doctor to sew back your ear."

"My morning ritual involves exercise. I'm honing my reflexes. Preparing for my future as a woman in a male-dominated business environment."

She has a point or lots of points, but I won't give her the satisfaction of yielding. "You do you; I'll do me. Do I judge you?"

"Yes."

"Okay, fine, but nine out of ten people would rather look in the mirror than juggle dangerous weaponry."

"Whatever. Look, I'm just here to make sure you're alive and to remind you about the celebration at the First and Last Chance Saloon tonight."

I sigh. My sexy dress is at the bottom of the laundry pile, and I don't feel like washing it today. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you do. We've got to celebrate the end of college. The beginning of our new lives. We are going to get very, very drunk and make poor choices. Make a scene. Some of us might even get arrested," she chirps as if being arrested is #goals.

"But what if Jacob is there? He's always hitting on me. It's pathetic." Jacob is our classmate, but he still has a year to go. He's super cute and fit but follows me around like a puppy. I mean, I like puppies, obviously, but not for dating. For dating, I need the leader of the pack. A guy with big ... teeth. A guy with loooooonnnnnggggg fingers.

"You do lead poor Jacob on."

"Only for my ego gratification."

"You could just tell him you're not interested."

"But he looks good without a shirt. How can I give that up?"

She shakes her head as if I am not making sense. Some people don't understand the subtleties of ego reinforcement. Clary stands. "Just be ready. We leave at eight. By the way, I googled the value of that book. It's worth about five grand."

"What book?"

She scoops up a book from my dresser and tosses it at me. "The first edition."

I'd forgotten about our conversation in the middle of the night. That a book had mysteriously appeared in my room. That the window was open. Holy crap. Was it a dream after all? Or was Crispin really here? "How did that book materialize on my dresser?"

Clarry scrunched up her face. "What do you mean 'materialize?' Oh, I see, no, a courier dropped it off in a box yesterday. I put it there."

"You opened it?"

"Of course I did. It was mysterious and stuff."

I pull the covers totally over my head, groaning. And the worst part? I don't even have the energy to perform my morning ritual.

***

And there you go, yet another award-winning installment of 50 Degrees of Shade! This chapter was a little more difficult to write, but I'm really happy with how it came out in the end. Hope you have fun reading it.

By the way, The First and Last Chance Saloon is a real place in Jack London Square in Oakland, California. And Jack London used to hang out there. It's a treasure trove of Bay Area and literary history.

All votes and comments commended and appreciated. With hugs and gratitude, your author.